#Voice over studio London

[fayes-fics]

An Artful Arrangement

Pairings: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader (threesome)

Summary: A private art lesson with Benedict becomes something else when a Viscount is your subject...

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, MMF threesome, no incest. Very mild restraint with hands, sensation play, smidge of breast play, vaginal object insertion, vaginal fingering, oral sex (M to F), masturbation, vaginal sex, voyeurism/exhibitionism.

Word Count: 7.7k

Authors Note: Request fill for Anon, who wanted Anthony as a life model for one of Benedict's private art lessons. This request is from last year and I started writing it before the whole Benedict gives up art thing of s3. I hope artist Benedict returns in s4. Anyway, thank you to @colettebronte for beta-reading this monster. Enjoy! <3

“I’m not sure about this, brother,” Anthony frowns, surveying the jumbled art studio at Benedict’s London townhouse. 

Sunlight is streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the rear of the property, but Anthony is grateful for the translucent voiles that drape over them; at least there will be some privacy from the surrounding buildings for this embarrassment.

“Too bad,” Benedict shoots back, bemused, fiddling through a pile of paintbrushes.  “A bet is a bet, and you lost.”

“You do not need to revel in my misfortune quite this much, though,” Anthony pouts.

“What can I say? The mallet of death does not always ensure victory at Pall Mall,” Benedict chuckles, readjusting one of the two easels in the room. “And I can assure you, this student will be worth your efforts,” he adds enigmatically as his trusty valet appears in the doorway.

“Ms y/l/n is here, Mr Bridgerton,” Mr Smith announces. “Should I see her in?”

“Certainly,” Benedict nods brightly, observing in the periphery of his gaze how Anthony’s interest is piqued at that announcement.

“A Ms?” Anthony echoes quietly as Smith slips away. “I did not think you offered private art tuition to the unmarried lady,” his voice filled with concern, patently preoccupied with the Bridgerton family reputation should Benedict be inviting innocent young women to his bachelor lodgings unchaperoned.

“Do not concern yourself,” Benedict sighs, knowing exactly where the Viscount's thoughts have gone. “I indeed do not do that. I would not wish for that reputation. Widows who have reverted to their unmarried name, however….” Benedict trails off.

“Oh… right….” Anthony nods in understanding. 

That, indeed, is an entirely different prospect.

—

You enter the room and suspect you may have interrupted a private moment between the two men before you. Both turning towards you, Benedict looks happy to see you once more; the other man - you would recognise his older brother, the Viscount, anywhere - seems taken aback, but you don't miss the tiny uptick in the corner of his mouth, hopefully also pleased to meet you.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” you nod courteously and move towards Benedict, allowing him to take your hand and kiss the back of your glove in greeting.

“Ms y/l/n,” he rumbles, “it is so wonderful to see you again.”

“Likewise, Mr Bridgerton,” you answer, enjoying the warmth of his lips through the silk, that trademark flare of exhilaration in your ribcage when your flirtation with him rears. 

This is your fifth private lesson with Mr Bridgerton, and while art has been a wonderful new pastime, you do wonder how much of your enthusiasm correlates to your tutor’s attractiveness. He has been nothing but a gentleman in his actions, almost to your chagrin, although sometimes his glances have felt heated and laden with something that makes your insides glow.

You turn towards Anthony. “Viscount Bridgerton, it is a pleasure to meet you finally. I have seen you from afar at many an event.”

You take a few paces and offer your other hand for him to kiss, but it takes him a moment before he returns to himself and amends his frozen look of surprise.

“Miss y/l/n, the pleasure is all mine,” he replies, and there is something just as velvet in his tone as his brother's, his lips also warm and plush as he kisses your other hand.

Oh, my goodness. They are both entirely too charming and handsome.

“I apologise. When my brother informed me I would be modelling for a widow, I did not assume such a person as yourself,” he explains, his cheeks sporting a delightful dot of colour.

“I was widowed at age 24, my lord,” you explain, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “My late husband, 10th Earl of Pembroke, was a great deal older than me.” 

“Should we not address you as Dowager Countess?” Anthony checks, concerned at any potential faux pas.

“Please do not,” you instantly respond. “It is why I reverted to my unmarried name. I have no wish to be addressed as such. The title lives on in his eldest son, the current Earl, and his wife. Who are indeed older than me. I was my husband's second wife. A companion for his senior years after his first wife died.”

Anthony nods in understanding. “It must have been an interesting union,” he offers politely.

“I was seventeen, and the man was nearly sixty,” you sigh. “My parents saw an opportunity to climb the social ladder and took it. I did not dislike the man completely, but I cannot say I was particularly distraught at his passing,” you explain plainly. “I am, of course, grateful his estate provides for me now.”

Having explained your situation as thoroughly as you wish, you turn back towards Benedict, who appears thoroughly entertained by your bluntness.

“Is this my easel?” you enthuse, pointing to the one nearest the windows.

“Indeed it is,” he returns with a smile as he strides past you and clicks the door closed.

“Now the question is, would you prefer your model be clothed or unclothed? You have not done a piece yet on the naked human form,” he points out.

You look over to see Anthony’s face morph into a thousand reactions.

“That was not part of the deal, brother,” he warns lowly through gritted teeth.

“Maybe not, but I think the lady should get to decide, do you not, brother?” Benedict challenges in a tone laced with amusement, his eyes sparkling.

You can see the war on Anthony’s face and decide to offer an olive branch. “I would not wish to make the Viscount uncomfortable in any way…”

“It would not,” Anthony cuts in very quickly. “I was just pointing out it was not my expectation to do so,” his gaze softening as it slips from his brother to you. “However, if you wish it, Ms, I shall remove my clothing.” something in the way he says it causes a frisson down your spine.

You have only seen one naked man in your life. And that is your dead husband—a portly man of advanced years. Something about the look of the Viscount’s tailored clothing suggests his naked form would be very different. More akin to the rugged gardener you have occasionally seen topless at your country home and, yes, touched yourself while thinking of. You are not sure you could keep your wits about you to paint such a fine specimen of a man.

“Let us just remove our jackets for now, brother,” Benedict suggests. ”The lady may then decide if we shall proceed further,” his tone conciliatory as he removes his.

You smile at his gentlemanly offer. 

“Now,” he continues, rolling up his white shirt sleeves distractingly. “You may choose to pose your model as you see fit.” 

Anthony is doing the same with his shirt, and you find yourself staring at him as well, at the play of muscles in his forearms as he rolls the material. Behind him is an emerald green velvet chaise, and you ask him to sit upon it. He does so and then looks at you expectantly for further instruction.

“Perhaps place one forearm on your thigh,” you suggest, but the pose he adopts isn't quite what you had in mind.

“You can place him in the position you wish,” Benedict chuckles, seeing the knit in your brow, gesturing for you to go to Anthony.

Your heart skips a little as you approach the Viscount, his eyes almost trepidacious as you place your hands tentatively on his shoulders. They are so broad and warm through the thin white cotton of his shirt. You position his arms, noting the latent power in his biceps, fingertips lingering on the material, eager to trail your hands down onto the dark hair dusting his forearms. 

“Would you mind raising your chin, my lord?” you ask quietly, and when he tilts his head up, you almost gasp at the intensity of his gaze boring into yours.

“Like this?” he murmurs.

“Yes, please,” you whisper back, “the light catches your face perfectly.”

“Much as it does yours,” he returns softly and something warm spreads under your ribs as you drink in his handsome facial features, almost glowing in the sunlight—a want to run your fingertips over his cheeks, trace the lines of his strong jaw dusted with a trace of afternoon stubble.

“Are you happy with your placement?” Benedict’s voice rings out, cutting into your reverie.

“Yes, Mr Bridgerton,” you reply but do not move, seemingly rooted to the spot.

“Then please return to your easel,” he tutors, with a hint of sharpness you have not heard before. 

Part of you is tempted to spin around and ask if he is jealous, but instead, you shoot Anthony a tiny smile that he returns before withdrawing. 

You round behind your easel and pick up your charcoal, sketching an outline, as Benedict does the same. A few minutes pass pleasantly as you draw, glancing at Anthony around the edge of the easel to ensure accuracy. You could swear every time you do so; his lip twitches in amusement, almost as if he is trying to distract you.

“Benedict,” you call softly when you think your rough outline is done, “please could you check my sketch?”

It's a flimsy excuse you have used more than once now—a wish to have your teacher move closer. He doesn't disappoint. He takes a few strides and then stops close to your back, assessing your canvas.

“I would say that is an excellent start,” he assesses, his exhaled air wafting through tendrils of hair near your ear. “Except maybe here…” His arm curls close around your side, ghosting your dress, and taps the canvas where you have sketched Anthony’s left arm. “I think you flatter my brother with a shoulder that broad.”

“Perhaps…” you concede, and then your tongue runs away with itself. “It may indeed be easier to ascertain the correct proportions for the Viscount were he in less clothing.”

They both chuckle at your bold assertion, so obviously a flimsy excuse. But there is a vault behind your ribs as Anthony rises to that challenge—a glint in his eye as he stands up and plucks open his waistcoat, shucking it quickly from his shoulders, staring you down. 

You swear you can feel the heat radiating from Benedict behind you as Anthony unwinds his white cravat and then, with a smirk, tosses it towards you. It lands draped over your easel; you reach out unthinking, grabbing an end, caressing the fine silk absent-mindedly as you stare covetously now.

Anthony is indeed built like your gardener, possibly even more sculpted. A dark thatch over his chest tapers to a line of hair over his abdominals and trails temptingly into his trousers. You want to see where it leads to. You suspect something much better than you have ever encountered before. With a hint of swagger, he retakes his seat in the pose you had put him in, the stance making his bicep bulge out.

“I do not think I was very incorrect in my proportions, Mr Bridgerton,” you opine tacitly, turning your head a fraction so your temple is brushing Benedict’s jaw, knowing you are goading him.

“Then draw what you believe you see,” he returns, his voice a low whisper, his lips so close to the shell of your ear that your heart pounds in your chest.

Your eyes hold Anthony’s as you daringly glide your fingertips over the back of Benedict’s hand, lingering on the raised tendons before you push the charcoal between his knuckles.

“Perhaps you can guide my hand?”

“With pleasure,” he hums.

The charcoal glides over the canvas in guided unison for a few laden minutes as you draw under Benedict’s tutelage. Anthony’s chest rises and falls steadily as you glance at him every few seconds—a tension in the air that is portentous, crackling. Your traitorous mind wanders—a jumble of images of you laying with both of these men, bringing you untold pleasures with their mouths and hands.

“Are you even paying attention to the artwork?” Benedict's rich voice lilts in your ear as you realise your hand is almost limp under his.

“I… I must confess, my thoughts may be elsewhere, Mr Bridgerton.”

“Tell us. It could be something we would be most pleased to hear,” he posits duskily, his breath hot on your cheek, letting slip that he likely suspects.

“I am thinking… of other artful arrangements of human bodies,” you offer somewhat opaquely.

“Whose bodies?” Benedict presses, this time his lips grazing your earlobe, as you spy a vein throbbing in Anthony’s temple, looking like he wants to stalk over and claim you.

“The three of us,” you confess breathily.

There is a noise from both men that is a beeline straight into your core, and there is a mouth on your skin. You gasp, eyes closing as you sway backwards into Benedict, his lips travelling the column of your neck as your back collides with his solid chest. The gentle suction and warm wetness set your skin afire, tingles running down your arm. Your lashes flutter open, and your blood runs hot to behold Anthony’s face like thunder until you bite your lip and, feeling emboldened, you mouth to him…

‘Your turn’

Instantly, his mien morphs into one of desire, jumping to his feet as you slide a hand into Benedict's thick hair and grab a handful, making him groan into your skin. 

“You are entirely too clothed compared to your brother, Mr Bridgerton,” you coquette, untangling yourself from his arms and spinning to look back at him with a raised brow, backing away without looking, knowing you will soon collide with Anthony.

Sure enough, you inhale sharply as toned arms haul you into a firm embrace, the hair on his chest tickling the skin above the scooped back of your dress.

“The lady is not wrong, brother,” Anthony provokes, his tone smug now that you are in his arms instead.

Teeth nip lightly on your earlobe while you watch Benedict fight with his waistcoat, almost wrenching it from his torso. Anthony is more taciturn than Benedict, communicating with his fingertips instead, raking over your dress, silently telegraphing his desire through the gauzy layers. Benedict’s stare is heavy upon you as he unfurls his cravat, you melting into Anthony’s lips skimming down your throat. Benedict makes quick work of removing his shirt, throwing it aside, his smooth chest heaving slightly as he advances upon you. Then his lips descend and claim yours in a breathtaking kiss. 

If this is the Bridgerton boys competing for your affection, then you would do anything to keep provoking them. Sandwiched between their bare torsos, Benedict's tongue opening your lips, lathing yours, as Anthony’s mouth skates your shoulder. The taste and feel of them both has you suddenly impatient. To do things you never thought you would even moments ago. A forbidden fruit too tempting to resist. It makes you desirous, unbounded, a keening want to be reckless.

“Take off my dress, gentlemen,” you implore urgently as you and Benedict break apart, twisting to capture Anthony’s mouth now. 

His kiss is just as demanding, equally fervent, your heart racing as four hands trace the contours of your figure. You are not sure of who undoes the buttons down your back or who pushes the loosened fabric from your shoulders. Both unlace your stays, tugging almost impatiently until the garment relents and are certain both of them pull your gathered chemise loose, it falling from your shoulders to form a circle around your light summer shoes. Both make a noise as they realise you are now naked. It was supposed to be a little illicit thrill for yourself, foregoing stockings and underwear in Mr Bridgerton’s presence—little did you know how provocative that choice would be. 

As you toe off your shoes, the atmosphere seems as heated, the sun’s rays upon your back through the translucent window covering. There is a moment where you exchange laden looks with them, their eyes slipping down your naked body before Anthony leans in and retakes your lips.

“Touch me…” you implore, twisting briefly to address his brother before returning inexorably to Anthony’s hypnotic kiss.

Benedict's fingertips ladder up your ribs from the dip of your waist, his lips dragging hot over your bare shoulder blades. And then you gasp into Anthony’s searching mouth as those large hands seize both of your breasts, covering them entirely, your nipples snagging between his elegant knuckles.

“Here perhaps…” Benedict rumbles as you tear away from Anthony to meet his captivating gaze.

“Yessss,” you hiss hungrily, your breath catching as he plucks gently, tweaks that send a zinging bolt between your legs. You cling to the back of his sturdy neck and crash your lips into his. 

“Have you ever laid with two men before?” Anthony’s voice is like velvet in your ear as his warm hands grasp the flare of your hips, his teeth nipping at your neck.

“I have only laid with one man,” you admit as you pull back from Benedict's kiss. “And he looked nothing like either of you.” Your hands rake greedily down both of their honed outlines, a yen to see and touch more.

They puff with pride at your words as Benedict's fingers loop behind your left knee. He roughly pulls your legs up around his hip, surging into you so the rigid mass of his cock, straining in his trousers, presses your mound, making you gasp. Anthony pushes into you, too, his equally sizeable cock passing over the cleft of your bottom, so hot through the fine wool. 

“Did he worship you like you truly deserve?” Benedict queries, his cadence achingly seductive.

“I am not sure what that might entail…” your intentional evasive provocation makes him smile crookedly and lean in closer, his eyes glinting enticingly. 

“Did he feast on the bounty between your legs with his tongue until you screamed for mercy?” his words dripping from his lips like dangerous weapons, heat pooling rapidly right at that very spot.

“H-he did not…”you stutter over a slightly laboured breath.

“Oh, my poor lady,” Anthony tuts sympathetically. “You deserve to know true pleasure,” he adds, surging his hips again but also taking your hand and kissing your knuckles tenderly. 

“Lay down here,” Benedict smiles as he leads you back to the plush chaise. 

Both offer their hand to assist you in reclining, the velvet a plush tickle under your spine as you settle down, looking up at them towering over you, your hands itching to tug open their trousers and find what lies beneath, the fabric straining temptingly.

“What do you have in mind, brother?” Anthony asks, his eyes following Benedict as he turns away and appears to grab something from the bench at the side of the room, the sunlight dancing across the freckles across his back. When he spins back around, he is holding three clean paintbrushes.

“I think a sensual experience…” he replies, looking down to gauge your reaction.

“I thought our art lesson abandoned, Mr Bridgerton,” your gaze fixated upon the brushes of various sizes and bristle lengths.

“With my brother as the subject, I concede maybe so,” he remarks casually. “But I believe you to be a much more interesting prospect anyway….” his voice smoky as he looms over you, his eyes raking over you in a way that you can feel fizzling on your skin.

“Agreed”, Anthony chimes in, taking a proffered brush from his brother as they kneel on either side of the chaise, a silent exchange between them.

You want to ask what they will do, but the words die in your throat as Benedict's tongue darts out and wettens the end of a fine-tipped brush. Then, the damp bristles are upon your clavicle, tracing the arc of bone, leaving a thin, wet streak cooling rapidly, goosebumps erupting over your sternum, nipples pebbling. Without needing prompting, Anthony drags a dry, fanned brush over your ribs, tracing each contour. The sensation is different, ticklish, to the point your abdomen ripples, and you instinctively curl up a fraction, biting your lip to tamp down a giggle. Anthony smirks casually as a large hand wraps around your shoulder and pushes you back flat.

“No, no.” Your clit pulses at the warning tone Benedict employs, his hold secure but not painful, staring you down as Anthony repeats the same move upon the other side of your ribs. Your body rolls yet more, rebelling and pushing against his grip. “Stay still. Or he may desist.”

You bite your lip and exhale shakily as Anthony continues teasing brushstrokes over your stomach, each one a flick that makes your skin shimmer. Benedict releases his hold to paint his wet brush across your other collarbone, leaving a trail of his saliva along its ridge and then continuing down over your breastbone. Your breath catches as he trails under the curve of your left breast, just as Anthony’s brush sinks lower. Your instinct is to clamp your legs shut, a sudden wave of timidity, but both men grab your knees and pull your thighs wide apart. Air swirls around your slit as Anthony leans over and captures your lips in an enticing kiss.

“Do not be shy now….” is Benedict’s hot whisper in your ear, his teeth capturing your earlobe as Anthony’s tongue rolls with yours, swallowing your moans as his brush caresses the patch of hair at the apex of your thighs before he glides it between your legs, passing over your clit. 

Just that featherlight touch is enough to make you arc upwards off the chaise until again Benedict holds you down, brush stored expertly between his knuckles as warm fingertips press upon your diaphragm, and he hushes you. You have to bite the inside of your cheek as Anthony flicks a few strokes, his warm eyes blazing right above yours. The motions have you throbbing, desperate for more, and you can only gasp as he slips lower, pushing just a fraction of the brush into your soaked pussy. When you do not protest, he grins and pushes a fraction deeper as you bite your lip, wanting so much more for it to be his cock. You whimper as instead the paintbrush withdraws, and Anthony makes a show of bringing it to his mouth, sucking its dripping tip covetously.

“Delicious,” Anthony offers silkily, his face inches from yours, a thronging need low in your pelvis, aching for relief, something you never felt with your late husband. His lips are on yours, lust burning in your belly as you taste yourself in his mouth. 

Benedict chooses this moment to swirl his wetten brush tip around your areola, and that has you moaning into Anthony’s kiss, your fingers raking into his lush hair as your other hand shoots out to grab Benedict’s bicep, a need to touch them both at once.

“Please…” your voice cracking, greedy for them both.

“Please, what?” Benedict chuckles darkly, his lips brushing your hairline, again holding you down to Anthony’s sensual onslaught.

“More…”

It's all you can say, tilting to look into his hazy eyes, clouded with lust, enjoying watching you squirm and pant and blossom under their attentions.

“Greedy…” Benedict volleys light-heartedly before kissing you, both of them dropping the paintbrushes, clattering to the floor.

Anthony’s fingers slither back down your centre line, tracing over the sensitive skin beneath your belly button but not stopping until they rest tauntingly over your weeping slit. You gasp into Benedict’s mouth as Anthony pushes a finger into you, his approving groan into your shoulder as you leak down his knuckles has you clenching around his invading digit. He adds another and begins to pump slowly, rocking his fingers rhythmically as your tongue parries with Benedict’s. 

Benedict breaks the kiss to brush his lips down your throat, hot kisses over your collarbone, lower still until his mouth is on the swell of your breast. Anthony adds a third finger, wet, filthy sounds from between your legs as your pussy clings to him, feeling so filled. His thumb hooks under your clitoral hood and starts to flick your sensitive nub in time with his finger thrusts just as Benedict's tongue swirls around your nipple, making your back curve up from the chaise, pushing your breast into his open mouth.

“I could watch this for hours…” Anthony asserts with a wicked little quirk of his eyebrow.

You squirm under them, so achingly aroused you feel on the edge of reason. One of them would be more than you have ever experienced before; both at once is almost lethal.

“Me too…” mirth laces Benedict’s response as he trails the point of his nose over your nipple. 

They glance at each other, telegraphing ideas silently. Benedict swaps to your other breast as Anthony moves, the angle of his fingers changing inside you, twisting as he rearranges between your splayed legs, pushing your thighs wide open, draping them on either side of the chaise.

The muscular swipe of Anthony's tongue through your slit has you crying out his name, a spike of pleasure so rough it catches you unawares, this act entirely new to you, something so intimate about his whole face buried into the wet heat between your legs.

Benedict kisses his way back up your neck as Anthony’s strong arms wrap around your hips, the solid mass of biceps curled into you as he drives you relentlessly, his tongue a spear lashing your swollen clit. Benedict swings around from kneeling at the side of the chaise to leaning over the curved back, fingers spidering down your skin from your shoulders towards your breasts.

“Is this the artful arrangement of bodies you envisaged?” His words are whispered hotly into your ear, your eyes fluttering closed at the decadent, smokey cadence.

You mumble something incoherent, the rush washing through your system stealing your thoughts, just as Anthony’s fingers start to move inside you again as he feasts upon you, closing his mouth around your sensitive nub and sucking hard with his lips.

“What was that?” Benedict chuckles, a teasing lilt that has you nuzzling your cheek into his lips, his fingertips dragging agonisingly slowly lower, over the round of your breasts, your nipples, still damp with his saliva, pebbled painfully even in the warm room, tingling for his firm touch.

“Yessss…” your reply is a sibilant rasp; he must know this is even better than what you had imagined, but he seems to enjoy hearing your affirmation regardless. Such investment in your pleasure amplifies your need.

Your hand shoots down to tug Anthony’s luscious hair, pushing your pelvis up into his face as he groans his approval of your wanton actions, chasing pleasure covetously. His fingers are buried deep inside you, curling and dragging over a spot that has you climbing so fast. Then Benedict roughly pinches your nipples, throbbing in sync with your clit under Anthony’s tongue, and you are sent stratospheric dizzyingly fast, a touch of rough treatment just what you need to push you over the edge you have been skating.

Benedict swallows your screams as you ride Anthony’s face in a wave of pleasure, clenching hard around his fingers, trying to expel them as he fights to stay inside you. Benedict's mouth is hot, possessive over yours, not letting you up for air in a way that only heightens your pleasure, a tingle zipping over your scalp as you burst and fracture under them.

For a few seconds, everything is blotted out, just a rush of blood in your ears and white-hot pleasure coursing through you. Their touch turns softer as you float down, Anthony’s fingers withdrawing from you with a wet noise as you lay dazed, utterly overwhelmed by the sudden intensity.

“Now that was a work of art…” the filthy poet opines velvety, a handsome, lopsided grin claiming his face as you stare up at him hovering over you, your view upside down. 

You are still too stunned even to form words, a stuttering noise that sounds more like a whimper, the only thing escaping your trembling lips.

“I think we may have stolen her power of speech,” Anthony observes wryly, crawling up, dropping pecked kisses onto random spots of your dewy skin.

He settles his muscular body over yours, his chest hair tickling your nipples, his face glazed with your arousal, and his sizeable cock brands your thigh through the material of his trousers. He moves in to steal a kiss that tastes tart, rolling your flavour onto your tongue, seemingly wanting you to savour it as much as he does.

“I've never enjoyed losing a bet more…” he rumbles enigmatically as you break apart, your brow knitting in confusion.

“He would not have been your art model today if he had not lost a bet,” Benedict supplies, his fingers massaging your scalp soothingly, dropping a kiss onto your forehead.

You smile blissfully, head swinging to look at them both, knowing it will broadcast your response, as well as anything spoken could.

“You might be right about the power of speech, brother,” Benedict jests gently as they rearrange on either side of you.

Hands running lightly over your arms and torso. You just assumed, as with your previous husband, that they would immediately move on to pursuing their pleasure, so when they do not, you are slightly confused, especially as their unhurried, sensual caresses reignite that flame deep in your core. After a few minutes of gentle intimacy you are unable to censor your curiosity any longer.

“Will neither of you take me?!”

You don't mean it to sound quite as indignant as it does, even though a large part of you enjoys their shocked expressions, neither expecting such boldness. But then both of their faces morph into a dangerous, smouldering look so similar you can see their shared genetics. It has you biting your lip on instinct.

“We both will if you employ that sort of tone with us…” Benedict threatens sonorously, leaning in so his lips graze your cheek, giving away that is precisely what they want too, a shiver running down your spine at all the possibilities, your soaked clit throbbing anew.

“Is that a promise or a threat, Mr Bridgerton?” You volley back, raising an eyebrow, this new play far too beguiling to resist.

“Insolent little thing…” Anthony growls.

Hands clutch you tightly, blunt fingernails digging into your soft flesh, both of them demanding a kiss, pulling you in each direction to plunder your mouth in turn. A thrill zips all the way from your head to your toes with this sudden change of pace—the gauntlet of challenge you have thrown down, unleashing something primal in them both. 

Before you know it, Benedict is standing up, and the sound of buttons popping open makes you inhale sharply around Anthony’s tongue, wanting so much to crane to see him stripping off, but your entire field of vision filled with the powerful Viscount, his hand seizing your jaw.

“Look at me,” Anthony demands, perhaps a tinge of jealousy that you may even dare glance elsewhere when he is kissing the life out of you. Your eyes meet, all blown pupils and damp lips, and it's blazingly intense like he is peering into your very thoughts. “Oh good girl…” he drips praisingly, and something hot and molten unfurls behind your ribs. The smirk that engulfs his face tells you he knows precisely what those two little words have done to you, lust roaring back to life in your veins. “Such a live wire…” he breathes, and you can see it is nothing but admiration. “I will be back…” his promise trailing off as he withdraws, your eyes tracking his movements away from you, taking a seat in a nearby wingback chair, that handsome smirk still there. It makes you want to reach out your hands and beckon him back, a slight pout that he has left you so soon.

But you inhale sharply as warm, ropey thighs part yours, and your attention is pulled back to Benedict, prowling over you on all fours, naked now. The glimpse of his rigid cock bobbing between his legs catches your breath before he claims your mouth and lowers himself upon you. So much heat and lithe, supple musculature. He doesn't even ask; your knees spreading wide is the open invitation that he takes, angling his hips and slipping into your waiting weeping pussy with one decisive thrust that has you grasping his shoulders and calling out. The blistering stretch is unlike anything your previous husband could achieve, and you are grateful for just how aroused you are, the feeling just the right side of painful. He holds still buried to the root, his handsome face rightfully smug as you adjust to this novel feeling of utter fullness.

“Is that what you needed?” He leans down and whispers those words in your ear, your breasts crushed under his smooth, hard chest. The tone is doused with brazen provocation that you can't help but rise to, one of your hands sliding covetously down his back.

“I think you know the answer you seek. Impress me, Benedict...” you incite as you grab his shapely rear, his responding groan vibrating your entire being. He withdraws and surges back in, your toes curling into the light fuzz on the back of his calves, what you have fantasised about for many weeks now, better than anything you have idly thought during each art lesson with him.

Benedict nuzzles into your neck and starts to set a rhythm that has you panting with each stroke, your back chafing the rich velvet fabric of the chaise, engulfed in his heat and woodsy scent, caged around you, his hands hooked under your shoulders, pulling you down onto his invading cock, his lips murmuring encouraging words onto your throat. 

Movement out the corner of your eye distracts you, and you twist your head a fraction to see Anthony naked now, too. That dusting of dark hair on his chest tapers over his toned stomach, a thin trail leading all the way down to the patch around the base of his cock. He has taken himself in hand and is watching you intently, eyes trained on you as his brother fucks into you over and over, rolling with him.

‘I want you…’

You mouth to Anthony, a need to have him desperate and wanting. His nostrils flare, and he bears his teeth, his grip on his cock vice-like, speeding up, a glistening bead of moisture squeezing from his tip at your very words. 

“Call her a good girl,” Anthony snarls, an instruction as much as a suggestion.

“Why would I when she is looking at you while I fuck her?” Benedict scolds satirically, and that has you swinging your attention back to the man inside you, a little flare of guilt in your gut that you are unable to divide your attention between them, wanting them both. “There she is,” he teases gravelly as his lips ghost the shell of your ear. “There’s my good girl….” he adds for good measure, the lowest register you have ever heard from him, and you cannot help your body’s response.

You clench around him, and he groans long and low, his grip on you harsher, snapping his hips so forcefully his hip bones dig deep into your splayed thighs, your eyes rolling, his tip grazing your hilt.

“So fucking perfect…” he curses, his mouth opening yours, raiding you, setting a pace so punishing now you can only cling to him, moaning loudly, him nudging your swollen clit with each stroke. The chaise squeaks under the onslaught now, feet scraping hard on the polished wood floor.

Still, you cannot stop your stolen glances at Anthony as Benedict huffs into your neck. He looks so majestic, knees splayed, eyes trained on you. You want to climb into his lap and ride him until your teeth are rattling. You can feel yourself climbing higher, each jolt to your clit another step closer, a gentle flutter in your pussy you know Benedict can feel, him emitting little groans with each involuntary constriction.

“You are so close. Come for me again; I need to feel it,” Benedict pleads breathily, pulling up to meet your gaze, a sheen across his forehead as he ploughs into you, never faltering in his athletic pace. 

One of his hands sweeps down your flank, long fingers squirrel between your bodies, unerringly finding their target, a scream ripping from your lungs at the extra stimulation. A few flicks from him, and you are gone for a second time, hurtling towards the stars, bowing upwards, tensing hard, each muscle snapping taught as body and mind are flooded with ecstasy. 

Distantly, you hear Benedict growl, more animal than man, a litany of filthy praise you can barely decipher tumbling from his lips as he pulls out abruptly, you whimpering at the sudden loss, your pussy bereft, rippling around nothing now as his hot seed spills onto your belly.

He collapses onto you for a few beats; his weight is heavy and cloying, his lips meeting yours in an artless kiss. Then you feel him climb off of you slowly, a soft rag dragging over your skin as he cleans you of his seed and mingled juices. He kisses your cheek chastely, but his words are interrupted by Anthony calling out across the room. 

“Are you ready for more?”

Your attention immediately snaps across to the Viscount. Without thought, you are springing to your feet, gait uncertain, like a newborn fawn finding its legs as you take a few shaky steps towards him, an exquisite ache between your thighs from all that has transpired.

“Are you coming to me?” Anthony coos impressed, his hands shooting out to steady you, gripping your waist.

You nod enthusiastically, utterly drunk on the tide of pleasure coursing through you, which greatly entertains him. You climb into his waiting lap and draw him immediately into a filthy, wet kiss. Your tongues tangle as you shuffle forward into the wide, comfortable chair, his hips sliding forward to meet you, and without preamble, you rise fractionally and sink onto him, your puffy, swollen channel suctioning onto his thick veiny cock with a filthy sound. He groans beautifully as you sink, taking him into your pussy, the stretch of him just as mindblowing, perhaps even a shade thicker, like his physique. You stutter a curse, eyes to the ceiling, wrapping your arms tight around his neck, your nipples pressed into the fur of his chest, his balls pressed between your bottom cheeks as you sit speared upon him. 

“Are you going to ride me?” His question is rich like chocolate, buzzing against your chin where his mouth is now hooked open, his teeth grazing the bone there.

“Yes,” you slur, tilting your gaze down to look down at him, already knowing you would do it until your body gives out, so desperate again to feel that high only they can provide.

“Good girl.”

They know it's a weapon now and deploy it with gleeful abandon. Reflexively you contract around Anthony’s cock, both of you calling out, his muscular thighs tensing under your weight, his toes lifting from the floor. He utters a curse, too, a hand wrapping around the nape of your neck, then cupping the back of your head, tugging the hair at your scalp between his knuckles.

“Ride,” he commands, low and slow, a menacing tone that has you stuttering with restoked arousal. A burning need to please him, to do precisely what he tells you to. And so you push up until his head is just inside your pussy, then drop back down, shuffling your stance wider to get a better range of motion. He watches you with a hooded, scorching gaze; a devastating quirk of his eyebrow has you moving steadily. Pressing all of yourself into him, with each pass, his hard abdomen scuffs your distended clit, your pussy lips so puffy now with so much arousal and repeated blows.

He nudges your face aside so he can teeth your earlobe. “You feel exquisite. All swollen with lust,” he croons, his breath gusting hot, his choice of words making you flare hotter, driving onwards with renewed vigour, a slight burn in your thighs as you rise and fall upon him, feeling yourself dripping down onto him, needing to cling onto him to keep seated.

“Could we do this on the floor?” you murmur into his stubbled cheek, realising your range of motion is slightly restricted by the shape of the chair.

His response is immediate; without leaving your body, he effortlessly takes your weight, wraps an arm around you and somehow manoeuvres smoothly onto the floor, his spine now resting on the front of the chair cushion—so much vigour and athleticism from both of these men. 

“Turn around, sweet girl,” you startle and whip your head over your shoulder.

There sat on the chase, lower half now wrapped in a drape of crisp white fabric, looking like a Grecian statue made flesh, is Benedict—a sketchpad and charcoal in hand. 

“Turn around so that I may draw you in the throes of passion,” he clarifies, that dangerous crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You look back to Anthony, suspecting from the twitch of his lip he is more than happy about this development. Silently he spins you both around and lays prone on the polished floor underneath you, still rock hard and buried deep in your pussy. Placing your hands on his chest, you lean forward slightly, take a deep breath and then start to ride again, slowly, the slight discomfort of the hardwood under your kneecaps heightening your pleasure somehow. The range of motion possible now allows you to experiment, to test the delicious drag of his cock by tilting your pelvis in each direction, then in a circular motion, hitting a spot inside that has you hissing and your nails scraping through the thick thatch of hair there.

“Take what you need…” Anthony advocates through gritted teeth, reading your every signal. 

Your eyes ping up from his imploring expression to Benedict, his gaze holding yours daringly as you start to fuck his brother again. Wantonly, luxuriating in the rapt audience you have. A liquid cascade of heat deluges you, the scrape of charcoal on the page spurring you on—to be more daring, leaning back to grab Anthony’s knees as leverage for your movements, your breast pushed high into the air, more performative knowing this carnal moment is being committed to paper.

Benedict mouths words of encouragement as you glance down to see Anthony’s eyes now screwed shut, his biceps bulging in stark relief as his hands clamp your waist, and his hips rock upwards with each downstroke you take, chasing his peak with the same vigour you are, each press of his cock better than the last. Your muscles scream from all the effort, but you do not stop, a bead of sweat sliding down your spine as you ride roughly, with abandon. Anthony’s eyes are open again now, his hands cupping your breasts and pinching your nipples so hard you stutter. Greedily you mash his thick cock right against that same spot that has your mouth slack, head tilted up, and fingers curling into his flesh, shocked at how close you are yet again in such rapid succession.

“Say it,” you grit out, staring up to the ceiling, not looking at either, not sure even you know who you are even asking. 

“Good girl..” it's in perfect unison, and that is what pushes you into oblivion.

You grind to a halt, pussy contracting in waves around his cock as he writhes under you, him gasping loudly as you again float far away, that blissful cloud almost making you miss his urgent call, him eventually hauling you off of him, just in time for him to paint your belly with a thick arc of seed, his whole body jerking with the almost violence of release.

He collapses under you, quivering, utterly spent, and you do the same. Faceplant into his chest, rubbing your nose into the musky dampness of his chest hair as you huff breaths, bone-deep but sated exhaustion from the exertion.

Pliantly, you allow Anthony to slip out from under you and you feel him pick you up bridal style as you curl into him, fatigue lapping your edges. He places you onto the chaise, and then both men are flanking you, limbs tangling and gentle kisses as they entwine around you. It’s a few quiet, tender moments before curiosity again gets the better of you.

“May I see it?” you query quietly, abashed, pressing your nose into Benedict’s shoulder, not willing to meet his gaze.

His laugh is rich and resonant, reaching around to grab his pad and show you. There, in elegant charcoal lines, is a scandalous but beautiful rendition of you, naked, your peaked nipples standing proud, head thrown back. The detail is perfect, even down to the patch of downy hair at the apex of your thighs. There is no rendition of Anthony, but at one glance, you can tell it is a depiction of an erotic capture of a woman riding a man. The very picture of passion, just as he promised.

“It is stunning,” you gasp.

“It is yours,” he rushes out.

“I… I want it to be yours,” you confess ardently, your hands sliding to grasp Anthony’s arm draped over your belly. “Both of yours..” you confirm.

Warm lips kiss your cheek on either side. 

“We will treasure it.” Anthony asserts as Benedict nods sagely.

You stifle a yawn and nuzzle into their warmth as Benedict suggests you all retire to his bedroom upstairs. 

“Tis only 3pm...” your protest is nominal at best, and you allow him to pick you up, wrapping you in another sheet as Anthony does the same, trailing behind you as Benedict ascends the stairs.

“When is your next art lesson?” Anthony queries as the door to an opulent bedroom swings open.

“Tomorrow?” you riposte cheekily, and they both chuckle as you add: “If you will have me…”

“I do believe that can be arranged,” Benedict confirms fondly as he approaches a handsome four-poster bed.

“Artfully…” Anthony adds wryly as you share a laugh with them both, falling into their welcoming joint embrace.

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[harryssyndrome]

The Rain Girl | h.s

based on this request! Thx anon for sending your request [mwah mwah!] This is my all time favorite fairytale idea.

Posted on: December 9th, 2024 (IST). by the way I cried sm, can’t believe The Eras Tour is over😭 I need my swifties rn for comfort, fr. Omg I just noticed I’m posting after 13 DAYS, oh my swiftie heart rn. Like, comment and reblog are appreciated! I was so stuck with a long request that I exhausted my creative cells but I’m back now! and will complete all the small requests first 😌 DO NOT STEAL MY WORK, TRANSLATE OR PUBLISH TO ANY OTHER PLATFORM.

Tag-list: @wheredidmyeyesgo @fruity-harry @angeldavis777 @cherryloveshs @harryyloverrr | Tag-list is OPEN || Request are OPEN

word count: 1.9k || Masterlistt☔️

summery: Harry meets a carefree girl in a London rain and then in that moment he knows those romcom feelings.

The rain had always been Harry’s companion, a quiet backdrop to the chaos of his life. He loved the way it muted the world, the way its steady rhythm provided a semblance of order amidst his own disarray. But today, the rain had taken him by surprise. He’d barely managed to duck under the awning of a small bookstore when the sky opened up, releasing a torrent that drenched the cobblestone streets in seconds.

Leaning against the wall, Harry adjusted his jacket, flicking water off the lapels and running a hand through his damp curls. The exhaustion from a long day at the studio weighed heavily on him. His debut album was supposed to be a labor of love, but lately, it felt more like a battle against his own insecurities. Each note, each lyric, each chord had to be perfect, and the pressure to live up to everyone’s expectations was relentless.

He pulled out his phone to check if it had survived the sudden downpour, his mind already on the warm haven of his apartment. He could picture it now—dim lighting, a soft blanket, and the vinyl player spinning one of his favorite records. But then he heard it.

A laugh.

Not just any laugh, but a sound so pure and unrestrained that it sliced through the rain like a melody. It wasn’t the kind of laugh that came from a joke or a conversation. It was a laugh born of joy, spontaneous and infectious.

His head turned toward the sound, his brows furrowing in curiosity. A few steps away, illuminated by the warm glow of a streetlamp, was a girl. No, not just a girl—a force of nature.

She was dancing in the rain.

Her arms were outstretched, her head thrown back as the rain cascaded over her. She spun in circles, her navy-blue skirt flaring around her legs, her white shirt plastered to her skin and revealing the faint outline of a black bra underneath. Long strands of hair clung to her back and face, but she didn’t seem to care. She stomped in puddles with bare feet, her movements wild and uncoordinated, and yet, there was a grace to her, a rhythm that made it impossible to look away.

Harry felt rooted to the spot, his fatigue momentarily forgotten. It wasn’t just her appearance that caught his attention—though she was undoubtedly striking—it was the way she seemed to exist outside of time. In a city that never stopped moving, she had created a world of her own, a pocket of joy amidst the gray monotony.

He leaned against the wall, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he watched her. She was oblivious to him, too consumed by the moment to notice the figure standing in the shadows. For a fleeting second, Harry felt envious. When was the last time he had let go like that? When was the last time he’d allowed himself to simply be?

Then, as if sensing his gaze, she stopped. Her laughter faded, and she turned to look at him. Their eyes met, and Harry felt a strange jolt in his chest.

“Enjoying the show?” she called out, her voice warm and teasing, carrying easily over the sound of the rain.

Harry blinked, caught off guard. He pushed himself off the wall, shoving his hands into his pockets in an attempt to appear nonchalant. “Hard not to,” he replied, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

She tilted her head, studying him. “And why are you just standing there? Afraid of a little rain?”

He chuckled, glancing down at his soaked boots. “Not exactly dressed for it,” he said, motioning to his leather boots and jacket.

“Boots can be replaced. Moments like this?” She spread her arms again, gesturing to the rain-soaked street. “Rare.”

Her words hung in the air, challenging him. Harry hesitated, torn between the logical part of his mind that told him to stay dry and the inexplicable urge to join her. “I’d ruin my boots,” he countered, though his tone lacked conviction.

She laughed again, the sound light and carefree. “Ruin them, then. It’s worth it.”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but then an idea struck him. He glanced toward the small café just a few doors down, its warm lights spilling onto the street. Without a word, he darted toward it, ignoring the rain soaking through his jacket as he crossed the short distance.

Inside, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and pastries greeted him. He approached the counter and ordered two takeaway cups of tea, the warmth seeping into his hands as he carried them back outside.

When he returned, she had stopped dancing, standing under the streetlamp with her head tilted back, letting the rain kiss her face. Her eyes flicked toward him as he approached, her curiosity evident.

“Thought you might need this,” he said, holding out one of the cups.

She blinked in surprise, then smiled as she accepted it. “Tea in the rain? How very British of you.”

He shrugged, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “Call it a peace offering. Or maybe an excuse to stand here and talk to you.”

She raised an eyebrow, her smile turning mischievous. “You didn’t need to buy me tea for that.”

Harry chuckled, taking a sip of his own tea. “Maybe not, but I thought it might earn me a few points.”

Her laughter returned, softer this time. She wrapped her hands around the cup, letting the steam rise toward her face. “Well, you’re off to a good start,” she admitted.

They stood in silence for a moment, the rain continuing to fall around them. Harry felt an unexpected sense of calm, the kind that had eluded him for weeks. She was magnetic in a way that wasn’t forced or deliberate.

“So,” he said finally, breaking the silence. “Do you always dance in the rain, or was I just lucky enough to catch a rare performance?”

She laughed, glancing down at her feet. “It’s not a regular thing,” she admitted. “But sometimes, you just… feel it, you know? Like the world is giving you permission to forget everything and just exist.”

Harry nodded slowly, her words resonating with him. “I think I needed to see that,” he said, his voice quiet but sincere.

Her expression softened, her gaze lingering on him. “Tough day?”

“Something like that,” he replied. He hesitated, unsure how much to share. “Long hours in the studio. Trying to get everything perfect.”

She tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. “You’re a musician?”

He smiled faintly. “Something like that.”

“Well,” she said, her voice thoughtful, “perfection is overrated. Look at me—spinning around like a lunatic, completely soaked, and probably scaring off anyone sane enough to be walking these streets. But I feel perfect right now.”

Harry couldn’t help but smile. “You make a convincing argument.”

Her gaze lingered on him, her eyes warm and inviting. “You should try it,” she said suddenly, setting her tea cup down on the railing of a nearby staircase.

“Try what?”

“Dancing,” she said simply. “You’ve got the boots for it.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Oh, come on,” she urged, stepping closer. “You’re already wet. What’s the harm?”

Before he could protest, she grabbed his hand, her fingers warm despite the rain. She pulled him into the middle of the street, her laughter spilling over as he stumbled slightly, caught off guard.

“This is ridiculous,” he said, though he couldn’t stop smiling.

“Ridiculous is underrated,” she countered, spinning him in a clumsy circle.

Harry let out a genuine laugh, the sound surprising even himself. He let go of his inhibitions, stomping in puddles and spinning her around as the rain continued to pour. For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t thinking about deadlines or expectations. He was just… living.

When they finally stopped, both breathless and soaked to the bone, she looked at him with a grin that was equal parts teasing and genuine. “See? Not so bad, is it?”

He shook his head, his curls plastered to his forehead. “Not bad at all.”

As the rain began to ease, she picked up her tea and took another sip, her eyes flicking toward the horizon. “Well, Harry Styles,” she said, her tone playful, “thanks for the tea and the company. I think you just made my day.”

He blinked, surprised. “You know who I am?”

She smirked, her gaze mischievous. “Who doesn’t?”

As she turned to leave, Harry couldn’t help but call out after her. “Hey! Rain girl!”

She paused mid-step, glancing over her shoulder with an amused smile. “Rain girl?”

He shrugged, a playful grin spreading across his face. “Well, I don’t know your name, and it fits. You did kind of make an impression tonight.”

Her smile widened, and she took a step closer, tilting her head. “Does that mean I’ll have to keep dancing in the rain just so you’ll remember me?”

Harry laughed, shaking his head. “You’ve already made yourself pretty unforgettable,” he said, his voice softer, more sincere. “But… how do I find you again? Do I have to wait for the next downpour and hope you’ll be out here?”

She tapped her chin thoughtfully, her expression teasing. “Well, I do love dancing in the rain. Maybe you’ll just have to keep an eye out.”

Harry groaned dramatically, though his grin never faltered. “That’s a bit risky, don’t you think? What if the rain doesn’t come for weeks?”

She laughed, the sound light and melodic. “Then you’ll learn some patience.”

“Or,” he countered, pulling his phone from his pocket and holding it out to her, “you could just give me your number and save me the suspense.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by his persistence. After a moment, she took the phone from his hand, her fingers brushing against his as she typed. Harry watched her with a mixture of curiosity and anticipation, and when she handed the phone back, he glanced at the screen.

The number was there, but instead of a name, she had saved it under the nickname he’d given her earlier: Rain Girl.

He chuckled, his eyes flicking back to her. “Seriously? No name? Just Rain Girl?”

She shrugged, her smile playful. “I like the nickname. Besides, it’ll make sure you remember me.”

Harry smiled, his heart feeling inexplicably lighter. “I don’t think I could forget you even if I tried,” he admitted, his tone sincere. “And now I know what I’ll be dreaming about tonight.”

Her cheeks turned a faint shade of pink, and she dipped into a playful bow, holding the edges of her skirt like it was a ballroom gown. “In that case, let me properly introduce myself. This Rain Girl’s name is YN.”

Harry’s grin widened as he repeated her name softly, as though testing how it felt on his tongue. “YN.”

She straightened, her smile bright despite the rain-soaked strands of hair clinging to her face. “Now you’ve got a name to go with the number,” she said.

“Perfect,” Harry said, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “But I still think Rain Girl suits you better.”

YN laughed, a sound that seemed to linger in the air even as she turned and began walking away. Harry watched her go, a strange warmth settling in his chest.

As the rain tapered off, leaving the streets glistening under the dim streetlights, Harry couldn’t stop smiling. He hadn’t just found shelter from the storm—he’d found something unexpected, something he couldn’t quite put into words yet.

And he knew one thing for sure: the next time it rained, he’d be looking for her.

[clemswinecorner]

Take a break [Harry Lewis/W2S]

Summary: When something's off with Harry, there's probably only one person that can make him feel better: his girlfriend.

Wordcount: 2.1k

Warnings: a bit of anxiety ish and mentioning of a potential burnout. Nothing extremely angsty :)

I'm back! Except not with a driver fic, sorry for these followers. I want to upload more UK YouTube fics so if you like this make sure to follow :))

Main Masterlist

It was Tobi that shot Y/N a text that afternoon. She was sitting in a random café working, rounding off her things before going home, and Harry was somewhere around London recording. Hey Y/N, I think smth is up with Harry. Dunno if anything has been bothering him recently, js wanted to let u know. He acts fine on camera but if ure near, could you hop by? we just finished up the vid, he’ll be in the studio recording the podcast w me josh and Ethan. It didn’t take much convincing, and since she was nearly done, she was in the studio an hour later. One of the production members opened the door, “Hey, I didn’t know you would come by,” the girl smiles at her. “No, wasn’t in the plans, but just picking up Harry,” Y/N explains, walking into the building. When she walks into the studio, Harry is simply listening to a story Ethan is telling, staring into the distance with his mind visibly somewhere else. Tobi spots her before Harry does, greeting her with a subtle nod. She smiles at him as she sits down behind the lights and cameras, out of view. “I know this is a podcast, but I need to pee really bad, can we do a short break please?” Tobi suggests once Ethan is done with his story. He looks at the production members, as Ethan nods in agreement, “yeah, regroup in 10 minutes then. I’ll keep everything rolling, just so you know,” Tobi nods and stands up, walking out the Studio. He gives Y/N a quick smile when passing her, and she stays seated as the boys all relax. “I’m hungry, haven’t eaten much today,” Ethan stands up as Harry pulls out his phone. He nudges the Guernsey boy, “D’you want anything?” To which Harry shakes his head. Ethan frowns but moves away from the desk nonetheless, as Y/N stands up. “Oh, hey, didn’t know you were here!” Ethan says as he passes her. She smiles, hugging him back quickly. “Yeah, I was around, so I figured I’d come by,” she explains. At the sound of the new voice, Harry’s head slowly perks up. A tired smile forms on his face as they make eye contact, with her nodding her head to signal him over. He stands up and walks over to the pair, making Josh look over, giving the girl a quick wave, which she returns. “Hi,” she softly smiles as she lets him embrace her. “Hey, are you okay?” She nods. “Yeah, did you eat anything yet? I heard Ethan just now,” He softly shakes his head as they pull apart, “No, haven’t been too hungry,” he admits, and she sighs with a knowing look. “Don’t forget yourself, Harry. When you’re done, we’re getting some food, yeah. I’ll order it during the recording, and we’ll go pick it up, go home, and have a night us to, yeah. Maybe all of tomorrow, too?” She suggests, and he nods. “Thank you,” He quietly replies, wrapping his arm around her to press a kiss on her hair. 

As they get back to recording the last part of the podcast, Y/N sits back in her original spot. She now finds Harry looking over more often, and she sends him a smile every time. He seemed a bit more relaxed, a bit more involved in the conversations. He was laughing, that stupid half-assed laugh, that made him look too damn cute. She hated it, though— she hated how she could tell he just laughed because of the cameras. Even if he liked the joke, the smile didn’t reach his eyes the way it usually would. Soon enough the recording’s done, and Harry is given the green light to go, the rest of the crew all seeing the tiredness in his body language. As they stand at the car, Tobi has walked out after them to give them a quick goodbye. “See you later bro, take care, yeah?” He simply tells Harry as they clap hands, before the younger steps into the passenger seat. He gives Y/N a proper hug, “Thanks for coming, let me know how he’s doing, please?” She nods as they let go. “Yeah, thanks for texting. He looks pretty overwhelmed, and he didn’t eat much breakfast either, so…” Tobi sighs, as he looks towards the car. “We didn’t really have time to eat, I should’ve pushed to get lunch more,” Y/N shrugs. “Not much to do now. Again, thanks for looking out for him. I’ll see you soon, yeah?” He nods. “Yeah, thank you too. See you Friday,” he mentions, reminding her of the Sidemen’s anniversary party. “See you then, bye Tobi!” She says, stepping into the car. Harry looks up at her with a questioning look on his face, “What were you chatting about?” He asks, dropping his phone in his lap. She looks at him for a second, “Tobi texted me when you were done with the video if I could hop by. He said you acted fine on camera, but something was off, and I was nearly done with work anyway so I wanted to pick you up. He just asked me to let him know if you were okay,” She answers honestly, to which he nods slowly. “Hmm.” A short silence falls between them as she gets settled, looking over at him before turning the key. “Are you, okay?” She asks. He doesn’t reply immediately, fiddling with his phone. “I- I don’t really, uhh, I dunno. I’ve just… It’s weird, I, uh…” He doesn’t seem to find the words, so she puts her hand on his thigh. “That’s okay. You don’t have to talk, we can get home, have some food, maybe a cuddle, and then talk. Or cry, or scream, or say nothing. Whichever, yeah?” He nods as she squeezes his thigh before moving her hand back to the steering wheel. His hands automatically find her body as they pull out the car park, making her smile subconsciously. “Oh, and there’s something else Tobi mentioned, which I almost forgot. We are going to the Sidemen party, which you probably conveniently forgot is this Friday,” she changes the subject, making him groan in fake annoyance.

Y/N collects the food they ordered, and after a short ride with some soft background music, they’re carrying the bags of food inside. “If you want to change, you can do that now, we can watch a movie or some Brooklyn 99. Do you want a drink?” She asks, as he walks towards the bedroom. He nods, “Just a tea please,” he asks, before changing into his pyjamas. She makes them their drinks, making herself an iced tea, and puts them on the coffee table. Walking back to the kitchen to get the bags of food, she sees Harry taking out the plates and cutlery, and smiles at him. “Do you want to watch anything?” He looks at her and shrugs, “Just something quick. Did you watch the race?” He asks, and she nods. “I had it on, yeah, but was working during it. We can watch the race in 30?” She suggests as they sit down on the couch. He nods, leaning over the table to make himself a plate of food. “Yeah, sounds good,” he says, as she finds the compilation of the latest Formula One race. Harry sits closely next to her, thighs touching each other and occasionally leaning backwards, putting his head on her shoulder. 

He was tired, she could tell, and by the time they’d finished the food he was lying on her lap. She softly combs through his hair as the F1 outro played, and she sighs. “Are you alright?” She asks, and he’s quiet for a minute. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. She motions for him to keep talking, and he sighs. “I’ve just, I’ve been feeling anxious all day and I don’t know why. Didn’t sleep as well either, but that’s not really anything new recently,” he mentions, and she nods. He had been having trouble sleeping recently, falling asleep late and waking up in the middle of the day, unless he had recordings in the morning. “Any reason why? Like, something big happening or a change in something?” He shrugs. “No, not that I can think of. I mean, we have the anniversary coming up and don’t really have anything planned and maybe people will expect something, but that’s not really my doing anyway. I also need to have a video worked out and a more sidemen thing ready by Saturday, but I’ll get that done,” he mentions, rolling his head so he’s looking at her. She looks down at him, looking into his eyes. “I think you should take a break, first, just tonight and tomorrow. No Sidemen business, no YouTube friends, just us. Wasn’t Rosie in Manchester? We could visit her,” she suggests, and he nods. “Yeah, that sounds good,” he softly says. They sit in silence for a bit, thinking about the conversation that just occurred. “If you still feel anxious or weird after that, that’s okay too. We can look into it, if you’ll let me help you, and see what makes you feel better, yeah?” She breaks the silence. He bites his lips as he hesitantly nods. “Hmm. I’m just worried it’s a lasting thing. I’ve got nothing to be stressed about really, people like Simon and JJ are doing way more than I am yet here I am,” he expresses his concerns. “Well, you’ve been doing this for over a decade, baby, and even when you quit uploading you started doing more things for the channel. That and recording not only for the Sidemen but also all of your friends’ channels, plus all the behind the scenes stuff you’re involved in, it’s not hard to be burnt out or overwhelmed,” He nods, fiddling with their hands. “It just feels so unfair to take a break, when I have lots of time off already. I have the one of the easier jobs on the Sidemen channel, you know,” She looks up for a second, thinking about his statement. “Hmm. For you, yeah, but I think Lucy wouldn’t want to switch with you. Just because it’s fun and comes naturally to you doesn’t mean it’s easy, and you don’t work hard,” She explains, to which he nods. “Hmm, I guess that’s true,” he agrees. She shuffles around a bit, and Harry raises his head so she can sit more comfortably. “And like, you have time off, but when do you actually? You’re always recording, or golfing, or on a date with me, which is nice, and you’re busy which is good, and it’s fun, but you know… You need to take care of yourself, have some time for you, as well.” He sighs as he sits up. “Whenever I’m with you is enough. But I do need more time without anything else, maybe,” he admits, grabbing his cup of tea from the table. She smiles at him, “I know you love them, but I know you as well, you’re an introvert. We spend all your other time together, too, which I obviously have zero problems with, but you need your alone time, too,” He looks at her over the rim of his glass. “Don’t be silly, I never need time away from you. Like, I consider nights like this alone time. I can recharge with you,” he sheepishly smiles at her, and she blushes. “I… Wait, that is actually so cute,” She leans against his chest, and he chuckles, wrapping his arms around her. “It’s true,” he simply says, and she giggles. She looks up at him to see him already looking down at her with the same smile still on his face. Despite dating for over two years, it still felt like the honeymoon stage, and the look in their eyes’ says enough. Harry smiles before he presses his lips against hers, and she smiles into the kiss.

Their cups of tea were long forgotten as they get even closer to each other, the kiss filled with love instead of the lust they sometimes were. They both smile into the kiss, just taking in each other's presence, until the sound of the Formula One intro promptly makes them pull away. “Jesus Christ,” Harry just says as Y/N leans into his chest, giggling at the scare. Harry looks for the remote, turning off the video that autoplayed. He looks at her with a loving smile, as she looks up again. “Right, where were we?”

[theetherealbloom]

IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU - CH.9

Chapter Nine: The Silver Lining's I'll Be There With You

Summary: You find yourself sharing a hotel suite with Pedro Pascal while working on the set of Fantastic Four: First Steps. Despite your different roles—he’s the star, and you’re behind the scenes. Nothing could ever happen between you two… right?

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

Warnings: Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Eventual SMUT, Crush, FLUFF, Slight Angst, Trope(s), Swearing, Anxiety, Lots of Cliches, Cheesy Dialogue, Romance, Kissing, Real People Fiction, Cameras, Paparazzi, Social Media, Swoonworthy, One-Room Trope, They were roommates, Strangers-to-Lovers, Actors, Hallmark Tropes, the reader can sing and play guitar, the reader is shorter than Pedro, the reader has hair, Alternate Universe, Awkward!Reader, Shy!Reader, Fan Girl!Reader, Cringe, Embarrassment, Starstruck, Heavy Overthinking, Cecilia deserves her own warning lol, Confrontation,

Word Count: 4.7k

A/N: SOOO… lol, this is the longest I’ve gone without writing/posting, I deeply apologise and I’m so sorry T^T I literally had to lock the fuck in with school, each week I had at least two exams/deadlines. I blame our profs for their poor planning lol. Anyways, I have a little bit of a lighter load now since it’s almost finals season… I’ll keep ya’ll posted, and I humbly ask ya’ll to be patient for the next update and oh god, TLOU season 2… Uneven Odds… My backlog is insane right now, oh naur. Pedro babes I love you, but go on vacation boo. 

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: Silver Lining by Laufey

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PINEWOOD STUDIOS, LONDON — MORNING

You were hella nervous. Pedro held your hand the entire car ride to the studio, his thumb softly brushing over your knuckles, grounding you even as your stomach twisted itself into knots.

"You're quiet," he murmured, watching you from the corner of his eye. "You okay, baby?"

You forced a smile. "Yeah. Just… y’know. Nervous."

"About what?"

You shrugged, trying to play it off. "I dunno. Just… going back on set. Seeing everyone. After, y'know…"

The accident.

Pedro squeezed your hand tighter. His jaw clenched, and you could tell — he was still haunted by it too. The way you had thrown yourself in front of him. The way he had watched you collapse under the rig. The way he had screamed for help — like his entire world was falling apart.

"Hey." His voice was soft. "I'm not leaving your side, okay? The second you wanna leave — we leave. I don't care what anyone says."

And you believed him. God, you did. But there was still this gnawing pit in your stomach. Something you couldn't shake.

Because something still didn't make sense.

The rig was never supposed to fall like that.

The air in the studio felt wrong the moment you stepped inside.

Too still. Too watchful.

The crew was polite — too polite — but cagey. Their gazes flitted toward you, then away. Conversations hushed behind clipboards. Even your supervisor couldn’t meet your eyes. Something was off.

And Pedro… he never let go of your hand.

“Hey.” His thumb brushed against your knuckles, voice low. “You okay?”

You weren’t sure. Your stomach coiled, dread sinking deep into your bones. “Yeah. Just—”

“—Glad you could make it,” a voice interrupted.

You both turned.

Rob, the production’s safety manager, stood stiffly at the entrance. His face was a heavy mask of professionalism, but his eyes… there was something hard in them.

“Rob?” Pedro said, stepping forward slightly. “What’s going on?”

Rob’s jaw flexed. “We need to speak with you both. Privately.”

Your stomach flipped. “Both of us?”

A beat of hesitation. “Yes. It’s regarding the rig accident.”

Pedro’s grip on your hand tightened.

The meeting room was small and clinical. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, washing the walls in a cold, sterile glow. A long table stretched across the center, surrounded by a few empty chairs — and at the end of it, a large television screen.

You sat next to Pedro. His knee pressed against yours, grounding you — or maybe grounding himself.

“What’s going on?” you finally managed, trying to sound casual despite the dread in your throat.

Rob didn’t answer immediately. He set his clipboard down and exhaled heavily, gaze flicking between you and Pedro. We reviewed the footage from the accident. We also conducted a full inspection of the rig.”

Your chest tightened. “And?”

Rob hesitated, his throat working. “We found something.”

Silence dropped like a hammer. Your pulse pounded in your ears.

“What did you find?” Pedro’s voice was tight, protective.

Rob didn’t respond. Instead, he grabbed a remote and clicked it. The television flickered to life.

And there it was.

The accident.

Your throat closed.

You watched yourself on the screen — laughing softly as you secured the cast into their harnesses. Pedro stood beside you, his hand resting on your shoulder as he said something that made you smile. The light rig swayed subtly above you, unnoticed.

And then—

It happened.

The exact moment the rig detached.

A sharp, metallic snap. Your body jolted, instinctively pushing Pedro out of the way as the light came crashing down.

Your mouth ran dry. Every muscle in your body seized.

“Wait—pause it,” Pedro rasped, his voice cracking. “Right there.”

Rob froze the footage. Pedro shot to his feet, pointing at the corner of the screen. “Zoom in.”

The image expanded.

And there — in the background — was someone.

Half-hidden behind a metal panel. But unmistakable.

“Cecilia,” you whispered, ice flooding your veins.

Pedro went rigid beside you. “What the fuck—”

She was watching you. Her gaze locked solely on you. And then — her hand moved.

A deliberate pull.

And that’s when the rig snapped.

“No.” Pedro’s voice broke, his entire body jerking back as though burned. “No — she—” His hand raked through his hair. “She did that on fucking purpose.”

You couldn’t breathe. “Why—why would she—”

And then Rob’s voice cut through. Low. Grave.

“…She wasn’t trying to kill Mr. Pascal.”

The room dropped into an unbearable silence.

Your head snapped toward Rob. “…What?”

Rob’s throat worked. “The investigation revealed the rig was deliberately tampered with during your lunch break. Cecilia was on set when no one else was. We believe she… adjusted the release on the rig.”

Your entire body went cold. “But it didn’t fall on me,” you rasped. “It— it almost hit him—”

“Because the timing was off.” Rob’s voice was heavy. “…It was meant to fall when you returned. She was waiting for you to get under it.”

Pedro’s hands were shaking. “You’re saying—”

“She was trying to kill her,” Rob confirmed grimly. “And when it didn’t happen — she didn’t react. She just… watched.”

Your stomach lurched.

Pedro stumbled back a step, his face ashen. “Where the fuck is she?” he demanded, voice raw.

“We have her in a separate room. Security’s questioning her now.”

Rob’s words sat heavy in the air.  

The room was suffocating. You could hear the hum of the air conditioner, the faint chatter from outside the closed door, the scratch of Rob’s pen against his clipboard. Everything felt too loud and too quiet at the same time.  

You exhaled slowly, trying to ground yourself.  

"I know she and I don’t get along…” you started, your voice unsteady. “But this is a lot.”  

Pedro’s head snapped toward you. His eyes—wide, dark, still brimming with the horror of what he just saw—searched yours like he couldn’t believe you were saying that.  

“A lot?” he repeated, voice tight. “A lot?”  

You swallowed.  

“Pedro, I—”  

“No.” He let out a humorless laugh, running a hand through his curls before gripping the back of his neck, his whole body strung tight with barely restrained fury. “She tried to fucking kill you. And you’re standing here acting like it’s just—what? Office drama?”  

Your stomach twisted. “That’s not—”  

“No,” he cut you off, stepping closer. “She planned this, waited for the right moment, rigged that thing to fall exactly when you’d be standing there—” He sucked in a shaky breath. “She watched it happen.”  

The words made your blood run cold.  

Because he was right.  

She had watched. You’d seen it in the footage—the way her head barely moved as the rig came loose, how she didn’t even flinch when it nearly crushed Pedro.  

If anything… it had almost looked like satisfaction.  

A chill ran down your spine.  

Pedro saw your expression shift, and his own softened just a fraction. He sighed, running a hand down his face before reaching for you again, his fingers sliding against yours.  

“Amor,” he murmured, his voice low and pleading. “You can’t downplay this.”  

You hesitated—but you didn’t pull away.  

“I just—” you licked your lips, eyes darting toward Rob. “I need to know why.”  

“Then let’s find out.” Pedro’s grip tightened. He looked at Rob. “I want to see her.”  

Rob hesitated.  

"Mr. Pascal, I don't think—"  

“We need to see her.”  

There was no room for argument.  

Rob exhaled sharply, glancing between you both before nodding. "Follow me."  

SECURITY ROOM — PINEWOOD STUDIOS

The moment you stepped inside, the air felt wrong.  

Cecilia didn’t look up at first. She just sat there, fingers tapping lazily against the metal table, the picture of boredom. But when the door clicked shut behind you, her lips curled into something sharp, something mocking.  

“Well, well.” She leaned back, exhaling a slow breath through her nose. “Look who survived.”  

Pedro’s hands clenched into fists.  

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way your pulse pounded in your ears. You had questions—you had so many questions—but standing in front of her, seeing the absolute lack of remorse in her expression, your stomach twisted into knots.  

“You were trying to kill me.” It wasn’t even a question.  

Cecilia tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with something twisted. “You make it sound so dramatic.”  

Pedro lunged.  

Security was on him before he could reach her, two guards stepping in to block his path. His breathing was ragged, shoulders heaving, but he didn’t take his eyes off her.  

“You tried to fucking kill her!” he spat, voice raw with barely restrained rage.  

Cecilia let out a soft, breathy laugh.  

And then she looked at you.  

The intensity of it made your stomach churn. There was something ugly in her gaze, something simmering beneath the surface.  

“Don’t act so shocked,” she mused, her voice sickly sweet. “You had to know I hated you.”  

You took a shaky step forward. “Why?”  

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please.”  

“Why, Cecilia?”  

Her smirk dropped.  

And then—  

"Because you don’t belong here," she snapped.  

The air seemed to still.  

Pedro stiffened beside you.  

Cecilia leaned forward, her nails scraping against the metal table. "You’re nobody," she sneered. “Some random, awkward little nobody who just lucked her way into all of this.” Her eyes flicked to Pedro with something scathing. “And somehow, you have him wrapped around your pathetic little finger.”  

Your breath hitched.  

Pedro’s hand found yours, squeezing tight.  

She saw it. And laughed.  

"Oh, wow," she drawled. “That’s fucking hilarious.”  

You opened your mouth, but she cut you off.  

"You walk onto this set like you belong here, like you’re one of us—but you’re not." Her voice was venomous now, her eyes wild. “You think people don’t talk about you? You think we don’t see it? The way you cling to him like some shy, pathetic little puppy?”  

You flinched.  

Pedro stepped in front of you instinctively, his body a shield. “You don’t get to talk to her like that.”  

Cecilia rolled her eyes. "Look at you. Protecting her. It’s honestly nauseating."  

Pedro’s grip on your hand tightened.  

"Here’s what really pisses me off," she continued, voice low and sharp. "I worked my ass off to get where I am. I have connections, I have talent, I belong here. But you—" her lip curled "—some quiet, nothing of a girl, you get handed everything. People like you shouldn’t get to win."  

Your throat tightened.  

Cecilia sat back, exhaling through her nose. "So yeah," she murmured. "I wanted you gone."  

Silence.  

And then Pedro moved.  

Not toward her—but toward you. His hand came up, cupping the back of your neck, his thumb brushing softly against your jaw. His touch was gentle, but his voice was firm.  

“She’s everything you’ll never be,” he said quietly.  

Cecilia’s eyes darkened.  

Rob, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke. His voice was sharp, cold.  

“You’re done.”  

Cecilia blinked, her head snapping toward him.  

“Legal is handling the rest,” Rob continued. "You’ll be formally charged. The company will pursue legal action for endangering crew and tampering with safety equipment. And as for Mr. Pascal and Miss—”  

Pedro cut him off. “We’re filing charges too.”  

Your heart skipped.  

Cecilia laughed. "We’re?” Her eyes flicked to you. “Oh my god. You’re actually letting him do this for you.”  

Pedro didn’t even hesitate. "No," he said. “She’s not letting me do anything. I’m doing this because she deserves better.”  

Cecilia scoffed, but it was weaker now.  

Security moved in. "Time’s up," one of them muttered, gripping Cecilia’s arm.  

She didn’t fight them. Didn’t struggle. But as they led her out, she turned, eyes locking onto yours.  

And then she smiled.  

A chill ran down your spine.  

Pedro felt it. You knew he did—because his hand never left yours.  

Rob cleared his throat. "You two need to come with me. Legal will brief you on the next steps."  

Pedro nodded, already leading you toward the door.  

But your feet felt heavy.  

This wasn’t over.  

Not by a long shot.  

And somehow… you had a terrible feeling that Cecilia wasn’t done with you yet.

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — LATER THAT DAY

To say the rest of the workday was exhausting was an understatement.  

The meeting with legal had been a blur—signing statements, reviewing footage again, going over protocol and next steps. There was so much red tape, so much legal jargon, that it all started to bleed together in your head.  

And then there was Cecilia.  

She was officially gone. Fired. Out of the studio.  

No one was exactly mourning her departure. In fact, you quickly realized that she hadn’t been all that liked to begin with. Crew members exchanged knowing glances, a few even muttering things like, “About damn time.” It was a strange kind of relief, knowing you hadn’t imagined the way she’d treated you—that you hadn’t been overreacting.  

Still, you couldn’t shake the sick feeling in your gut.  

There was something about the way she had smiled before she left.  

Like she knew something you didn’t.  

But you pushed it down. You had to. There was still work to be done, cameras to prep, lights to check. The show had to go on, and the last thing you wanted was to make everything about you.  

So you pretended.  

You focused on your job, gave polite smiles when necessary, forced your hands to steady when they trembled. If anyone noticed how stiff you were, they didn’t say anything. And if Pedro noticed—well.  

He was watching you.  

Constantly.  

Even as he ran through his scenes, even when he was talking to the director, even when he was across the damn set, you could feel it—his eyes lingering, his brow furrowed in quiet concern.  

And honestly? It was starting to make you nervous.  

So, during a break between shots, when he finally cornered you near the equipment table, you weren’t exactly surprised.  

"Are you okay?"  

You swallowed, forcing a small smile. "I’m fine."  

Pedro raised an eyebrow.  

Damn it.  

"I’m trying to be fine," you amended, shifting awkwardly under his gaze.  

He sighed. "You don’t have to try with me, you know."  

Your stomach twisted.  

Because that was the thing about Pedro—he was safe. You had known that since the moment you met him. It was in his voice, in the warmth of his touch, in the way he never pushed too hard, never made you feel like you had to be anything other than what you were.  

And that—that terrified you more than anything.  

Because what if you fell into that safety? What if you leaned too hard? What if you needed him too much?  

You bit your lip, glancing down. "I just... I don’t want to make this a big deal."  

Pedro was silent for a beat. Then—  

"But it is a big deal," he murmured.  

Your breath caught.  

Pedro reached out, his fingers ghosting over your wrist before he really touched you—slow and gentle, like he was giving you the chance to pull away.  

You didn’t.  

"Someone tried to hurt you," he continued, voice low, careful. "I need you to understand that I—" He broke off, his jaw clenching like he was trying to rein himself in. "I don’t take that lightly."  

You exhaled shakily.  

"I know," you whispered.  

His fingers tightened around your wrist, warm and steady.  

For a second, neither of you moved.  

And then—  

Someone called Pedro’s name from across the set.  

He swore under his breath but didn’t let go right away, his thumb brushing absently against your pulse.  

"We’re not done talking about this," he murmured.  

And before you could protest, he was gone.  

Leaving you standing there, heart racing, hands aching with the ghost of his touch.

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — EARLY EVENING  

The day dragged on like a ghost of itself.

After Cecilia was escorted off set and Pedro’s legal team assured you everything would be handled, you forced yourself to keep working. You were quiet. Careful. Mechanical. Going through the motions like a wind-up version of yourself.

People tried to be nice. Someone handed you a protein bar. Someone else asked if you were okay in that awkward, nervous way people do when they don’t know how to talk about something awful.  

You smiled. Nodded. Said, “Yeah. I’m okay.”

You weren’t.

By the time the lights dimmed and crew started packing up, the hum of the studio felt deafening. Pedro had been across the lot filming a short pickup scene—he’d looked back at you three times as he walked off, like he didn’t want to leave you alone, but you waved him on with a soft, forced smile. Told him you’d be fine.

You lied.

Because now you found yourself sitting on a lonely bench just outside the studio’s back lot, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself. The sun was low in the sky, casting everything in golden haze, but none of it touched the growing pit in your chest.

Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You almost died.

He almost died.  

You didn’t even remember moving—your body just acted, just lunged toward him before the rig collapsed. You could still feel the heat of it brushing past your back as you shoved him out of the way. The sound of it crashing. Pedro yelling your name. The weight of it all hadn’t sunk in until now.

You sat there, heart pounding, staring at your hands like they belonged to someone else.

Then—Footsteps. Familiar ones. Heavy boots on pavement.

Pedro.

“…There you are,” he said softly.

You looked up too fast, eyes wide. He frowned when he saw your face.

“You said you were going to the parking lot,” he murmured, kneeling down in front of you instead of sitting beside you. “You’ve been out here alone?”

You nodded. Barely. “Yeah. I just… I needed a second.”

His gaze flickered over you, reading all the things you didn’t say.

“You’re not okay.”

You tried to smile again. Failed. “No.”

That one word cracked something open. Your voice wobbled. “I’m really not.”

Pedro didn’t say anything—he just reached for your hands, gently prying them from where they were clutched around your middle. His thumbs brushed your knuckles as he held them, grounding you with his warmth.

“I keep thinking,” you whispered, “If I was just a few steps slower—if I hadn’t looked up, if the timing was different… you could’ve been—”

“Hey.” He reached up, cupping your cheek. His voice was low and firm and steady. “But I wasn’t. You were there. You saved me.”

You blinked hard. Your throat tightened. “But you shouldn’t have been in danger in the first place. None of this should’ve happened. I don’t know how she—how someone I used to know—could hate me that much. It’s like… like I did something wrong just by existing.”

Pedro’s brow furrowed. His thumb brushed gently under your eye where a tear had slipped free. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. “You’re not the problem, cariño. She is. Whatever’s broken in her, it has nothing to do with you.”

You dropped your gaze. “I’ve always been the weird one. The quiet one. The ‘who even let her in here?’ kind of girl.”

Pedro let out a breath like it hurt to hear you say that. Then he sat beside you, pulling you into his chest without hesitation. You didn’t even think—your body just curled into him like it was home.

“I don’t know who made you feel like that,” he said quietly, “but they were all wrong.”

His arms were wrapped around you tight. Solid. Safe.

“You belong here,” he whispered. “You’re good at your job. You’re kind. And brave. You didn’t even hesitate today. You didn’t think about it, didn’t flinch—you just moved.”

You felt the warmth of his breath against your temple.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been more scared in my life,” he admitted. “Watching that rig come down, seeing you throw yourself toward me—” His voice cracked, just a little. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you got hurt.”

Your heart thudded painfully at that.

You shifted slightly, your face still tucked against his shoulder, your voice small. “But I’m okay.”

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “But that doesn’t mean it’s okay.”

Silence fell for a moment. But it wasn’t heavy this time. It was full of unspoken things. Of feeling.  

You pulled back just enough to look at him. He didn’t let go.

“…You really scared me too,” you whispered. “More than I expected. And I—I don’t think it’s just because I like working with you.”

Pedro’s eyes softened.

“You don’t?” he asked gently.

Your cheeks flushed. You glanced down, shy and awkward. “No. I think… I think I like you in the stupid romantic way.”

Pedro didn’t answer at first. Instead, he leaned in—slow, careful, giving you every chance to back away.

You didn’t.

And when he kissed you, it was soft. Warm. Like the sun finally touching your skin after a long, cold day.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, “That’s not stupid.”

You smiled, still tearful, still trembling—but for the first time all day, the weight on your chest felt just a little bit lighter.

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — EVENING

The car ride back to the hotel was quiet.

Not uncomfortable—just… full. The kind of silence that settles in after your body’s been wrung out by adrenaline and nerves. You stared out the window, your hands fidgeting in your lap. Pedro sat beside you, his fingers gently tracing the curve of your wrist with his thumb, like he needed to keep reminding himself you were still there.

He didn’t ask you anything. Didn’t push. Just stayed close.

By the time the keycard clicked and the hotel door swung open, your shoulders felt like they were being held up by thread.

Pedro locked the door behind you. You stood there for a beat too long, not sure what to do with yourself. Like you were suddenly a guest in your own body.

“Hey,” his voice came from behind, soft. “Why don’t you sit down, okay?”

You nodded, toeing off your shoes and sinking onto the edge of the bed. The moment your weight settled into the mattress, your spine curled forward. You didn’t cry. Didn’t break. Just sat there, small and still, trying to hold it all in.

Pedro crouched in front of you.

You didn’t realize your hands were shaking until he reached for them.

“Can I?” he asked quietly.

You looked up, eyes glassy, and gave the smallest nod.

He took your hands into his, warm and steady, his thumbs brushing slow circles over your knuckles.

“Pedro…”

He hummed, tilting his head slightly, eyes focused entirely on you. “Hm?”

You hesitated. Your heart fluttered in your chest—nervous, raw, still carrying the weight of everything that had happened. But his hands felt like an anchor. His eyes were kind and open and safe.

“Thank you,” you said softly. Barely more than a whisper.

His lips parted—just the smallest bit—and then curved into something achingly tender.

“Anything for you, mi amor,” he murmured.

Your breath caught.

The way he said it—it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t performative. There was no teasing lilt in his voice. It was soft and full of meaning, like every word had been carefully chosen. Like he meant it with his whole chest.

You tried to look away, but he was already watching you with that gaze that always made you feel like the most precious thing in the room.

“I don’t know why you’re being so nice to me,” you said quietly, your voice cracking just a little. “I’ve been weird all day, I barely said anything, and I just—there was this moment where I couldn’t stop shaking. I still feel like I can’t breathe right.”

Pedro didn’t respond right away.

Instead, he brought your hands up and pressed a kiss to your fingers, slow and reverent. Like you were something delicate and sacred.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” he said gently. “I know what today was. I saw what it did to you. And I saw how hard you still tried.”

Your throat felt tight.

“You didn’t shut down,” he continued. “You showed up. You protected me. And then you went right back to work like nothing happened. But sweetheart… that wasn’t nothing. That was a lot.”

Your lips trembled.

He let go of your hands just long enough to cup your face, his thumbs stroking along your cheeks. “You don’t have to be okay right away. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I didn’t think it’d affect me this much,” you whispered. “It’s just… I felt so stupid for freezing up earlier.”

“You weren’t stupid,” he said immediately. “You were brave. You were human.”

You looked down, unsure of what to say to that. You were still getting used to how he talked to you—like you mattered. Like your feelings were real and valid and worth holding space for.

Pedro tipped your chin up with a gentle finger. “Hey.”

Your eyes met his again.

“I mean it,” he said softly. “You don’t owe anyone a perfect reaction. You don’t owe me anything except exactly who you are.”

“I don’t know how to be that around you,” you admitted, cheeks burning. “I still feel like I’m tripping over my own feet when I talk.”

His smile turned playful—just for a second.

“I think it’s cute.”

You groaned, burying your face in his chest. “Don’t say that.”

He laughed softly, arms wrapping around you again.

“I’m serious,” he murmured into your hair. “You’re so hard on yourself, mi amor. But I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”

Your heart fluttered painfully in your chest. You stayed like that, pressed close against him, letting his warmth sink into your skin like sunlight through linen. Your fingers curled into the hem of his shirt, and he held you like you were something he didn’t want to let go of.

Eventually, you pulled back just enough to meet his eyes again.

“Will you stay?” you asked softly.

Pedro’s expression didn’t even flicker. “Of course.”

“No, I mean…” You hesitated. “All night.”

He reached up, brushing your hair behind your ear. “You want me here?”

You nodded. “I feel safe when you’re here.”

His chest rose with a quiet breath, and then he leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead—slow, lingering, warm.

“Then I’m staying,” he said simply.

And he did.

You both climbed under the covers a few minutes later, your back to his chest, his arms around your waist. He held you gently, like a promise. You were still a little shy, still unsure of how close to be—but when he murmured, “I’ve got you,” into your shoulder, something deep in you finally let go.

You fell asleep wrapped in his warmth, the world softening around you.

End Notes:

I know, it's not a super long chapter update, for that I am so sorry, but I swear the next one will be longer tehe!

Will they catch a break?!?! I dunno. There’s a lot of things that come with dating a celebrity… and soon enough, the public will find out. I’m sure it will be fine! ...Right?

Anyways, I apologize once again for the wait and thank you for your patience! See you soon 🤍

TAGLIST: @comfortzonequeen @christinamadsen @liciafonseca @greenwitchfromthewoods @iqr-x @southernbe @maryfanson @brittmb115 @taytay0403 @whimsiwitchy @zymiii @sarahhxx03 @leilanixx @lilasskicker-23 @https-murdock @barnescamboy @widowsvail @senhoritamayblog @morganlolitta @suzysface @reidsworld @xmaykeca @dontlookatme121 @mandaloriankait @picketniffler @pedrofan @mystickittytaco @enchantingchildkitten @seven-seas-of-fuck-you @ro-nahime-things @senhoritamayblog @hermionelove @ashhlsstuff @hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall @youusunshineyoutemptress @klajmekkk @aomi-nabi @churchofjoemiller @pascalitobarnes @ccmoonshine @its-different-for-girls66 @bunniboo0015 @kneelforloki @sarcasticamentegiulia @joelmillerpascal

[bettelaboure]

⊹Looking for your hat, cowboy?⊹ | Choi Seung-Hyun

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ Pairing: Choi Seung-Hyun x Reader ⊹ Summary: a confident, provocative dancer and a closed-off, brooding idol clash backstage and onstage in a slow-burn, tension-fueled romance that spirals from teasing games to raw emotional confession. ⊹ Warnings: explicit sexual content, rough language, secret relationship dynamics, emotional manipulation (in teasing), voyeuristic elements, public exposure risks, and workplace power tension ⊹ Author's note: good luck, have fun 🤍

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

You joined BigBang at twenty-two, all hips, attitude, and glitter. Not that you cared much for the fame. You loved the music. The beat. The way your body felt like a live wire when you danced. You loved the thrill of performing, the rush of being watched. Of knowing they were looking. Especially him.

Choi Seung-Hyun.

He didn’t look the way you'd expected. Not when you first met. He wasn't loud, or flashy, or hungry for attention like the rest of them. He looked carved from shadow and smoke, all angular lines and quiet storms. Dark brows and darker eyes. His voice was low, rich as whiskey, and twice as dangerous.

He didn’t like you.

That was fine. You didn’t like him either.

You were the dancer. The one who wore ripped tights and heels, who smirked during interviews and rolled your eyes at rehearsals. The one who could swing her hips and make the world forget its name. You pushed buttons. Smiled sweet and jabbed hard. Especially at Seung-Hyun.

Because he never flinched.

Until he did.

The studio was dim, bathed in golden lamplight and the low buzz of electricity. Rain lashed the windows, the city beyond hazy and soft. Seung-Hyun sat hunched over his notebook, long fingers cradling a pen like it was a weapon. You slipped in behind him, a shadow of perfume and humidity, your ponytail still damp from rehearsal.

"You're sulking again," you said, the words gliding from your mouth like silk dipped in acid.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t even twitch.

You crossed the room with that slow, deliberate sway of your hips, hips that had commanded stages in Seoul and Shanghai and London. You slid into the seat beside him, your legs folding with grace and defiance, one bare knee brushing his thigh. He was all wrapped up in his lyrics, jaw tight, bottom lip bitten raw with focus. You leaned in just a little, close enough that your breath warmed the shell of his ear.

"You know," you said, voice pitched low, "you'd be hot if you smiled more."

He stopped writing. The pause was subtle, but you felt it.

A flicker.

The edge of something that hadn’t quite sharpened yet.

Then, without looking, he said, "And you'd be tolerable if you talked less."

Your head tilted. A smirk tugged at your lips.

"Wow. Was that an insult, Choi? I’m proud of you."

"Wasn't trying to impress you," he replied, tone dry, though his pen moved again. You noticed the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. How his hand tightened just slightly around the pen.

"You should."

This time, he did glance at you. Just a flick of those obsidian eyes, but it was enough. Your breath caught, for half a second. Then you laughed, light and careless.

He didn't laugh.

He never did.

But something shifted between you.

A hum. A tension, like the air before thunder.

It kept building. Slow and brutal, like the pull of a riptide. You kept finding ways to poke at him, to press where it hurt—or thrilled. Like the time during tour in Osaka, when you strutted into the green room in your shortest silver skirt, your thighs gleaming under the fluorescents. You leaned over the snack table just a little too far, feigning interest in a banana, and glanced over your shoulder to catch him staring.

He looked away immediately. Choked slightly on his water.

Victory.

You sat beside him after, close enough to brush arms. He kept his gaze on the floor, headphones in, jaw working like he was chewing through everything he wanted to say.

"See something you liked, oppa?"

His eyes flicked up. That same heat. Controlled. Bottled.

"I see a lot of things I don't comment on. Doesn't mean I didn't notice."

You blinked.

That was new.

You tilted your head, studying him. "Learning to play my game?"

He leaned in, slowly. Not quite touching, but close enough that you felt the gravity between you. "No. Just rewriting the rules."

You didn't have a comeback for that. Not right away.

But it shifted for real that night in Tokyo.

The building was nearly empty. Rain pattered on the rooftop, a soft, endless drumming that made everything feel heavier. You were dancing alone in the practice room, lit only by the glow of the city filtering through the foggy glass. The mirrors caught your silhouette—fluid, powerful, and unapologetic.

He watched you from the couch for a while, silent. You weren’t even sure when he’d walked in. You just caught his reflection, shadowed and still, in the mirror behind you.

"Do you ever stop performing?" he asked finally.

You turned, slightly out of breath, skin flushed and glistening.

"Do you ever start?"

The question hung there. Then he stood, walking towards you slowly, like he was testing the ground beneath his feet. Your body tensed instinctively. Not in fear. In anticipation.

He stopped a foot away.

"You wear your skin like armor," he said, almost a whisper.

You stared at him, pulse thudding. "And you wear yours like a coffin."

His breath hitched.

Then he reached up. Brushed a damp strand of hair from your cheek, fingertips barely grazing your skin. But the touch landed deep, like a burn you wouldn’t feel until later.

"Learning how to bite back," he said.

Your lips parted. Heart hammering. His fingers hovered, then dropped.

You didn’t step back.

Neither did he.

That was the first real moment. Not a line. Not a game. Just two people, stripped to the edge of something they didn’t have words for yet.

The tension didn’t dissolve after that. It simmered. Shifted. Became more dangerous. He met your provocations with quiet confidence now, sometimes even that sly, devastating half-smile that did more damage than any comeback. You still wore your shorts, your skirts, your confidence like weapons—but now you caught him watching, letting you know he was watching.

And when he looked away, it wasn’t out of shame.

It was to let you wonder what he was thinking.

And God, you did.

The live performance for "Bang Bang Bang" was pure chaos—the kind of spectacle that lived in flashing lights, sweat-slick skin, and thunderous bass. You were in full regalia, black leather and fire-red accents. Seung-Hyun, though, stole the breath from your lungs the second he walked out in that cowboy outfit.

Boots. Tight black jeans. That ridiculous but somehow perfect hat perched atop his head. The jacket—a mix of denim and fringe—should’ve looked tacky. On him, it was lethal.

You stalked over after the number, still high off the adrenaline, your skin buzzing. Seung-Hyun had just peeled his gloves off when you plucked the cowboy hat right off his head and settled it onto your own, tilting it at a playful angle.

His eyes flicked up to you, half-annoyed, half-amused, but he didn’t protest—just watched, arms crossed over his chest, as you turned to Hyo-rin with that signature smirk.

“So, you know the rule, right?” you asked, voice dripping with mischief.

Hyo-rin, catching on immediately, tried to hold in her laugh, but her lips twitched. “What rule?”

You leaned in conspiratorially, fingers tapping the brim of the hat. “You wear the hat…” You paused, letting the silence stretch, watching Seung-Hyun out of the corner of your eye as he straightened slightly, a frown forming.

Then you dropped the bomb. “You ride the cowboy.”

Silence.

Seung-Hyun blinked. Once. Twice. Then he choked. His body went rigid like he’d just short-circuited, and his hand jerked up—too slow—to snatch the hat back.

You spun out of reach, laughing.

Hyo-rin completely lost it, practically wheezing with laughter. Seung-Hyun stood there, stunned and utterly betrayed, his ears turning crimson.

“That’s not a real rule,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

“Oh, but it is,” you teased, tipping the hat dramatically before finally handing it back. You walked past him, close enough for your shoulder to brush his. “And now that you know, well… be careful who you let wear it.”

He groaned, dragging his hands over his face, and you? You just basked in your victory, the echo of your laughter still hanging in the air as he stood there—flushed, rattled, and maybe just a little bit intrigued.

Another show ended in a frenzy of lights and applause, but even as the crowd roared and the confetti rained down, you felt his stare. It wasn’t the usual casual glance or tight-lipped smirk. It was direct. Controlled. Electric.

Seung-Hyun hadn’t said a word after the cowboy stunt. But you could feel the storm brewing.

You lingered near the back hallway, sipping from a water bottle and humming under your breath when you heard the purposeful click of boots. You turned, already smiling.

"Looking for your hat again, cowboy?" you teased.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he reached you in three long strides. Before you could blink, he bent and threw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing, your body jolting with surprise.

“Seung-Hyun—what the—?!”

Your words punched out of you, breathless and half-laughing, your hands bracing against his strong back. The fringe of his jacket tickled your fingers, and you felt the taut ripple of muscle beneath it. His hold was unshakable, one arm locked around your thighs, the other steadying your hips like he’d done this a thousand times in his head.

“You think you’re funny?” he growled, voice low and close to your waist. “Running your mouth like that?”

“I know I’m funny,” you bit back, twisting slightly over his shoulder to glare at the back of his head. “What, can’t handle a little heat, cowboy?”

He didn’t answer.

Just let out a long, controlled breath and kept walking.

The sound of his boots echoed in the narrow hallway. The tension between you—hot and fraying—vibrated in every step. You weren’t laughing anymore. Not really. Because beneath the adrenaline, there was something heavier in your stomach. Anticipation. Want. A thrill of not knowing what he was going to do next.

He kicked the door to the empty dressing room open with his boot and stepped inside like a man with a mission. You barely had time to take in the room before he closed the door behind you with a hard click and locked it.

Then he set you down—slow, almost too gentle—and didn’t let go.

You straightened, brushing hair from your face, breath uneven. “So you manhandle all your bandmates, or am I just special?”

He stared at you for a beat too long. Then he stepped back, dragging a hand through his damp hair. Still in full costume—tight black jeans hugging every muscle, fringe jacket slipping off one shoulder, and the cowboy hat held loosely in his hand—he looked like a fever dream.

“I’m tired,” he said suddenly, voice rough, cracking through the air. “Tired of pretending this is all jokes. That I don’t feel it every damn time you push me.”

You blinked. “Feel what?”

His eyes snapped to yours. “You.”

He sat down heavily on the couch, elbows on his knees, running both hands down his face, then clutching the hat like it was anchoring him.

“I go home, and I replay it all. You walking past me in those skirts. The way you bite your lip when you think I’m not looking. The way you laugh like you know you’re pulling my strings.”

You swallowed hard, heat creeping up your throat.

“I didn’t play your game because I was afraid. I didn’t play because I knew—if I started—I wouldn’t stop. I can’t stop.”

He stood again. Slow. Like a force of nature reining himself in.

“I can’t keep pretending your teasing doesn’t wreck me. That I don’t want to tear that smug look off your face and kiss you until you forget your own name.”

He stepped in close, lifting the hat.

“Every time you wear this,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper, “I think about it.”

You raised an eyebrow, testing him. “About what?”

He gently—intimately—placed the hat on your head, tilting it just right. His knuckles brushed your cheek. You didn’t breathe.

His eyes locked with yours. “You said the rule was—‘you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.’”

Your smirk wavered.

He stepped back, slow, and sat on the couch with a heavy exhale. Legs spread. Shoulders relaxed, but his gaze never left yours.

“Then ride me,” he said.

The air left your lungs.

Your body reacted before your brain could catch up. You took one step forward. Then another. And then his hands were on your hips, pulling you to straddle him, and you were sinking into his lap, knees tight to his thighs.

There was a pause.

Just a heartbeat.

Both of you breathing the same air, eyes locked. And then—

He kissed you.

Hard.

There was no preamble. Just hunger. Tongue. Teeth. Four years of heat and silence and self-restraint burning down all at once.

Your fingers curled into his fringe jacket, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to the weight of him beneath you. He groaned into your mouth, hands sliding up your back, possessive and sure. You arched into his touch, heat blooming in your stomach.

"You’re full of shit, you know that?" you gasped against his mouth.

"And you’re addicted to playing with fire," he growled, nipping at your lower lip.

You moaned when his mouth moved to your jaw, your neck, finding every sensitive spot with maddening precision. Your hips shifted forward, slow, deliberate. His grip tightened.

“Still playing it cool?” he murmured against your skin, voice wrecked.

“Not even a little,” you panted, nails raking through his hair.

He leaned back just far enough to look at you. “You gonna keep the hat on, or should I take it back now?”

You gave him a wicked smile. “Only if you can handle what comes next.”

He matched it. “Try me.”

Your hands moved first—sliding over his chest, unfastening the fringe jacket and pushing it off his shoulders. The fabric slithered down his arms, pooling behind him on the couch. You let your fingers explore the lines of muscle beneath his thin shirt, mapping him with touch. He watched you, heat simmering in his gaze, but didn't move to stop you.

His hands skimmed the curve of your thighs, fingers brushing the edge of your performance shorts. He pushed the fabric higher, thumbs tracing bare skin, drawing lazy circles that made your breath catch.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered, voice dark silk.

“I’m not scared,” you said, meeting his eyes.

“I didn’t say you were.” He smirked, and then leaned up to kiss you again—slower this time, more exploratory. Like he was savoring the shape of your mouth, the taste of your breath. Your bodies pressed closer, the friction building, your heartbeat slamming against your ribs.

You peeled off your top, your bare skin now flush against his, and the sensation made both of you shiver. His hands found your waist, guiding you gently, firmly, like he’d imagined this moment too many times to rush it. You leaned into him, kissing down his jaw, his neck, dragging your teeth lightly across his collarbone. His breath stuttered.

He tugged his own shirt off with one swift motion, and your hands ran over his chest, tracing the lines, the tension held in every inch of him. The air between you crackled as you rocked your hips slowly against his. You could feel him now—hard and ready beneath you—and your smirk returned.

“You gonna keep watching me like that,” you murmured, lips brushing his ear, “or are you gonna do something about it?”

His answer was a deep growl.

He gripped your hips and pulled you down against him, your thighs tightening around his waist as your movements synced—slow, purposeful, maddening. You kissed again, deeper, mouths opening, breath mingling, fingers digging into flesh. You undulated your hips in a rhythm that had both of you gasping.

When his hand slid between your bodies, under the waistband of your shorts, your body arched. His touch was skilled, unhurried. He knew exactly what he was doing.

You pressed your forehead against his. "You were really just waiting for me to crack, weren’t you?"

He smiled, just barely. "I wasn’t going to beg. But I damn sure wasn’t going to let anyone else have this."

The clothes came off in fragments. First your shorts, then his jeans. His mouth stayed on your skin the whole time, worshipping, claiming. When you finally sank down onto him, slow and full and breathtaking, both of you froze.

He held you there, still, his hands trembling against your waist.

“God,” he murmured. “You feel…”

You silenced him with a kiss.

And then you moved.

Slow at first—grinding, teasing—every shift drawing gasps and curses from his lips. You rode him like you danced: unapologetic, powerful, in full control—until he met you halfway, hips bucking, mouth clashing with yours in something raw and desperate.

Each thrust, each movement, was a conversation neither of you had dared to have until now. The friction between you was more than physical—it was years of longing, of silence, of stolen glances finally erupting.

His hands roamed your back, your thighs, your chest, unable to stop touching. You rocked harder, faster, both of you unraveling, the room echoing with breath and broken whispers.

And you—riding him in nothing but that hat and a wicked grin—felt like the whole world had narrowed to this.

Him. You. The heat. The fire.

And the end of the game.

You rolled your hips again, slower this time, watching the way his eyes fluttered shut, his head tipping back against the couch. A low moan escaped his throat, dark and throaty.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice broken. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You leaned down, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Good. Then die knowing it was worth it.”

He laughed—deep, breathless—and grabbed your ass, guiding you harder against him. Your bodies moved in tandem, heat rising between you like a storm cloud ready to split the sky.

“You love being on top of me, don’t you?” he growled, voice rough, each word pulled from his gut. “So cocky. So smug.”

You bit his bottom lip playfully before releasing it. “You love it,” you whispered. “You love that it’s me making you feel this way.”

He thrust up into you with force, his grip on your hips tightening. The sudden intensity ripped a gasp from your throat.

“I love that you’re finally mine,” he said, voice gravel and silk. “I love that no one else gets to see you like this. Hear you like this.”

You moaned as he buried his face in your neck, sucking at the soft skin just below your jaw. Your body trembled above him, nails dragging down his chest, hips grinding harder, deeper.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” he groaned. “You’ve been teasing me for years, walking around like a goddamn goddess. You wanted this.”

You nodded, breathless. “I still want it.”

“Then take it,” he snarled.

And you did.

Your pace quickened, driven by his words, his hands, his body. You rode him like the center of your universe had shifted beneath your thighs. The moans that spilled from you weren’t rehearsed or coy—they were real, raw, drawn from somewhere deep. He responded with broken sounds of his own, his fingers moving everywhere, gripping, sliding, exploring.

“Say my name again,” he whispered, staring up at you like you were the only thing he’d ever believed in.

You leaned down, your forehead pressed to his. “Seung-Hyun,” you gasped, hips bucking, your body tightening around him. “Seung-Hyun—”

He kissed you again, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your waist like a lifeline. The hat tilted on your head with each movement, your moans swallowed into his mouth as you neared the edge together.

“I’m not going to last,” he warned, voice rough. “Not like this. You feel too fucking good.”

“Then don’t,” you whispered. “Let go. With me.”

You moved faster, hips rolling in a rhythm that had both of you unraveling, your bodies a blur of heat and friction. The slick sound of skin on skin filled the room, mingled with breathless gasps and the creak of the couch beneath your desperate rhythm.

He held you tighter, kissed you harder, and when you came, it was with a cry—his name on your lips, body trembling, heart hammering. He followed with a groan that vibrated against your mouth, hips snapping up into yours one final time as he poured into you.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breath. Tangled limbs. Sweat-slicked skin. His arms around you, holding you like you might float away if he let go.

You collapsed against his chest, your face buried in his neck. He rested his cheek against the cowboy hat still on your head.

And then he laughed. A soft, amazed sound.

“Still think this was just a game?” he murmured.

You smiled, breath still shallow. “No. That was the prize.”

You don’t remember when your fingers started playing with the soft strands at the back of his neck, just that it felt natural. Gentle. Intimate in a way that felt almost too much, too soon.

But he didn’t pull away.

Seung-Hyun was still beneath you, chest rising and falling with the slow, steady pace of someone trying to come down from a high. His arms were wrapped around your waist, his skin sticky with sweat, but he made no move to let go.

You tilted your head slightly, letting your lips brush his collarbone. A soft kiss. A slow inhale.

He smelled like heat and leather and something uniquely him—rich and masculine, threaded with a note of sandalwood that clung to the edge of his skin.

You felt him shift under you slightly, his hand trailing lazily up your spine.

“You broke the hat,” he muttered into your hair.

You pulled back just enough to see him, the crumpled cowboy hat now hanging lopsidedly off your head. You reached up, flicked it back into place with a smirk. “Battle wounds.”

His gaze flicked up to yours, soft and unreadable. For a beat, neither of you said anything.

Then he sighed, slow and heavy.

“I wasn’t kidding,” he said. “I’m tired of the games.”

You studied him. The way his brows pulled together, the seriousness in his voice despite the way your body was still pressed intimately against his.

“I know.”

“You flirt. You push. You know exactly what to say to get under my skin,” he continued, brushing your hair away from your cheek with a featherlight touch. “And I let you. Because I wanted… this. But I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t mean anything.”

You blinked.

The words weren’t unexpected, not really. But they hit harder than you thought they would.

“And now that you’ve had me?” you teased, voice soft, but a little unsure. “What then?”

He reached up, gently pulled the hat off your head, setting it aside before resting his hand on the side of your face.

“I don’t want you just like this,” he said quietly. “I want all of you. When the lights are off. When the stage is quiet. When you’re not performing. I want the version of you who teases and the one who doesn’t. The one who’s strong, and the one who hides when no one’s looking.”

Your throat tightened.

“You’ve got me,” you whispered, almost like a confession. “Even when I’m being a bitch?”

He smirked, something warm sparking in his eyes. “Especially then.”

You laughed, resting your forehead against his. His hands slid down your back, grounding you to him, anchoring you in that fragile, real moment.

Outside the dressing room, you could hear the distant thump of footsteps, voices, the world starting to move again.

But neither of you moved to get up.

Eventually, you spoke again, voice softer this time. “So, are we still playing?”

Seung-Hyun looked at you, that familiar flicker of mischief now tempered with something deeper.

“No,” he said. “We’re done playing.”

Then he kissed you again—slower this time. No teasing. No edge. Just lips and breath and the taste of something new blooming between you.

Something real.

The next morning, it was all rehearsals, spotlights, and sharp-edged choreography.

You were back in your dancer mode—short shorts hugging your hips, crop top clinging to your skin, legs flexing with every kick and turn. The air in the rehearsal room was thick with sweat and music and the silent pressure to be perfect. Lights beamed down from above like stage fire, unforgiving and hot.

You moved like a weapon—controlled, deadly, and graceful. The beat of the track pounded in your chest like a second heartbeat. You didn't look at him.

But you felt him.

Seung-Hyun’s presence was a constant hum under your skin. Not glaring or obvious—he’d never be that. But in the way his gaze skimmed you when he thought no one noticed, in the way his foot tapped in time with your rhythm, in the sharpness of his jaw every time you rolled your hips just a little harder than necessary.

You hadn’t spoken since last night. Not properly. Just one last kiss—slow and silent, lips warm with something that felt suspiciously like affection—before he helped you dress. Then, a walk through the hallways, his hand resting low on your back like he owned that part of you now.

That tension, unspoken and buzzing, followed you both into the room.

During break, you collapsed on the floor with Hyo-rin, sweat dripping down your spine, legs still humming from the last routine.

“You good?” she asked, arching a brow. “You haven’t roasted Seung-Hyun once today. I’m worried.”

You shrugged, trying to sound casual. “Maybe I’m bored of watching him squirm.”

She gave you a pointed look. “You don’t look bored. You look like you had sex for twelve hours and can’t sit properly.”

You rolled your eyes, sipping water. “Don’t project.”

“Don’t deny it,” she fired back. “You’ve got that stupid, post-orgasm glow. And he—” she nodded toward where Seung-Hyun was silently talking to Jiyong, face flushed, shirt clinging to his torso “—looks like he’s trying to stay sane.”

Your eyes drifted despite yourself.

He glanced over, meeting your gaze for the first time today. And this time—he held it.

No flinch. No subtle glance away. Just steady, simmering eye contact.

Your breath hitched. You tilted your chin. Smirked slightly.

He didn’t smile back—but his eyes darkened, almost imperceptibly, and your stomach flipped.

“Jesus,” Hyo-rin muttered. “Just fuck in the equipment closet and spare us the foreplay.”

You grinned, but the heat in your belly was real.

After rehearsal, people scattered—some to shower, others to food or phone calls. You lingered near the vending machines under the pretense of choosing between water or soda.

You sensed him before you saw him.

Seung-Hyun appeared beside you like smoke, silent and solid, his body boxing you in with casual dominance. One hand pressed to the wall near your head. The other brushed lightly against your hip.

“You kept looking at me like you wanted to fuck me in front of everyone,” he said, low and dangerous.

Your lips curled, slow and deliberate. “I was just stretching. Can’t help it if my ass looks good doing it.”

His laugh was dark and quiet. “You really don’t know when to stop.”

“You like it when I don’t.”

He leaned in—his breath warm against your ear. “I like it better when you’re naked, dripping, and begging.”

You inhaled sharply.

Then he pulled back, just enough to meet your gaze. “My place. Twenty minutes. Unless you’re too sore to ride again.”

You grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him close enough to barely brush his lips with yours.

“Better hydrate, cowboy,” you whispered. “You’re gonna need your stamina.”

His hand dropped down to squeeze your ass—hard enough to sting. “I already want you again.”

You shivered, and for once, had no comeback.

He stepped back, all cool control, and walked away like he hadn’t just lit a match and left you burning.

You didn’t knock.

He’d left the door unlocked for you, and when you stepped inside his apartment, it smelled like warm spice and cologne. Dim lights pooled in corners. One small lamp was on, casting golden hues across leather and hardwood. It was quiet. Too quiet.

You kicked off your sneakers, padded inside, your body still humming with adrenaline from the studio—and from him.

He was standing in the kitchen, a glass of water in one hand, the same black shirt from earlier now slightly damp from his post-rehearsal shower. His hair was damp too, brushed back and curling slightly at the ends.

He didn’t say anything when he saw you.

Just set down the glass and crossed the space between you in five slow steps.

You were already unbuttoning your shorts.

His mouth caught yours before you could speak. Hot. Demanding. Fingers diving into your hair. You grabbed the hem of his shirt and yanked it upward. He helped pull it off, tossing it aside as you backed into the nearest wall.

His body pressed against yours. Hard. Familiar. Perfect.

“I thought about you all day,” he said against your mouth. “Bouncing on me. Fucking owning me.”

You moaned, letting your head fall back. “Tell me more.”

He grabbed your thighs and lifted you, just like that—effortless. You wrapped your legs around his waist and felt the heat of his cock already pressing through his jeans.

“No teasing tonight,” he growled. “No games.”

“Good,” you gasped. “Because I’m not in the mood to wait.”

He carried you to the bedroom, dropped you onto the bed with a grunt, and pulled your shorts down in one swift move. Your top followed. Then your panties.

“You’re so wet already,” he murmured, sinking between your thighs. His fingers stroked over your folds, spreading you open. “Were you this wet while dancing?”

You whimpered. “Thinking about you fucking me in front of everyone.”

He groaned—deep and hungry—and dipped his head. His mouth found you, slow at first, then greedy. Tongue curling. Sucking. Drawing out every sound you gave him.

You clawed at the sheets, hips rolling, voice breaking.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were glistening, and his eyes were dark as obsidian.

“I want to watch you ride me again,” he said, pulling off his jeans and underwear. “I want you in control.”

You straddled him before he could finish the sentence, your mouth capturing his in a kiss that was more bite than breath.

He hissed as you sank down onto him, inch by inch.

“Fuck, yes,” he breathed, fingers digging into your hips. “Just like that.”

You rode him slowly at first, letting the pressure build. Each thrust dragged fire along your nerves. Each movement stoked something deeper—need, connection, hunger.

“Seung-Hyun,” you gasped, bracing your hands on his chest. “I want all of it.”

He lifted his hips into yours, deeper, harder. “Take it. It’s yours.”

And you did.

Again.

And again.

Until your body shattered over his, until he broke beneath you with a growl and a kiss, until you both lay tangled in sweat and sheets, breathless and wrecked.

This time, he didn’t let go after.

He held you close, chest to your back, one arm wrapped around your stomach like you might vanish in the night.

“You’re not leaving after this,” he said softly.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” you whispered.

And neither of you said another word.

It was getting harder to hide.

The thrill had its bite—stolen glances, breathless goodbyes behind locked doors, kisses smudged between elevator dings. But lately, the thrill was starting to turn into something else. Something riskier.

Like now.

You stood backstage at the music show venue, all glitter and chaos, your group waiting for your cue. Crew members ran past with clipboards, cords, and coffee, the low thrum of bass from the main stage vibrating through the floors.

And there was Seung-Hyun.

Leaned casually against the wall across from you, dark pants, jacket loose over his frame, hair styled sharp and immaculate. He was doing that thing again—pretending not to look.

But he was looking.

You felt it in the slow slide of his eyes down your legs, the flicker of his tongue over his lip before he looked away again. You shifted your weight just enough to make the hem of your skirt ride higher on your thigh.

He noticed. He always did.

You arched a brow across the distance. He didn’t move.

Then, just loud enough for only him to hear, you murmured, “Stop undressing me with your eyes.”

He pushed off the wall. One step. Two.

“Stop wearing shit that makes me want to undress you,” he fired back coolly, eyes dark.

You smirked. “Maybe I want you distracted.”

He didn’t break stride. He stopped inches from you, towering in that dangerous way he had—quiet dominance, all heat and smolder. “You want me stupid on stage, thinking about you bent over the dressing table?”

“Something like that,” you said, tilting your head. “Worked last night, didn’t it?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. His eyes flicked around—technicians, a staff noona passing by, someone calling for a mic check.

He leaned in like he was about to whisper something scandalous. Instead, his voice came low, serious, brushing the shell of your ear like a threat.

“You’re playing with fire.”

You laughed under your breath, letting it ghost over his cheek. “You like when I do.”

Then, with maddening calm, you turned on your heel and walked away—slow enough that your hips swayed deliberately with each step.

You didn’t have to look back to know he was watching.

The rehearsal was brutal.

Lighting cues, missed beats, a scolding from the choreographer—but none of it fazed you. Not when you could feel him watching.

You danced harder. Let your body roll with the bass, every movement a challenge. Your crop top clung to your sweat-slicked skin, your thighs flexing in time with the music.

At one point, you dropped low during a freestyle moment—knees apart, ass angled just enough to make your point.

You didn’t look at him.

But when the music cut and everyone caught their breath, you finally turned your head.

Seung-Hyun’s eyes were on you.

And he was pissed.

You bit your lip to hide the grin.

Later, in the makeup room, you were touching up eyeliner when the door opened behind you. 

You didn’t turn—didn’t need to. You could feel him. That silent weight of Seung-Hyun’s presence, coiled and deliberate.

“Careful,” you said to the mirror, lips curving as you dragged the brush with precision. “Someone might catch us alone.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stepped closer. The kind of closeness that made the air between you feel too thin. His eyes met yours in the reflection—dark, steady, simmering.

“Keep teasing me like that,” he murmured, “and I’m going to fuck you in this chair.”

Your breath caught. You smiled anyway, slow and wicked. “You say that like it’s a threat.”

“I’m not in the mood for games tonight.”

You dropped the brush, your hand suddenly not so steady. “Oh?”

He moved behind you—close enough that the heat of him sank through the thin fabric of your crop top. He didn’t touch you. Not at first. Just stood there, his voice low against your neck.

“You think you’re in control?” he asked, tone casual but laced with steel. “All those moves you pull on stage, the looks, the smirks. You think I won’t do something about it?”

“I think you’ll try,” you whispered.

That was all it took.

One hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against him. His other hand slid down the front of your body, fingers slipping between your thighs with a confidence that made your pulse jump.

You gasped, grabbing the edge of the makeup table as his fingers pressed against the thin fabric of your shorts—slow, teasing strokes that made your knees weaken instantly.

“Still think this is a game?” he whispered against your ear.

You tilted your head, biting back a moan. “I think you like it when I play.”

He chuckled, dark and knowing, and slipped his hand inside your shorts. Past the lace. Past every last ounce of your pride.

Two fingers slid through your slick heat, slow and steady, curling just enough to make your hips jerk forward.

You bit your lip hard, a small, choked sound escaping your throat.

He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t touch your lips. He stayed right there at your ear, breath hot.

“This what you wanted?” he murmured, fingers pumping slow, dragging through you like he had all the time in the world. “To sit there looking so smug, pretending you don’t need me?”

Your hips rocked against his hand, desperate and involuntary.

“Look at yourself,” he ordered, voice lower now. “Look in the mirror.”

You did.

Your mouth was parted, eyes glazed, face flushed. You looked wrecked. Beautiful. Hungry.

His fingers picked up pace, and your breath hitched again, a small whimper breaking past your lips.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he breathed. “Dripping for me. Needy.”

You nodded, barely able to speak. “Don’t stop—”

Then came a knock.

Sharp. Two quick taps on the door.

You froze.

His fingers didn’t.

The door cracked open a few inches.

“Hey—” Jiyong’s voice. Casual. Oblivious. “We’re on in five. Don’t take too long.”

“Got it,” Seung-Hyun said smoothly, without missing a beat. His hand stayed right where it was, fingers still buried deep inside you, still moving—but slower now. Teasing. Maddening.

The door closed.

And he pulled his fingers out.

You whined—quiet, desperate, betrayed.

He turned you to face him for the first time, hand still resting at your waist. His eyes locked on yours, smug and dark and far too calm.

“You wanted to play,” he said. “Now you can go onstage thinking about how close I got you.”

You stared at him, trembling slightly, still breathless.

“That’s not fair,” you hissed, voice low and sharp.

He leaned in close—not kissing—just letting his mouth hover by your ear. “You look so good when you’re frustrated. I want you ruined tonight.”

Then he stepped back, straightened his jacket, and walked out.

Leaving you there—wet, throbbing, and one heartbeat away from losing your mind.

The lights hit like a tidal wave—searing white, full intensity, washing everything else away.

You stood under it, chest rising and falling with adrenaline, body already slick with sweat before the first beat even dropped. The crowd was a blur behind the spotlights, thousands of people screaming. But none of it touched the tension tightening your body like a noose.

Because he was there.

Seung-Hyun stood just meters from you, wrapped in shadows and smoke, every inch the image of restraint. Black tailored jacket, shirt open just enough to tease his collarbone. Hair slicked back, lips unreadable.

No one would guess the things he whispered to you less than an hour ago. No one would see how your thighs still pressed together when you moved, trying to soothe the ache he’d left behind.

The music started, thunderous and pulsing.

You moved on instinct—every sway of your hips, every sharp snap of your legs wrapped in choreography. But inside, you were coming undone.

Because you could feel him watching.

Not the way he watched when you first joined the group—curious, cautious, and a little annoyed. No, this was different. This gaze was ownership. Memory. Hunger barely leashed.

At the chorus, you dipped low, knees wide, thighs spread just enough to make it obscene if you held it one second longer.

He was behind you now. You didn’t need to look to feel his eyes on the curve of your ass, the slow grind of your hips to the beat, like you were doing it just for him.

Because you were.

You heard the breath he let out over his mic—just barely.

And then, right before the bridge, as you passed him in the choreography, his voice slipped low into the in-ear comms. Meant for you. Only you.

“Still wet for me?”

Your heart stumbled. Your body didn’t.

You hit your mark like a pro, face flawless, smile cocky.

But your core pulsed, hot and alive.

He was playing with fire.

And you were ready to burn.

You didn’t wait after the curtain dropped. The roar of the crowd still rang in your ears as you stormed off-stage, ignoring the calls from staff, the offered water bottles, the wide-eyed glances.

You needed air.

You needed him.

But he found you first.

You didn’t hear his footsteps—just felt his hand on your waist, spinning you and pushing you backward until your spine hit the cool wall of a backstage storage room. Somewhere dark. Dusty. Hidden.

The door slammed shut behind him.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t ask.

His eyes were wild.

Yours were daring.

“You’re playing dangerous,” you breathed, heart pounding.

His voice was gravel. “You started it.”

“You left me on the edge,” you hissed, breath ragged. “You think I’m just going to let that go?”

“You loved it,” he said, stepping closer. “You walked on that stage dripping for me.”

You pushed him, hard. Not away—just enough to press his back to the wall opposite yours.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Your hands were in his hair before you realized it, tugging hard. His were gripping your hips, pulling you against him, and fuck—he was hard. So hard you could feel him through layers of stagewear.

“I was trying to focus,” you snapped, even as your hips rolled forward against his.

“Liar,” he growled. “You danced like you wanted me to drag you off in front of everyone.”

“Maybe I did.”

He let out a shaky exhale and kissed your throat—open-mouthed, no softness. Just teeth. Tongue. Heat. His hand dragged up the back of your thigh, pulling it over his hip.

“I couldn’t think of anything but this,” he murmured against your skin. “The way you sound when you moan. The way you clench when I curl my fingers just—”

He shoved his hand down the front of your shorts.

Your head snapped back with a gasp, one arm flying out to grab the nearby shelf to keep your balance.

Two fingers—already finding your sweet spot—curled with maddening precision. His thumb pressed against your clit, circling, stroking with slow, lazy control.

“So wet,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw. “You didn’t even fix your panties, did you? You liked feeling it all night.”

“Fuck you,” you gasped, but your body betrayed you—hips rolling into his palm, your breath turning to soft, desperate sounds.

“Not yet.”

He kept the rhythm torturously slow. Deep. Inescapable.

“You gonna come just from this?” he asked, his mouth barely moving against your ear. “From my fingers? Pathetic.”

Your knees buckled.

He caught you, kept you upright with a firm hand around your waist.

“Say it,” he ordered. “Say you need it.”

“I need—” you gasped as he curved deeper. “Shit—Seung-Hyun—”

Then: a knock.

Two sharp taps.

The door creaked open, only a few inches.

“Hey!” Jiyong’s voice. Casual. Oblivious. “We’re headed to press in five. Don’t take too long, yeah?”

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t move.

Seung-Hyun didn’t stop.

“On our way,” he said smoothly, never pulling his hand away.

The door shut again.

You clung to him, your entire body trembling.

But he was already slowing his hand.

Then stopping.

Then pulling away completely.

“No—” you whined, barely able to think.

He slid his fingers out, pulled your shorts back into place with infuriating care, and pressed one slow kiss to your cheek.

“I said you could come,” he murmured, voice silky and cruel. “I never said when.”

You stared at him, dazed, legs shaking.

He smiled—dark and pleased.

“Now go smile for the cameras, baby. I want everyone wondering why you can’t walk straight.”

Then he opened the door and left you there—aching, panting, and dripping with frustration.

And maybe just a little in love.

You made it through the press line, somehow.

Camera flashes blinded you. Questions blurred. Your smile was flawless, but your insides were chaos.

You could still feel him.

The slick heat between your thighs. The twitch in your muscles every time you thought about how close you were—how close he got you, only to leave you there. Shaky. Exposed. Seething.

And he? He was cool as ever. Standing behind you, perfectly composed in his black-on-black suit, sunglasses shielding those sharp, knowing eyes.

But you knew he was watching.

And he knew you were boiling.

It was a game.

And now, you were done playing.

You waited.

Waited until the after-party had started. Until the others were busy in interviews, drinks in hand, laughter echoing down the corridor of the hotel suite booked for the night.

You knew where he’d go to escape the noise. He always did.

So you found him alone.

In the empty side lounge, low-lit and quiet, an untouched drink in his hand and his jacket thrown over the back of the leather sofa.

He looked up when the door clicked shut behind you. No surprise. No panic.

Just that look.

That look that said he knew exactly what you came for.

You crossed the room in silence, slow and purposeful, every sway of your hips deliberate.

His mouth parted just slightly, eyes dragging down your body and back up again.

“You look pissed,” he said smoothly.

You didn’t answer.

Just climbed onto his lap.

You could feel his body tense beneath you, muscles tightening under the silk of his shirt as your knees straddled his thighs, your palms planted flat against his chest.

You leaned in, lips a breath from his.

“You think you’re in control?” you whispered.

His jaw ticked.

“I was.”

You rolled your hips against him once—slow, heavy—grinding just enough for him to feel the ache he’d left in you. He inhaled sharply.

“You don’t get to leave me like that,” you said, voice low and venom-laced. “You don’t get to wind me up, then disappear.”

His hands gripped your thighs, hard.

“I warned you,” he growled. “You kept pushing.”

“And now I’m pulling,” you snapped.

Then you kissed him—biting, open-mouthed, no room for air. His hand came up to your throat, not hard, just enough to still you.

“You gonna punish me?” he breathed against your lips.

You smiled. “I’m gonna fuck you.”

And you did.

Right there on the couch, in the dark, with the door unlocked and danger on the other side.

Clothes half-off, lips nowhere near polite. You didn’t even get his shirt fully open—just enough to run your nails down his chest, to leave marks he’d have to hide later.

He was rougher this time.

Sloppier.

Desperate.

“Don’t make me beg,” you gasped.

“You already are.”

You rode him with purpose, not grace—chasing the edge he stole, dragging him to his knees with you. Every grind, every curse, every hiss of breath between your teeth was war.

When you finally came—loud, messy, full-body—it was with your fingers digging into his shoulders and his name on your lips like a brand.

He followed with a groan that shook through you both, his grip tightening around your waist as he spilled into you, head falling to your shoulder like he couldn’t hold it up anymore.

Neither of you moved for a long time.

Just breath.

Sweat.

Stillness.

Then a voice.

Too close.

Too casual.

“…What the fuck.”

Your blood ran cold.

You turned slowly—so slowly—to see Jiyong in the doorway, holding a drink, mouth parted in shock, eyes wide and blinking like maybe if he stared long enough, the scene would disappear.

You froze.

Seung-Hyun didn’t.

He didn’t even flinch.

He reached forward calmly and tugged your skirt back down your thighs with one hand, the other settling protectively on your lower back.

“Close the door,” he said to Jiyong, voice low. Firm.

Jiyong blinked. “Are you—what the—”

“Close it.”

There was a pause. Then the door shut quietly. Not slammed. Not panicked.

Just shut.

You turned your head toward Seung-Hyun, eyes wide. “He’s going to tell.”

Seung-Hyun met your gaze.

Not afraid.

Not sorry.

“Let him.”

It started with the silence.

Not tension. Not anger. Not even curiosity.

Just a silence so cold it felt like a wall between you and everyone else in the room.

When you entered rehearsal that morning, the weight of what happened the night before hung off your shoulders like a loaded coat you couldn’t take off.

You and Seung-Hyun didn’t speak on the way there. You hadn’t spoken since Jiyong caught you. The only communication between you had been a look—one of those quiet, dangerous ones he was so good at. A look that said: I meant it. I’d do it again.

But the others? They weren’t as easy.

Jiyong barely looked in your direction.

Youngbae gave you a half-hearted nod, like he wasn’t sure what team he was supposed to be on.

Hyo-rin, mercifully, was the only one who dared to speak.

“Hey,” she whispered while tying her laces. “You okay?”

You nodded. “I think so.”

She paused. “Just so you know… I’m not judging you. Or him. But shit, babe—on the couch?”

You cracked a smile. Barely. “Didn’t hear you complain when you walked in on me and that backup dancer two years ago.”

“That’s different. He wasn’t T.O.P. And I wasn’t in charge of press cleanup if things go nuclear.”

Before you could respond, Jiyong’s voice rang out.

Louder than necessary.

“Maybe we shouldn’t pretend everything’s normal when clearly it’s not.”

Everyone stopped moving.

You straightened, slowly turning toward him. “You want to say something, say it.”

He crossed his arms. “You made it everyone’s business the second you brought it into a public space.”

“It was after-hours. Empty room,” you replied coolly.

“I still saw it. Heard it. Seung-Hyun, you didn’t even flinch when I walked in. You didn’t even try to explain.”

Seung-Hyun looked up from where he was lacing his boots. Calm. Collected. “Because I don’t need to explain.”

“You’re not thinking clearly,” Jiyong snapped. “This group doesn’t survive scandals. If the wrong person finds out—”

“Then they’ll find out,” Seung-Hyun said, standing up. “I’m not ashamed of her. I won’t hide her anymore.”

You blinked.

There it was. In front of everyone. No hesitation.

And suddenly, the others weren’t watching him anymore. They were watching you.

Waiting to see what you’d do with that kind of declaration.

You stepped forward. “I didn’t plan this. I didn’t want it to become a thing. But it did. And it’s real.”

“And if it blows up?” Jiyong asked, voice lower now. “If it wrecks everything we’ve built?”

Seung-Hyun looked at him—not cold, not combative. Just… steady.

“Then we build something new.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy this time.

It was freeing.

Because for once, the truth was out.

And you weren’t alone in it.

It started with a headline.

“T.O.P. heart was stolen? Unnamed Source Confirms BigBang Member’s Secret Relationship with Dancer.”

You didn’t have time to panic.

The article dropped at 8:14 AM. By 8:30, your phone had twenty missed calls. Managers. Stylists. PR. Your name wasn’t in the article—but the implication was clear. “Long legs,” “feisty onstage chemistry,” “rumored tension backstage.” They might as well have used your name in bold font.

And Seung-Hyun? He didn’t answer his phone either.

Because he was already standing in front of your apartment door.

No disguise. No hood. Just him.

Holding your name in his mouth like it was a decision he’d already made.

You yanked the door open. “You saw?”

“Yeah.”

He stepped inside without being asked. His jaw was tight. His hands clenched at his sides.

You stared at him, trying to read his silence. “Are you freaking out?”

“No.”

“You sure? Because everyone else is.”

He stepped forward.

“I’m not.”

You blinked, taking a step back. “We can fix it. We can deny it. Say it was a misunderstanding. Let the company clean it up. We’ll go back to being careful—”

“I don’t want to be careful,” he snapped.

You froze.

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “I’m tired. Of hiding. Of pretending I don’t want to touch you every time you walk past me. Of acting like you're not the best part of my day.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

“You said you were scared,” he continued, stepping closer. “I am too. But I’m more scared of losing you than I am of headlines.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“You’re not a rumor to me,” he said. “You’re real. And I’m done acting like you’re not.”

And then—before you could respond—he kissed you.

Hard.

No build-up. No slow burn.

Just fire.

His hands found your waist and pulled you in, lips demanding, breath hot. He kissed you like the world could burn and he’d still choose to go down with you in his arms.

You kissed him back just as hard.

Because you were tired too.

Tired of silence. Of half-truths and shadows. Of walking past him in public like he didn’t ruin you in private.

When you finally pulled back, your breath was ragged.

“What if they ask us directly?” you asked.

He looked you dead in the eye.

“Then I’ll say the truth.”

It came faster than either of you expected.

A press conference.

Scheduled “to address the rumors.” PR offered a dozen pre-written statements. Scripts. Polished denials. Just say it was misinterpreted, they said. Just say it’s nothing.

Seung-Hyun read none of them.

You stood behind the curtain, palms sweating, heart racing like it wanted out of your chest. He stood beside you, calm as ever—but his hand found yours and didn’t let go.

When the lights came on, and the crowd of journalists surged forward like wolves scenting blood, he stepped up to the mic.

And shattered the silence.

“I’m not here to deny anything.”

Flashbulbs exploded. Shouts rose from the press line.

He waited.

“I’m seeing someone,” he said, voice steady. “She’s a dancer. She’s strong, smart, and no—this isn’t a scandal. This is real.”

He turned, looked straight at you behind the curtain.

And smiled.

“I don’t want to hide her anymore.”

The fallout was instant.

The group trended globally. The internet split in half. Support poured in. So did backlash. But none of it mattered the way you thought it would.

Because when you walked out after the conference—hand in hand—he didn’t let go.

Not when the reporters screamed questions. Not when the managers whispered warnings.

He kept holding on.

Later that night, the two of you lay on his bed—sheets tangled, your head on his chest, legs knotted together.

He ran his fingers down your spine, gentle, slow. Different.

“Still scared?” he whispered.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Me too.”

You looked up. “Do we regret it?”

He shook his head.

Then, softer: “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

You smiled. “So what now?”

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

“Now?” he whispered. “We stop burning quietly. Let the whole damn world burn.”

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Taglist: @janie-osuih@szonyix6277@chrypir@redhoodedtoad@sherrayyyyy@mirahyun@sherxoo @dilfismz@forevervibezzzz1@lariem-blog2 @infinetlyforgotten @maskedcrawford @httpjiprk @youlikeex @twilght-talks @emmiesoverthemoon

[harryslittlefreakk]

arrogant s.o.b

summary: based on this request - grumpy/mean Harry and readers first fight and he says something really harsh/yells and makes her cry? And then feels really bad after like grumpyxsunshine vibes?

warnings: angst

wordcount: 1.6k

a/n: thank you to the anon who sent in this request!! 🥰💖 sorry it took me a while to get around to it. please let me know if this isn’t quite what you wanted, i don’t know if I’m 100% happy with it so im more than willing to tweak and rewrite!!!

my masterlist!! please feel free to send me more requests 💓 happy reading

“I miss you, Harry.”

You knew you were pushing it, he was already working himself to breaking point. But you couldn’t help it, you missed your boyfriend. His break was meant to be about finding time for himself again, spending time with his loved ones. And you thought that meant being with you, not spending every day confined to the four walls of a recording studio.

“I can’t delay my entire album because you miss me.”

“I’m not asking you to delay the entire album. Just take a day off, just once.”

“Why?! For what?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Now you were both pissed off. You didn’t understand why Harry couldn’t just slow down. You’d only been able to see him in Italy for a few days, your work schedule unexpectedly busy. Part of you thought he was ‘punishing’ you for that, the sane part of you knew that his summer in Italy was his rest, and now he was back in London he needed to work. Harry’s work ethic was one of the things you admired most about him, and now you were arguing with him over it.

“Clearly it does matter.” He was stood by the door, keys in his hand, a dark scowl printed on his face.

“It’s fine, just go. Have a good day.” The hurt was evident in your voice, but you didn’t even want Harry to stay now with the atmosphere you’d created.

He hesitated for a moment, torn between wanting to stay and needing to leave. Finally, he sighed and turned to walk out the door without another word. The sound of the door swinging shut behind him echoed through the silent room, leaving you alone in your thoughts.

Tears welled up in your eyes as you sank into the sofa. You’d pushed him away when all you wanted was for him to stay. You knew you’d always come second to his career, he prioritised you over almost everything in his life but his music was so important to him. But once he finished recording, there would be interviews and appearances, then a tour, and then you’d be back here again. It was constant, unrelenting, and if he couldn’t even sacrifice one day for you, how could you expect him to slow down?

—

Harry stood frozen on the other side of the door, still stuck between needing to come back in and wanting to go. It never usually got to this point, one of you would back down before someone got hurt. It wasn’t exactly healthy, but it worked for you. He hated fighting, hated seeing you upset. But he was only now realising that it was usually you that compromised. He knew you well, and for you to actually speak up and ask him to stay despite knowing how important his work is to him? He’d fucked up.

He leaned against the door, his hand gripping the handle tightly as he closed his eyes, trying to calm the storm of emotions raging inside him. Guilt washed over him as he replayed the conversation in his mind. He knew he needed to find a balance between his work and his relationship, but it was easier said than done.

His hand fell from the door handle as he turned on his heel, dragging his feet away from the house. If he was going to make it right, he needed to be armed with all of your favourite things.

—

Harry replayed the morning in his head the entire time he was out. You’d woken up to his alarm as always, rolling over in his arms to wake him up with soft kisses. “Why do you set alarms if you know you can’t wake up for them?” you laughed, tapping at his nose as his eyes fluttered open. “Because you wake up and I get morning kisses,” he smiled, pulling you tighter to his chest.

He remembered how the morning light hit you at just the right angle, illuminating your puffy eyes and blushed cheeks. He’d caught himself wishing he could have five more minutes in bed with you, time to savour waking up next to his love. But he’d rolled out of bed in the same way as always, slipping out from under you just as you tried to curl your body around his.

You’d followed him to the bathroom silently, lingering in the doorway as you rubbed your tired eyes. “Wish I got to see you more,” you’d mumbled, eyes following his through the mirror. “You see me every day, kitten,” he’d replied, poking his tongue out when he saw you watching. He’d noticed your face fall slightly, a misty kind of sadness replace the natural glint in your eye. He cringed as he thought back, but he’d purposely ignored it to save himself the trouble.

“I see you when I wake up and just before bed,” you’d pouted, eyes glued to your suddenly fidgety hands. “I cant help that right now, pet. You know I can’t,” he’d tried to reason with you, and looking back, Harry thought maybe he was trying to convince himself. “Just a morning or an afternoon at home would be nice. Not even a full day,” you’d told him, voice cracking as you looked back up at him.

“I can’t have this conversation right now,” he’d muttered, kicking at the door until it swung closed in front of you.

And there he was now, heart struck with guilt at the thought of how badly he had neglected you.

—

As he heard your keys jingle outside the door, Harry finished rearranging his purchases across the bed. He gave one final look to the flowers on your windowsill, the beautiful blush pink roses he knew you loved. It was perfect, he just hoped it would be enough.

“Hi darling,” he smiled sheepishly as he walked down the stairs.

“Hi, H,” you replied, brows knitted as you stared at him. “What are you doing?”

“Come,” Harry murmured, reaching out a hand for you to take. You dropped your bag by door and took it, fingers tangling with his as he lead you back to the bedroom.

He stopped outside the bedroom door, pulling you into his arms. “M’sorry,” he whispered into your hair. “Didn’t think about what it’s like for you. I need time with you just as much as you need it w’me.”

“No, I’m sorry,” you told him, cuddling into his chest. “Nothing to be sorry for, pet.”

“Shouldn’t have pushed you like that,” you murmured, eyes closed as you breathed in his musky aftershave.

“Gave me the push I needed. M’not good at taking time off.”

“Don’t have to tell me that,” you laughed, stepping away from him as he turned to open the bedroom door.

“Got you your perfect day,” he smiled, stepping out of the way so you could see his creation.

All your favourite snacks were laid out on the bed, your matching pyjamas folded on the corner. The most beautiful flowers you’d ever seen in your favourite vase on the windowsill, candles lit on your nightstand and a cheesy rom com loaded on the tv.

“You did all of this?” you cooed, a grin spreading across your face as your gaze turned to Harry. He nodded, pulling his t-shirt off.

“Nuh uh,” you swatted his hand away as he reached to pick up the pyjama top. “Only my perfect day if you’re topless,” you smirked, quickly peeling your clothes off to throw the pyjamas on.

You climbed into bed next to Harry, pulling the duvet up to your chin before wrapping your body around his, your head at home on his chest. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, arms wrapped right around you.

“Made a few calls. Gonna start only doing three days at a time in the studio, then three days off,” he whispered, grinning when you immediately whipped round to look at him. “Don’t have to do that for me baby,” you gasped, brows furrowed.

“It’s the right call. Just gonna be longer days but worth it all if it means more time with you,” Harry winked, his hand caressing the curve of your waist.

You shifted upwards, placing a gentle kiss to his lips. “Thank you,” you smiled. “And congratulations.”

Harry returned your kiss, his lips lingering just a second longer than yours had. His touch and his kisses felt like home to you, his smile your lifeblood. “To me? For what?”

“To us. For our first fight,” you giggled, holding out a hand to high-five Harry. He grabbed a hold of your hand, using it to pull you even closer to him, until your faces were only centimetres apart.

“Here’s to our first and last fight,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours. His teeth latched onto your bottom lip as he went in for another kiss, the rocky waves in your stomach turning to butterflies as his tongue moved around yours.

You pulled away after a minute, settling back into his arms with a smile so bright it could have lit up the room.

“Can’t believe we started the day with you thinking your album is more important than me,” you mumbled, a mischievous sparkle in your eye as you tangled your fingers between Harry’s.

“Millions of adoring fans who’d do anything for me versus one woman? I know who I’m picking,” he teased, laughing as you smacked his thigh with your free hand.

“Maybe they were right,” you whispered, peering up at him.

“Hm?”

“About you being an arrogant son of a bitch.”

taglist: @angeldavis777 @softestqueeen @jerseygirlinca @palmettogal508 @drewsephrry @vonnexann @austiebuttbutt @indigo24hughes @peterparkerbae @im-an-overthinker @daphnesutton @loveableidioticweirdo @harryshotpocket @thegrapejuiceblues1982 @tenaciousperfectionunknown @swag13r @ashleighsss @tswiftsgf @chesthairrry @nikkisimps @hannah9921 @lilfreakjez @prettygurl-2009 @s-h-e-l-b-e-e @indierockgirrl @cicicavill7 @harrystylesluverrrr @cohnfusedarling @ell0ra-br3kk3r @stylesfever

[cryiingoutloud]

☽〝 God has entered my body — matty healy!reader.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

You weren’t supposed to end up alone with Matty Healy in a church-turned-recording-studio, especially not late at night. Especially not wrapped in his hoodie with his breath on your neck.

But there’s a confessional booth in the corner. And he wants to know what you’d say inside it.

What you’ve thought about.

What you’d let him do.

And once you start confessing—he won’t stop until he’s on his knees, dragging every filthy, aching, perfect sound out of you.

This isn’t forgiveness.

It’s worship.

warnings: NSFW / 18+ only. submissive reader. dominant matty. oral (f. receiving). finger fucking. confessional booth smut (yes, really). voice kink. degradation&praise. religious imagery kink. power play. consent-focused but dark-edged. filthy as hell (literally).

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

It was colder than you expected.

Even inside, the air still clung to the bones of the old church. The kind of chill that slipped into your sleeves and made your skin prickle. You rubbed your arms as you walked through the main hall, boots echoing against the cracked stone floor.

This was where he made music now.

A hundred years ago, this was where people knelt and whispered prayers. Now the pews were shoved aside to make room for cables, guitars, ashtrays, and a tangled nest of sound equipment. Candles burned low in stained glass sconces. A half-empty bottle of red sat next to an ancient Bible, warped and dust-covered.

The only thing that hadn’t changed? The confessional booth in the far corner. Still intact. Still ominous.

It was beautiful, in a strange way. Sacred and desecrated all at once.

You dropped your bag beside a couch and sat, sinking into it like you hadn’t slept in days.

Matty was somewhere in the back. You heard music faintly playing—a loop of something half-finished. Low drums, ambient noise, a few clipped guitar chords. It sounded like him: moody, hungry, and a little fucked up.

You weren’t strangers. Not exactly.

You’d met through mutual friends last year at a party in London. There’d been alcohol. Banter. A cigarette passed between your lips and his. He’d said something smart and cruel and made you laugh so hard you spilled wine on your shirt. He never apologized for staring.

Since then, it had been the occasional dms, a drunken call at 1am you ignored, a photo he reacted to with just the eye emoji. A few missed connections. A few near-kisses.

And now, this.

Jamie had said you could stay at the studio for a few nights while you figured out your next move. You hadn’t realized Matty would be the only one here. That the “studio” was this fucking place. That he’d look like that when he opened the door—shirtless, dazed, voice thick from whiskey and sleeplessness.

You hadn’t said much.

Neither had he.

But the way his eyes had flicked down your body like a slow lick told you everything you needed to know.

Now, hours later, the music stopped.

You looked toward the hallway.

Footsteps.

Then he appeared.

Leaning in the archway, cigarette hanging from his lips, curls messy, hoodie zipped halfway down over his bare chest.

“You comfortable?” he asked.

You nodded. “Kinda freezing.”

He grinned, stepped forward, and tossed a blanket at you. “It’s a church. Cold as God’s cunt.”

You snorted. “You’re disgusting.”

“I know.” He sat beside you, not touching, but close. “You staying up?”

You shrugged. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

He looked at you for a long moment. Then: “Want a drink?”

You hesitated. “One.”

The wine was cheap and lukewarm, poured into mismatched mugs. He didn’t offer a glass, and you didn’t ask for one.

You sat cross-legged on the old couch, swaddled in a blanket that smelled faintly like him—tobacco, cedar, something darker. Matty lounged beside you, one arm hooked lazily over the backrest, fingers tapping absently against the upholstery like he was counting seconds.

The church hummed with silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just charged.

“So,” he said, lighting another cigarette. “Why’d you really come?”

You looked at him over your mug. “Jamie said I could crash here.”

“Yeah, but you could’ve picked his place. Or any of the others. You picked mine.”

You shrugged. “It’s not like that.”

He gave you a long look. “Isn’t it?”

You took a sip, let the wine coat your tongue before swallowing. “Are you always this suspicious?”

“Only when I want to fuck someone.”

You almost choked.

He didn’t laugh. He just smirked, slow and dangerous, eyes still on you like he was waiting for something. A flinch. A retreat. But you held your ground.

“Then you’re either paranoid,” you said, “or projecting.”

“Oh, I’m definitely projecting.” He leaned in just slightly, voice dropping. “Don’t worry. I won’t touch you. Not unless you ask me to.”

There it was. The line.

Not crossed. Just drawn. Daring you to step over.

You shifted under the blanket. Your skin felt tight, flushed. He hadn’t even moved, and you were already thinking about his hands. His mouth. What he’d do if you asked him.

You didn’t say anything.

He let the silence stretch, like he liked the tension.

“You cold?” he asked eventually, softer.

You nodded.

“Come here, then.”

You looked at him.

He patted the space between his legs. “Just for warmth. Promise.”

You stared.

Then moved.

You settled with your back against his chest, blanket still around you both, the heat of his body immediate and dizzying. His thighs bracketed yours. His arms didn’t wrap around you—but they almost did. You could feel the ghost of a touch, just there, just waiting.

“Better?” he murmured near your ear.

You nodded.

“Good girl.”

The words sent a shock through you. You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. He didn’t say anything else either, just exhaled slowly, letting the moment sit.

The candles flickered. Somewhere, a pipe groaned in the walls. You heard the faint click of his lighter as he lit another cigarette and breathed in deep.

Then—

“Can I ask you something?” His voice was low, casual, like he was asking what time it was.

“Yeah.”

“You ever think about fucking in a church?”

Your breath caught.

You felt him smile against the back of your neck.

“No judgment,” he said. “Just curious.”

“Why would you ask that?”

“Because you looked at that confessional booth like it owed you something.” He paused. “And because you’re letting me hold you like this, and your pulse is going nuts.”

You didn’t answer.

He let the silence hang, then added, “I think about it sometimes.”

You swallowed hard. “Yeah?”

He nodded against your shoulder. “Yeah. Not in the ‘naughty Catholic schoolgirl’ way. More like… I dunno. The idea of someone being that turned on in a place like this. Whispering filth where people used to pray. Makes you wonder what gets people off, doesn’t it?”

You shifted in his lap. He noticed.

“You’re wet, aren’t you?” he said, voice velvet-soft.

Your cheeks burned. “Matty—”

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s just us. No one’s listening. Not even Him.”

You should’ve pulled away.

Instead, you let your head fall back against his shoulder.

His hand came up slowly, fingertips brushing your jaw. Just that—soft, featherlight—but it made you shiver.

“Tell me something,” he said. “Something no one else knows.”

You bit your lip.

“I…” Your voice was barely audible. “I touch myself to things I’d never admit.”

He stilled behind you.

“Go on.”

You shut your eyes. “Sometimes… I think about being told what to do. Made to do things I shouldn’t want.”

He was quiet for a beat.

Then: “What kind of things?”

You shook your head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” he said, firmer now. “Say it.”

You hesitated.

“I think about being watched. Told to strip. Told to beg.” You exhaled. “Sometimes I think about being in a place like this. On my knees. Told to confess everything.”

You felt his cock twitch behind you. Hard. Real.

He let out a shaky laugh. “You’re fucking killing me.”

You turned your head slightly, looked at him over your shoulder.

His eyes were dark. Blown.

“I want to show you something,” he said.

He didn’t wait for your reply.

He stood, took your hand, and led you across the cold stone floor—barefoot, in his hoodie and joggers, candlelight dancing across his face—toward the confessional booth.

He opened the door and stepped inside.

Then looked back at you.

“Come on, sweetheart.”

Your heart hammered.

You stepped in.

The door creaked shut behind you.

The wood creaked beneath you as you sat, the small bench barely wide enough to hold your thighs. It was tight in the booth. Close. Lit only by the flickering glow of candles outside, leaking through the cracks.

Matty shut his side of the booth gently.

You couldn’t see him—just a silhouette through the tiny screen between you. But you could hear him. Breathing slow. Steady.

“You okay?” he asked, softly.

You nodded. Then remembered he couldn’t see you. “Yeah.”

“You sure? You can leave anytime. Just say the word.”

You swallowed. “I don’t want to leave.”

“Good.” His voice deepened, a slow shift. “Then we’re not playing anymore.”

You froze.

“Say it,” he murmured. “Say we’re not playing.”

“We’re not playing.”

“Atta girl.”

Silence again. Except for your pulse, thudding in your ears.

“Do you know what this booth is for?” he asked, slow and smooth.

You nodded again. “Confession.”

“Exactly. You come in here to admit what you’ve done. And what you want to do.” A pause. “So let’s start there.”

You licked your lips. “Start where?”

“What do you want, sweetheart?”

You hesitated.

“Tell the truth,” he said, softer now. “That’s what this is for.”

You exhaled shakily. “I want you.”

A quiet chuckle behind the screen. “Yeah? You’ve got me.”

“No,” you said. “I want you to tell me what to do. I want to not have to think. I want to be told where to put my hands. When to open my legs. When to come.”

A sharp inhale from his side. “Jesus Christ.”

“I want you to use me,” you whispered. “Just for a little while.”

The silence stretched.

Then, softly: “Take off your panties.”

Your breath caught.

“Right now. In the booth. And don’t make me say it again.”

You moved slowly, hands trembling as you reached beneath the hem of your dress, fingers curling around the waistband. You slid them down, legs shifting, panties dragging over your thighs, your calves, until they dropped to the floor in a soft heap.

Matty exhaled hard.

“Are you bare now?”

“Yes.”

“Open your legs.”

You hesitated.

He didn’t.

“Wider.”

You obeyed.

“Fuck.” His voice was barely more than a breath now. “You wet already?”

“…Yes.”

“Show me.”

You paused. “I—what?”

“Put two fingers in,” he said. “Let me hear it.”

Your hand trembled as you slid it between your thighs. The moment your fingers touched your cunt, you gasped—soaked. Your fingers slipped in easily, wet and hot.

You let out a soft whimper.

“Atta girl. Just like that.”

You could hear him shifting on his side, the sound of his breath getting faster. The edge in his voice sharpened.

“Now rub that messy little clit for me. Slowly. I want to hear how desperate you are.”

You obeyed, hips twitching as your fingers circled your clit in tight, slow spirals. The pressure was unbearable, the tension from earlier tightening into something sharp, something electric.

“You ever fucked yourself in a confessional before?”

“No,” you breathed.

“You ever shown anyone how you come?”

You moaned softly. “No.”

“Good,” he said, voice turning darker. “I want to ruin it for everyone else. I want to be the only one who knows what you look like when you’re about to fall apart.”

You were panting now. Heat building. Muscles twitching.

“Faster,” he said. “Sloppier. Don’t be polite about it. I want you to fuck yourself like you’re ashamed of how bad you need it.”

You did.

You rubbed faster, breathless, hips rolling against your own hand like you were chasing something violent. Something sinful. You felt dirty. Wrong. Perfect.

“Are you close, baby?”

“Yes—please—”

“Not yet,” he snapped. “Take your hand off.”

You let out a broken cry. “No—please, Matty—please—”

“I said off. Now.”

You pulled your fingers away, thighs shaking, cunt pulsing around nothing.

“You listen so fucking well,” he murmured. “God, I love how obedient you get when you’re this wet.”

You whimpered.

“Open the door.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Open. My. Door.”

Your hand moved without thinking, reaching for the latch on his side. It creaked open—and he was already on his knees in front of you.

Dark curls messy. Mouth parted. Eyes wild.

“You did so good, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Now let me give you what you deserve.”

He leaned in.

You gasped as his mouth met your thigh, soft and wet, tongue dragging up slowly.

Then higher.

Then home.

Matty didn’t start with your cunt.

That would’ve been too easy.

He kissed the inside of your thigh like it was holy, like he was memorizing it. Lips dragging along your skin, breath hot and uneven. His hands gripped your knees and pushed them further apart, spreading you wide like a fucking offering.

And he looked.

Really looked.

“Fuck me,” he breathed. “You’re soaked. It’s dripping, sweetheart.”

You squirmed under his stare, but his grip tightened.

“No. You stay open for me. Let me see what a filthy little thing you really are.”

He moved in slowly, lips so close to your cunt you could feel the heat of his breath, but he still didn’t touch you where you needed him.

“You teased yourself so pretty in there,” he murmured, licking his lips. “All pink and swollen. Just aching for it.”

“Please, Matty…”

He smirked.

“‘Please,’” he mocked, dragging a knuckle up your slit—barely grazing—just enough to make you twitch. “You think begging’s gonna make me merciful?”

You whimpered. “No—”

“Good. Because I’m not.”

And then his mouth was on you.

No slow build-up. No testing the waters. Just devouring.

His tongue flattened against your clit, hot and slick, then circled it in tight, maddening spirals. He moaned into you like he was fucking starving, like the taste of your pussy was better than any high he’d ever had—and he’d had plenty.

You cried out, hips jerking, but he grabbed them, slammed them back down against the bench, and growled, “Don’t fucking move. You take it.”

You obeyed, panting, legs trembling around his shoulders.

“That’s it,” he muttered between licks. “Be a good little mess for me.”

His fingers slid up your slit, teasing your entrance, and you clenched down empty, desperate for him.

“God, you’re tight,” he hissed. “Bet you’d choke on my fucking fingers.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

He pushed one in.

Then two.

They slid in easy—your cunt so wet, so desperate, that it welcomed him with a filthy squelch. He groaned.

“Listen to that,” he said, fucking you with slow, deep strokes. “You hear how wet you are? How your pussy’s singing for me?”

You were already close.

The pressure was unbearable—his mouth sucking your clit, tongue flicking just right, fingers curling inside you like he was tuning you to the perfect frequency.

“Matty—fuck—please, I’m gonna—”

“No, you’re not.”

He pulled back.

You sobbed, cunt clenching around nothing, thighs shaking.

“Why—why—”

“Because I said so.”

He looked up at you, mouth and chin slick with your mess. He licked his lips slow, eyes locked on yours.

“You don’t come until I say. You want to be a good girl for me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you whimpered.

“Then earn it.”

He dove back in.

This time was worse. Better. Brutal.

He fucked you with his fingers hard and fast now, angling just right, mouth latching onto your clit and sucking—sloppy, obscene, relentless. You were gasping, twitching, clawing at the sides of the booth, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

“You gonna fall apart for me?” he growled, voice vibrating through your cunt.

“Yes—yes, please, Matty, please—”

“Then fucking do it.”

And you did.

You came with a scream, body locking up, muscles convulsing as pleasure ripped through you. It was violent. Messy. Your cunt gushed around his fingers, your thighs trembled against his head, your voice broke into something raw and high and real.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you through it, groaning like he couldn’t get enough. His fingers fucked you through every aftershock, wet and filthy and perfect.

When he finally pulled back, his face was wrecked—mouth red and glistening, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes blown wide.

He looked at you like you were fucking sacred.

“You just came like it was your first time,” he said, voice hoarse.

You couldn’t speak.

“Let me tell you something,” he added, crawling up between your legs, face inches from yours. “I’ve played a lot of dirty games in my life.”

He kissed the side of your mouth.

“But that?”

He kissed your jaw.

“That was fucking divine.”

Your legs were still open.

Panties forgotten on the floor. Dress rucked up to your waist. Breathing ragged.

Matty didn’t move at first. Just rested his head on your thigh, arms draped over your hips, face still pressed close to the mess he made. Like he was claiming it. Or catching his breath. Or maybe both.

You ran your fingers slowly through his curls, still dazed. “Jesus Christ.”

He laughed. Low and hoarse. “He wasn’t invited.”

You huffed a shaky laugh, your head falling back against the wooden panel behind you. The booth creaked under both your weights, like it might give out at any second. Fitting, really.

Matty finally looked up.

His mouth was wet. His cheeks flushed. But his eyes—those fucking eyes—were soft. Something unreadable curling in them.

“Come here,” he said, voice rough around the edges.

You blinked. “What?”

“Let me hold you for a second. Don’t make it weird.”

You didn’t argue.

You slid off the bench, your legs jelly, your body still twitching with aftershocks. He caught you easily, helped you down, guided you into his lap with an ease that made your throat tighten. Like he’d done this before. Like he knew what to do with you.

You curled into his chest, and he wrapped his arms around you, one hand rubbing your spine in lazy circles. For a long time, neither of you spoke.

Your breath synced up slowly. His heartbeat thudded under your cheek.

“You okay?” he asked, voice softer now.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Did I push too far?”

You looked up at him. “No. You… you asked.”

“I did.” He smiled a little, but there was something behind it—something unsure. “Just making sure.”

You paused. “Why’d you stop me the first time?”

He raised a brow.

“In the booth. When I was close. You said no.”

Matty exhaled, looking at the stained-glass window across the room. “Because I wanted to take it from you myself. Not let you give it to your fingers. That make sense?”

You nodded, a slow flush spreading in your chest.

He looked back at you. “I wanted to ruin it my way.”

You smiled. “Mission accomplished.”

He laughed, bright and boyish. Then leaned in and kissed you. Slow. Deep. Tasting of you and smoke and wine. It wasn’t filthy. It wasn’t rushed. It was just… real.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. “You’re dangerous, you know.”

“You’re the one who dragged me into a confessional.”

“And you followed.”

You grinned. “Like a lamb to slaughter.”

He raised a brow. “You don’t look very slaughtered. You look smug.”

“I look satisfied.”

He laughed again. “Same thing.”

The candlelight flickered. Somewhere in the building, the ancient pipes groaned again. You sat there, tangled up with him on the cold stone floor of an abandoned church-turned-studio, bare and spent and weightless.

Eventually, he said, “Stay the night.”

You looked at him.

He shrugged. “Don’t read into it. Just stay. Warm bed, clean sheets. Minimal sin.”

You smirked. “Minimal?”

“Well.” He leaned in again, nipped at your bottom lip. “Depends if you’re still wet in the morning.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks flushing. “You’re awful.”

“I know,” he murmured. “And you fucking love it.”

[kathlare]

behind the scenes

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: During a Quadrant promotional shoot, the team’s routine day is shaken up when Amelie makes an unexpected entrance, leaving everyone starstruck.

Wordcount: 3.1 k

Warnings: just fluff

full masterlist // request over here!

January 12th, 2024 - London, United Kingdom

Lando adjusted his Quadrant hoodie as the cameras began rolling. The bright lights of the studio set bounced off the polished floor, giving everything a clean, modern look. Will was already in his element, cracking jokes as the crew set up their equipment. Becky and Zac were off to the side, discussing ideas for the promo, while Max stood next to Lando, fiddling with his phone.

Today’s shoot was an exciting one—Quadrant was introducing their new athlete lineup, and the energy in the room was infectious. Lando loved these moments, surrounded by friends and creative chaos. Still, there was a small part of him distracted, knowing Amelie might drop by. She was in London too, wrapping up a meeting for an upcoming project, and they’d talked about catching up later. What he didn’t expect was for her to walk into the studio mid-shoot.

The first half of filming went smoothly, with Will leading the intros and the crew getting plenty of footage of everyone joking around. As the team reset for a new segment, the door to the set swung open.

The door to the set swung open, and Amelie stepped in, wearing a casual yet effortlessly chic outfit—a black cropped sweater paired with high-waisted jeans and white sneakers. Her hair was loosely styled, framing her face with a natural elegance that immediately drew every eye in the room.

Lando froze for a split second, his heart skipping a beat. He hadn’t expected her to show up so early, and the reaction from the room was instant.

—Holy shit. Is that Amelie Dayman?—Will blurted out, eyes wide as saucers.

—No way. No fucking way,—Becky gasped, practically dropping her coffee.

Zac’s mouth hung open, and one of the crew members literally fumbled with a piece of equipment, causing it to clatter loudly to the ground.

—Guys, chill,—Lando hissed under his breath, glancing at Max, who was already grinning knowingly.

—Mate, you chill. That's Amelie bloody Dayman,—Will shot back in a stage whisper, gesturing wildly in her direction.

Amelie, completely oblivious to the mini-meltdown she’d just triggered, flashed a bright smile and waved. —Hi! Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to see how things were going.—

—You’re not interrupting,—Max said smoothly, stepping forward to give her a quick hug. —Good to see you again, Ames.—

—Good to see you too, Max,—she replied warmly before her eyes found Lando. The soft smile that spread across her face made his stomach flip.

Lando crossed the room in a few strides, his embarrassment melting away as he saw her. —Hey, you,—he greeted, pulling her into a hug. —Didn’t think you’d make it so soon.—

—I finished early,—she murmured, leaning into him briefly before stepping back. —Thought I’d surprise you.—

—Well, you definitely succeeded,—he said, throwing a pointed look at his friends, who were still staring as if they’d seen a ghost.

Will finally snapped out of it, though his voice remained incredulous. —So, uh, you two know each other?—

Amelie raised an eyebrow, glancing between them and Lando. —Of course. We’ve been friends for years. Didn’t Lando tell you?—

Lando rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing slightly. —Yeah, uh, friends. Totally. Just... friends.—

Max coughed pointedly, earning a sharp glare from Lando.

Becky, clearly not buying it, folded her arms. —Right. And does “just friends” always look this cozy?—

Amelie tilted her head, confused for a moment, before realizing how close she and Lando were standing. She laughed, a melodic sound that only seemed to make everyone in the room more captivated. —Okay, maybe we’re a little more than friends.—

Will’s jaw dropped. —A little? Mate, are you kidding me?—

—Alright, alright! Yes, we’re dating,—Lando admitted, throwing his hands up. —Happy now?—

The room erupted into chaos.

—This is amazing.— —You lucky bastard!— —Oh my God, I knew it!—

Amelie’s eyes widened as she looked around, a mix of amusement and mild panic. —Wow, okay. You all are very... enthusiastic.—

—Sorry,—Becky said, not looking sorry at all. —It’s just, like, you’re you, and he’s him. This is massive.—

Amelie glanced up at Lando, her expression softening. —I don’t know about massive, but he’s pretty great.—

Lando rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his lips. —Alright, enough. Can we focus on the video now?—

—Not a chance,—Will declared. —This is the biggest Quadrant scoop of the year.—

—Seconded,—Zac added, pulling out his phone. —This is going straight to the group chat.—

Lando groaned, dropping his head into his hands. Amelie just laughed, patting his arm. —You’ll survive, Lan.—

Max leaned over to Lando, smirking. —Told you it’d come out eventually.—

—Shut up, Max,—Lando muttered, though his tone was more resigned than annoyed.

As the crew gradually settled down, Amelie found a seat off to the side, watching with a bemused smile as filming resumed. Lando kept stealing glances at her between takes, his heart feeling lighter than it had all day.

Every so often, their eyes would meet, and Amelie would flash him a small, private smile that made him forget anyone else was in the room.

When the shoot finally wrapped, Becky sidled up to Amelie. —So... any tips for dealing with this one?—

Amelie grinned. —Patience. Lots of patience.—

—Oi!—Lando protested, but he was grinning too.

As the crew began packing up, Will clapped Lando on the shoulder. —Mate, you better hold onto her. She’s way out of your league.—

—Tell me something I don’t know,—Lando replied, his gaze drifting back to Amelie, who was now chatting animatedly with Max.

The chaos of the day finally started to simmer as the crew packed up the set. The Quadrant promo had turned into a different kind of highlight reel, with Amelie’s surprise visit stealing the show. Lando was still reeling from the revelation. While it wasn’t how he’d planned for their relationship to be revealed to his friends, he couldn’t deny the small thrill of everyone knowing.

He watched from the side as Amelie chatted with Max, her laughter carrying easily through the room. She looked perfectly at ease, despite the initial fan-like reactions from everyone else. If anything, she seemed to enjoy the attention, her natural charm disarming even the most awestruck members of the crew.

Will sidled up next to Lando, sipping a coffee that he definitely hadn’t had during filming. —You’re a sly bastard, you know that? How’d you even pull that off?—

Lando sighed, knowing there was no getting out of this conversation. —It’s not like I planned it. It just... happened.—

Will raised an eyebrow. —“It just happened”? Mate, you’re dating Amelie Dayman. That doesn’t just happen.—

Lando rubbed the back of his neck, trying to suppress a grin. —We’ve known each other for years, alright? It’s not some wild celebrity thing.—

—Still, though.— Will shook his head in disbelief. —You’ve got some serious game, mate. Respect.—

—Alright, enough of that,—Lando muttered, though his cheeks flushed. —Can you all just not make a big deal about it?—

Will smirked. —Oh, it’s already a big deal. But don’t worry, your secret’s safe with us... for now.—

Lando shot him a warning look. —I mean it, Will.—

—Yeah, yeah.— Will waved him off before strolling away, no doubt to find Becky and gossip further.

As the last of the equipment was packed and people started trickling out, Lando made his way over to Amelie. She was now leaning against a table, scrolling through her phone, her expression relaxed. The sight of her, so effortlessly part of his world, made his chest ache in the best way.

—Hey, you,—he said softly, slipping an arm around her waist.

Amelie looked up, her smile lighting up her face. —Hey, yourself. Done being the star of the show?—

—Hardly. You stole that title the second you walked in.—

She laughed, resting a hand on his chest. —I didn’t mean to cause such a scene.—

—You didn’t. They just... weren’t ready for you.— Lando’s fingers traced absent patterns on her waist. —Honestly, I wasn’t either.—

Amelie tilted her head, her smile turning teasing. —Should I have texted first? Given you time to prepare?—

—Maybe.— He leaned down, their foreheads almost touching. —But then I wouldn’t have gotten to see their faces when you walked in. Totally worth it.—

She hummed, her fingers playing with the strings of his hoodie. —So... does this mean your friends approve?—

—They’re obsessed with you. Not that I’m surprised.—

Amelie’s eyes softened. —Well, for the record, I think your friends are great. A little loud, but great.—

Lando chuckled, his thumb brushing against her cheek. —You handled them like a pro.—

—Years of red carpets and press tours. This was easy,— she teased, leaning into his touch.

Lando couldn’t help but laugh at her response. He’d always admired her poise, how effortlessly she navigated situations like this. —Well, I’m glad you came. It’s... nice having you here. Makes this whole thing feel a lot more real.—

She smiled at him, her eyes soft. —It’s real, Lando. Just, you know, not how we expected it to be.—

He leaned down, brushing his lips against her forehead briefly before pulling back, his hand still resting on her waist. —Yeah. But I’m kind of glad it’s happening this way. Feels... natural, I guess.—

Amelie looked up at him, her fingers tracing the edge of his hoodie again. —Yeah, it does. You’ve got your friends, I’ve got mine, and now we get to be a part of each other’s worlds in a way we never really got to before.—

Lando’s heart skipped. That was the thing with Amelie—they’d always been there for each other, even in the years when they didn’t quite work. But now? It felt different. It felt... right.

—So, I’ll see you at mine tonight?— he asked, a little hopeful. He hadn’t planned to get serious with her so soon, but the way she looked at him made him feel like they were already past the point of casual.

—Of course, Lan,—she replied, her voice a mix of amusement and warmth. —I wouldn’t miss it for the world.—

Max, who had been watching from a distance, cleared his throat dramatically, crossing his arms. —Alright, lovebirds, enough with the PDA. You’ve had your moment. Can we wrap this up so I can go home?—

Lando shot him an exasperated look. —Oh, shut up, Max. It’s not like you haven’t seen us act like this a hundred times already.—

Max held his hands up in mock surrender, still grinning. —Alright, alright. Just, like, keep it down, yeah? Some of us still have a bit of dignity left.—

Lando couldn’t help but chuckle, his arm still around Amelie as he pulled her a little closer. The warmth of her presence was enough to make him forget all the chaos that had just unfolded. The crew was starting to wrap up, packing up equipment and heading out, but for a moment, everything felt still.

Amelie looked up at Lando with that familiar mischievous gleam in her eye. —So, how about we ditch all this and go grab something to eat? I’m starving.—

Lando raised an eyebrow. —You’re really trying to get me out of here, huh?—

—You bet I am,—she said with a playful smile, tugging on his arm. —Come on, let’s go. I’ve been on my best behavior all day, now I deserve some downtime.—

Max snorted from behind them. —Right, because you’re always so “well-behaved,”—he said, sarcasm thick in his voice.

Amelie shot him a wink over her shoulder. —Hey, Max, you don’t know the half of it.—

Lando squeezed her waist affectionately, making sure to keep his voice light. —Come on, before he starts talking about us again.—

Max raised both hands, his grin unrelenting. —Alright, alright. Go on. Just don’t forget that I’m the one who knows all your dirty secrets, Lando.—

Lando rolled his eyes, but there was no hiding the smile on his face. —Thanks for the reminder, mate.—

As they made their way out of the studio, Lando kept his arm around Amelie’s shoulders, feeling a sense of peace he hadn’t expected. This was real. They were real. And for the first time in a while, he was looking forward to what came next.

The evening stretched ahead of them, full of quiet moments and inside jokes, and Lando found himself feeling more content than he had in months. They weren’t ready to go public yet, after all, there was still a bit of navigating to do, but being together, in their little bubble, felt like the most natural thing in the world.

—You know, I can’t believe you didn’t tell anyone sooner,— Amelie said softly, her voice steady and thoughtful.

Lando paused, glancing down at her. —I wasn’t sure if we were ready for that kind of attention yet. It’s... easier this way. But, yeah. I guess I should’ve told them. I just wanted it to be... normal, you know?—

Amelie smiled up at him, her fingers still interlaced with his. —I get it. I think I just needed a little more time to figure out how to do this with you.—

Lando nodded, his thumb gently tracing her hand. —We’ll figure it out together, alright?—

She leaned her head on his shoulder, looking up at him with a soft smile. —Yeah. Together.—

Max’s voice came from behind them, loud and exaggerated as always. —Are you two seriously going to stand there, or are we going to grab some food? I’m fucking starving!—

They both turned, sharing an amused glance before laughing.

—Coming, Max,—Lando called out, pulling Amelie toward the car with a smile. —Let’s go before he starts ordering for us.—

As they climbed into the car, the comfortable silence settled in, punctuated only by Max’s animated chatter in the backseat. For Lando and Amelie, it was just another step in their journey—a journey that had started years ago and, now, was something neither of them could have ever predicted.

But in that moment, it didn’t matter. They were together. And that was enough.

[starsjulia]

shattered dreams // leah williamson

a/n : i long angsty one i wrote a while ago, enjoy!!!

warnings : angst, pregnancy, essential tremor.

Essential tremor, also called benign tremor, familial tremor, and idiopathic tremor, is a medical condition characterized by involuntary rhythmic contractions and relaxations of certain muscle groups in one or more body parts of unknown cause.

---

The early summer sun streamed through the open window of their cozy London flat, casting warm rays across the room. Y/N sat at the piano, her fingers dancing over the keys as she played a melody she’d been working on for weeks. The notes filled the room, rich and vibrant, each one flowing seamlessly into the next. It was a song she had written for Leah, capturing the love and joy they had found together.

As she sang the chorus, Y/N’s voice soared, filling the space with a sound that was uniquely hers—strong, emotive, and full of life. She could hear Leah moving around in the kitchen, humming along to the tune, and the familiar rhythm of their daily life brought a smile to her face. This was her happy place, where everything felt right with the world.

But as she reached the final verse, something strange happened. Her voice wavered, the note faltering as if it had lost its strength. She frowned, adjusting her posture and taking a deep breath before trying again. But the same thing happened—her voice quivered, not with emotion, but with something she couldn’t quite place. Frustration bubbled up inside her, but she pushed it down, chalking it up to a rare off day.

Shaking her head, Y/N moved her focus back to the piano, her fingers gliding over the keys. But now, the familiar movements didn’t feel as smooth as they usually did. Her hands seemed to tremble slightly, causing her to hit the wrong notes. She stopped playing, staring down at her hands as if they belonged to someone else.

“What’s wrong with me?” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head as if to clear away the strange sensation. She flexed her fingers, trying to rid them of the slight tremor that seemed to have taken up residence there. But after a few moments, it faded, and she convinced herself that it had just been her imagination.

Later that night, as they lay in bed, Leah noticed the frown on Y/N’s face and the way she kept flexing her hands as if they were bothering her. “Everything alright?” Leah asked, her voice full of concern.

Y/N hesitated, unsure if she should mention the odd experience from earlier. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said finally, forcing a smile. “Just a little tired, I guess.”

Leah gave her a look that said she wasn’t convinced, but she didn’t push. Instead, she reached over and took Y/N’s hand in hers, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “If something’s bothering you, you know you can talk to me, right?”

Y/N nodded, feeling a rush of guilt for not being completely honest. “I know,” she murmured, squeezing Leah’s hand back. “It’s nothing, really.”

But as the days went on, the symptoms didn’t go away. The tremor in her hands became more frequent, and her voice seemed to waver more often when she sang. There were times when she couldn’t hit the high notes that had always come so naturally to her, and it felt like her voice was slipping through her fingers like sand. She started to avoid singing certain songs, fearful of hearing the cracks and wobbles that had begun to plague her.

Y/N tried to hide her growing anxiety from Leah, not wanting to worry her. But Leah noticed the way Y/N would stare at her hands in frustration, the way she hesitated before picking up her guitar or sitting down at the piano. Y/N’s passion for music, which had always been the most vibrant part of her, seemed to dim slightly, and Leah’s concern grew with each passing day.

One afternoon, Y/N was in the studio, recording a new song she had written. As she strummed her guitar, she felt the now-familiar tremor in her fingers. She tried to ignore it, focusing on the music, but when she went to sing the chorus, her voice cracked and wavered so badly that she had to stop.

“Damn it!” she cursed, yanking off her headphones and tossing them onto the console in frustration. She sat there, breathing heavily, her mind racing. This wasn’t just nerves or tiredness—something was wrong, and she couldn’t deny it any longer.

Leah had been listening from the control room, watching through the glass as Y/N’s frustration boiled over. She pushed open the door, walking over to where Y/N sat, her face pale and her hands trembling.

“Y/N,” Leah said softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “We need to talk.”

Y/N looked up at Leah, her eyes filled with fear and uncertainty. “Leah… I don’t know what’s happening to me,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I can’t control it… my hands, my voice… it’s like they’re not mine anymore.”

Leah knelt beside her, taking Y/N’s hands in hers. “We’re going to figure this out,” she said firmly, her voice steady even as worry gnawed at her heart. “But first, we need to see a doctor.”

Y/N nodded, too overwhelmed to argue. Deep down, she had known for a while that something was wrong, but hearing Leah say it out loud made it real in a way she hadn’t wanted to face.

---

The visit to the doctor was tense, both Y/N and Leah filled with a mix of dread and hope. The doctor ran a series of tests, his calm demeanor doing little to ease their anxiety. Y/N sat on the exam table, Leah’s hand firmly in hers, as they waited for the results.

When the doctor finally returned, his expression was serious, and Y/N felt her heart drop. “Y/N, the tests show that you have what’s known as essential tremor,” he said, his voice gentle but direct. “It’s a progressive neurological disorder that primarily affects your hands and voice. Unfortunately, it’s likely to worsen over time.”

Y/N stared at the doctor, her mind reeling. “My hands… my voice… what does that mean for my music?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

The doctor sighed, clearly aware of how devastating this news would be for her. “It will become increasingly difficult to perform fine motor tasks, like playing instruments or writing. As for your voice, the tremor can affect your ability to speak and sing clearly. We can explore treatments that may help manage the symptoms, but there’s no cure.”

The room seemed to close in around Y/N as she struggled to process the information. Her music—her life’s passion, the thing that had always been her solace and her joy—was being stolen from her, piece by piece. She felt Leah’s grip on her hand tighten, but it couldn’t chase away the growing despair in her chest.

“And the pregnancy?” Y/N asked, her voice breaking as she placed a hand on her stomach. “Will it… will it affect the baby?”

The doctor shook his head. “The condition shouldn’t have a direct impact on your pregnancy or the baby’s health. But as the tremor progresses, it may affect your ability to perform certain tasks, like holding the baby or caring for them in the way you’re used to. It’s something you’ll need to consider as you prepare for motherhood.”

Y/N felt tears welling up in her eyes, the weight of the diagnosis crashing down on her all at once. “But I… I won’t be able to hold my baby? Or sing to them?” she whispered, her voice filled with anguish.

Leah’s own tears finally broke free as she wrapped her arms around Y/N, pulling her close. “We’ll find a way,” Leah said, her voice shaking but determined. “We’ll figure it out, I promise. You’re not alone in this.”

But Y/N couldn’t hold back the sobs that tore through her. The future she had envisioned—of playing lullabies for her child, singing them to sleep, holding them close—was slipping through her fingers, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

---

In the weeks that followed, Y/N and Leah tried to adjust to their new reality. Y/N began working with a therapist to manage the tremors and explored different medications to help control the symptoms. But it was an uphill battle. Every day brought new challenges, new reminders of what Y/N was losing.

The joy of their pregnancy announcement, which should have been one of the happiest times of their lives, was overshadowed by the relentless progression of Y/N’s condition. As her hands grew more unsteady and her voice more fragile, Y/N found herself retreating from the things she had once loved. She avoided the piano, left her guitar untouched in its case, and stopped singing around the house.

Leah watched Y/N’s light dim, her heart breaking for the woman she loved more than anything in the world. She did everything she could to support Y/N—attending every doctor’s appointment, helping her with daily tasks that had become increasingly difficult, and constantly reassuring her that they would find a way to make it through this.

But no matter how hard Leah tried to be strong, there were moments when the weight of it all became too much. Late at night, when Y/N was asleep, Leah would slip out of bed and sit alone in the living room, her head in her hands as she silently cried, overwhelmed by the fear and uncertainty of what lay ahead.

---

One evening, as Y/N sat on the couch, absently rubbing her belly, Leah joined her, sitting down and taking her hand. “How are you feeling?” Leah asked softly, her thumb brushing gently over Y/N’s knuckles.

Y/N sighed, leaning her head against Leah’s shoulder. “I’m scared,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m scared that I won’t be able to be the mother I want to be… that I won’t be able to hold our baby, or sing to them, or… or be there for them the way they need me.”

Leah’s heart ached at the vulnerability in Y/N’s voice, and she wrapped her arms around her, holding her close. “You’re going to be an amazing mother,” Leah said, her voice filled with conviction. “You’re so full of love, Y/N, and that’s what our baby is going to need more than anything. We’ll figure out the rest together, I promise.”

“But what if I get worse?” Y/N whispered, her fear breaking through. “What if I can’t… what if I lose my ability to even hold them?”

Leah’s grip tightened, her own tears spilling over. “Then I’ll hold them for both of us,” she said fiercely. “We’ll adapt, we’ll find ways to make it work. You’re not alone in this, Y/N. We’ll do this together, just like we’ve done everything else.”

Y/N nodded against Leah’s shoulder, though the fear still lingered, a dark shadow that refused to be banished. But Leah’s words, her unwavering support, were a lifeline Y/N desperately needed. She wasn’t alone in this, and maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to help her find a way forward.

---

As the weeks passed, Y/N and Leah began to find a new rhythm, though it was far from easy. Every day brought new challenges, new reminders of what Y/N was losing, but they faced it together, holding on to each other through the darkest moments. Y/N started working with a therapist, learning how to manage the tremors as best she could, and finding new ways to express herself through music, even if it wasn’t the same as before.

One day, after a particularly difficult session with her therapist, Y/N came home to find Leah sitting at the piano, softly playing one of Y/N’s old compositions. It was a song Y/N had written early in their relationship, filled with the joy and hope of new love. Leah’s fingers moved clumsily over the keys, and Y/N could see the concentration on her face as she tried to play the familiar melody.

Y/N stood in the doorway, watching Leah’s awkward attempts to recreate the music she loved. And despite everything, she felt a small, fragile smile tugging at her lips. Leah looked up, catching sight of Y/N, and immediately stopped, blushing slightly.

“I was just… trying to learn,” Leah said, looking a bit sheepish. “I know I’m not as good as you, but I thought maybe… if you couldn’t play, I could learn and play for you and the baby.”

Y/N’s heart swelled with emotion, and she crossed the room, sitting beside Leah on the piano bench. “You’re amazing,” Y/N whispered, her voice thick with gratitude. “Thank you for this. For everything.”

Leah smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to Y/N’s temple. “We’re a team, remember?” she said softly. “We’ll find our way through this, no matter what.”

And as they sat there, side by side, Leah’s clumsy notes filling the air, Y/N felt a glimmer of hope return. Their future might be uncertain, and there were still so many fears to face, but they had each other. And for now, that was enough.

---

As Y/N’s pregnancy progressed, the reality of her condition became more and more apparent. Her voice grew increasingly unreliable, and the tremors in her hands worsened. Simple tasks, like cooking or writing, became difficult, and Y/N often found herself needing Leah’s help. It was frustrating and heartbreaking, but Leah never once wavered in her support.

One evening, as they lay in bed, Y/N felt the baby kick for the first time. She gasped, grabbing Leah’s hand and placing it on her belly. “Leah, did you feel that?” she whispered, tears filling her eyes.

Leah’s eyes widened as she felt the tiny movement beneath her palm. “I did,” she whispered back, her voice full of wonder. “That’s our little one.”

The baby kicked again, and Y/N laughed through her tears, the sound filled with a mixture of joy and sadness. “I just… I want to be able to hold them, Leah,” she said, her voice breaking. “I want to be able to take care of them, to sing to them… but I’m so scared I won’t be able to.”

Leah wrapped her arms around Y/N, holding her close. “You will hold them,” she said fiercely. “You will take care of them, and you will sing to them, even if it’s not the way you imagined. We’ll find a way, Y/N. We’ll do this together.”

Y/N buried her face in Leah’s shoulder, clinging to her as the reality of their situation threatened to overwhelm her. But Leah’s words, her unwavering support, were like a beacon in the darkness, guiding Y/N through the fear and uncertainty.

---

As the months passed, Y/N and Leah prepared for the arrival of their baby. They attended birthing classes together, decorated the nursery, and talked about their hopes and dreams for their child. But beneath the surface, the fear of the unknown lingered, a constant companion that they could never quite shake.

Y/N’s condition continued to progress, and there were days when the tremors were so bad that she couldn’t even hold a cup of tea without spilling it. Her voice, once so strong and beautiful, had become shaky and unreliable, and she struggled with the loss of something that had always been such a fundamental part of her identity.

But through it all, Leah remained steadfast. She learned how to care for Y/N in ways she had never imagined, adapting to their new reality with a determination that only made Y/N love her more. And in those quiet moments, when it was just the two of them, Leah would remind Y/N that they were in this together—that no matter what happened, they would find a way to make it work.

---

The day finally came when Y/N went into labor. It was a difficult and exhausting process, but Leah was by her side every step of the way, holding her hand and whispering words of encouragement. When their baby was finally born, the sound of their tiny cry filled the room, and Y/N felt a wave of emotion crash over her.

The nurse carefully placed the baby in Y/N’s arms, and for a moment, everything else faded away. Y/N stared down at the tiny, perfect face of their child, her heart overflowing with love and awe. She had been so afraid that she wouldn’t be able to do this, but in that moment, all she could think about was how much she loved this little person in her arms.

Leah sat beside her, tears streaming down her face as she looked at their baby. “You did it,” Leah whispered, her voice filled with pride and love. “You’re incredible.”

Y/N smiled through her tears, looking up at Leah. “We did it,” she corrected softly. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

Leah reached out and gently stroked the baby’s cheek, her heart swelling with love for her family. “I’m so proud of you,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “You’re going to be an amazing mother, Y/N. I know it.”

As Y/N held their baby close, she felt the weight of her fears start to lift. Yes, her condition would be a challenge—there was no denying that. But in that moment, she knew that she could do this. They could do this, together.

And as she looked into the eyes of their child, Y/N made a silent promise. No matter what the future held, no matter how hard things got, she would be there for them. She would love them with everything she had, and she would find a way to be the mother they needed.

Because at the end of the day, that was all that mattered. And with Leah by her side, Y/N knew they could face anything.

---

Time passed, and life with their new baby became a mix of joy and challenges. Y/N’s condition continued to progress, and there were days when it was incredibly difficult. But they found ways to adapt, to make it work. Leah learned how to support Y/N in ways that allowed her to be the mother she wanted to be, even if it wasn’t exactly how they had imagined.

And through it all, Y/N never stopped singing. Her voice wasn’t as strong as it used to be, and there were times when it would shake or falter, but she sang anyway. She sang lullabies to their baby, softly and gently, her love for them pouring out with every note.

Leah would often join in, her voice blending with Y/N’s in a harmony that was imperfect but beautiful in its own way. And in those moments, as they sang together for their child, Y/N knew that they had found a new kind of music—one that was born out of love and resilience, one that would carry them through whatever challenges lay ahead.

They faced their future with hope and determination, knowing that no matter what came their way, they had each other. And that, in the end, was enough to keep them moving forward.

Together.

[weemssapphic]

Lipstick Stains - Pt. 24

previous chapter | next chapter | series page

Larissa Weems x fem!reader

warning: this chapter contains smut (g!p)

words: ~ 4.2k | ao3 link in title

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“My mom wanted me to thank you for all the restaurant recs you gave them. By the sound of it I’m pretty sure my parents were in a food coma all weekend.”

Larissa let out a sound between a chuckle and a snort, her gaze briefly flicking up from her laptop. You were sitting cross legged on the chair across from her, a textbook flipped open in your lap and your phone in your hand, the soft, cool glow illuminating your face as you glanced up at Larissa with a grin.

“I’m glad your parents don’t seem to hate me entirely,” Larissa quipped with a small but genuine smile.

“They could never hate you, Larissa… I think my mom was just being weirdly protective,” you said with a shrug. “Wouldn’t your mom be the same?”

You could see Larissa’s shoulders tense, her smile faltering, and you frowned. Larissa didn’t speak of her parents much, or at all, really - all you knew was that they were still alive, and that they lived somewhere near London. 

“Sorry, you don’t have to-” you started quickly, worried you’d struck a nerve, but Larissa interrupted you before you had the chance to finish speaking.

“My mother has never cared for anyone I’ve chosen to be with, I doubt this would be any different.” Her voice was cool and weirdly distant, and her gaze flickered back to her laptop under the pretense of reading her emails - you could tell, though, that she was just scrolling idly, without really absorbing anything on the screen.

“Oh, so she’s, like, super critical of your partners…?”

“Of everyone. Not to mention homophobic.”

Your stomach dropped at that, your heart breaking into a billion pieces for Larissa. “What about your dad?” you mumbled, your mouth feeling a bit dry as you feared the answer.

Larissa shrugged, snapping her laptop shut and interlocking her hands in her lap as she leaned back in her chair and fixed the smooth, rounded edge of the desk with a distant, pensive stare. “I don’t think he minds, but he wouldn’t dare speak out against my mother, so it doesn’t matter.”

“It matters a lot, Riss, that’s really shit, I th-”

You were interrupted by a pounding on the door to Larissa’s office - it opened behind you with a bang, an alarmingly loud flurry of footsteps spilling into the room. Larissa’s brow furrowed as her gaze snapped to the source of the interruption, and she immediately straightened up in her seat. 

A small group of students you hadn’t yet met all flocked around her desk, their anxiety clearly palpable - until they noticed you, fixing you with curious stares as the girl at the front of the group opened her mouth to speak, glanced over at you, then shut her mouth again.

“Should I…?” you asked Larissa quietly, your voice faltering a bit as you struggled to come to terms with the sudden interruption, subtly shifting in your seat so that you were sitting properly on the chair. 

Larissa shook her head gently. “It’s alright,” she said firmly, turning her attention to the girl and raising an eyebrow. “Ms. Barclay, I hope you have a good reason for barging into my office so late in the evening.”

Larissa was in principal mode, and you sat as still as you could to not draw further attention to yourself as the students, mercifully, turned their heads to look at their principal, and the girl started speaking.

“Principal Weems, Wednesday’s gone off the rails.”

Larissa’s face fell at the mention of Wednesday, and she instantly rolled her shoulders back and placed her interlocked hands atop her desk. “Would you care to elaborate?” she hummed coolly, irritation clear in her voice.

“She’s literally torturing Tyler out in Xavier’s art studio, she thinks he’s the hyde and that tasing him is going to unlock it or something.”

Your jaw dropped at the girl’s words, your stomach churning - a glance at Larissa told you she was having a similar emotional reaction, though she was infinitely better at hiding it, her eyes widening almost imperceptibly and her knuckles turning white.

“We tried to stop her, but she was weirdly into it, she said she had a vision,” offered one of the boys.

“I’m not going to ask how you know this - quite frankly, I don’t believe I want to know. I am, however, going to have to alert the sheriff…” Larissa picked up the phone on her desk, her nostrils flaring as she dialed the sheriff’s phone number. She leaned back as she lifted the receiver to her ear, waiting for him to pick up. “Sheriff Galpin, we have a problem. And her name is Wednesday Addams.”

Larissa quickly relayed the most important details to the sheriff, giving him permission to come to Nevermore to pick Wednesday up and agreeing to meet him at the station afterwards. As she hung up, she let out a frustrated sigh before turning back to her students. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I will be dealing with Ms. Addams accordingly and I would be very grateful if you could return to your dorms for the evening.”

The students shuffled back out of the office with mumbled ‘goodbye’s and ‘thank you’s (and a couple curious glances in your direction), and Larissa closed her eyes, a frown on her face as her lip twitched. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave for a little while,” she said slowly, her tone laced with annoyance and regret in equal measure. “I would be very happy if you would stay and wait for me, though I understand if you’d rather go home.”

“Of course I’m staying,” you replied firmly, placing your textbook on the edge of Larissa’s desk as you leaned over and took her hand in yours. Larissa’s eyes fluttered open, her gaze instantly softening as it landed on your hand gently but insistently intertwining itself with hers - she gave it a squeeze, before pulling her hand away and standing to fetch her coat.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she said, pressing a light kiss to the crown of your head as she passed you to leave her office in a hurry.

~~~

The tell-tale click of heels just outside the door and the turning of the lock alerted you to Larissa’s return, and you closed the textbook you’d been studying and turned on the little sofa in front of the fire, craning your neck to watch the door as it opened. 

Wednesday stepped into the room first, her gaze instantly meeting yours but giving away nothing of what had transpired - aside from looking a tad spooked.

Larissa stepped through the door next, closing it gently behind herself. Her hard gaze seemed to soften just a fraction when she realized you were up and waiting for her. “Darling, could you please wait in my quarters for me? I’d like to speak with Ms. Addams alone. I won’t be long.”

You nodded in understanding, standing and making your way across the room, feeling Wednesday’s eyes on you the entire time as a soft clicking told you that Larissa was making her way over to her desk. You slipped into her quarters and closed the door behind yourself - the urge to eavesdrop was overwhelming, but you were certain Larissa would tell you what had happened later, so you took to rummaging around her kitchen for a snack and playing a game on your phone as you waited.

And tell you what happened, she did. It took a while but eventually Larissa returned to her quarters for the night, immediately finding you and pulling you in for a hug - one, it seemed, that she sorely needed. She told you she’d had to expel Wednesday, that she didn’t put much stock into the girl’s visions as Morticia’s had been just as unreliable, that she hoped, with Wednesday gone and Xavier locked up, the attacks would cease and the students could sit their end of semester exams in peace, life at Nevermore returning back to normal. 

You hoped she was right.

Then Larissa caught you yawning and glanced at the time - it was well past midnight, and she had a guilty look on her face for keeping you up as she insisted it was time to get some sleep. As you crawled into her bed and tugged at the sheets, a new addition to Larissa’s bedroom caught your eye - the painting, your painting, hung on the wall opposite the bed.

Larissa’s gaze followed your own, a blush rising on her cheeks as she realized what you were looking at. “I wanted to be able to see it every day. I think of you every time I look at it,” she murmured, almost too softly for you to hear - but you did, and it made you grin as you nuzzled into her side.

“Are you tired?” you asked Larissa softly. On the one hand, she looked absolutely exhausted - on the other, you could somehow tell she wasn’t going to fall asleep easily.

“No,” she confessed sheepishly, confirming your suspicions. 

You hummed thoughtfully, tracing your fingertips languidly over her collarbone. Larissa’s arms wound tightly around your waist, her lips pressed to the crown of your head in a firm, never-ending kiss. “I’m not tired either,” you said finally, your mind beginning to wander to all the ways you could potentially tire yourselves out, and Larissa chuckled in response. 

“You could hardly keep your eyes open a few minutes ago…”

“Well I’m wide awake now…” You slid your fingertips down Larissa’s sternum, towards the top of her silky camisole, and Larissa watched you with an amused smirk on her face.

“You’re not trying to seduce me, are you?” she teased, playfully narrowing her eyes - it made you blush as you realized you were doing a poor job of both hiding your building arousal and being seductive, and you averted your gaze.

“No?”

Larissa laughed. “Come here,” she murmured, adjusting herself into a seated position against the headboard and gently tugging at your waist. She placed a firm hand on your shoulder and turned you so that you sat between her legs with your back to her. You could feel her pillowy breasts against your back as you melted into her, her lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

“You’re so beautiful,” she whispered, her breath caressing the side of your face. She paid no mind to the ever-present blush on your cheeks as her left hand began to play with your breast through your t-shirt, her thumb flicking over your slowly hardening nipple. She lifted her right hand to her mouth, sucking her middle and ring finger between her lips for a moment, then released them with a pop - they glistened with her saliva as she brought the hand down to the waistband of your shorts.

“May I?” she husked and, when you breathed out a ‘yes’, slipped her hand beneath the waistband of both your shorts and your underwear - you immediately spread your legs to allow her better access. “Good girl…” 

Larissa’s wet fingers began to rub your clit, slowly and firmly, drawing a throaty sigh of pleasure from your lips as your head lolled to the side, your cheek resting against her shoulder. Her fingers dipped lower, gliding through your folds as her lips found your neck, pressing a series of soft kisses to your skin. You gasped when she bit into the junction between your neck and your shoulder, then moaned as her tongue soothed over the little dents her teeth had left in your skin.

“F-ffuck… Riss…” You bucked your hips against Larissa’s hand, wordlessly urging her towards your entrance - your silent request worked, two of Larissa’s fingers slipping inside you with ease and slowly sinking deeper. Your walls clenched around them, your eyes fluttering shut as you started to roll your hips, eager to have Larissa fill you.

Larissa’s fingers felt so damn good, the way they curled into your sweet spot, stroked your walls, made you mewl and whimper and moan - each ministration showed you how intimately Larissa knew your body, how dedicated she was to bringing you over the edge.

Your mind quickly filled with dirty thoughts and your arousal skyrocketed as you pictured Larissa above you, filling you to the hilt, pounding into you, and, suddenly, you ached for a stretch her fingers couldn’t quite provide.

“R-riss…?” you murmured between gasps of pleasure. Larissa let out a questioning hum that vibrated against your neck, causing you to mewl softly and briefly lose your train of thought. “C-can you… I m-mean would y-you want to - mmmh, fuck…” 

You’d never asked Larissa to shift for you before - during each of the few times she’d done it in the past, she’d always been the one to suggest it, and you suddenly found yourself unsure if she would take it the wrong way, as if you didn’t think she was enough for you just the way she was.

“What do you need, darling?” Larissa prompted directly into your ear, her voice so raspy with desire that it nearly made your eyes roll back in your head.

“C-could you shift and - mmh - f-fuck me?” you finally stuttered out, holding your breath as you waited for an answer - your nerves rising when Larissa’s fingers briefly stilled inside of you. “It’s okay if you d-don’t want to, I shouldn’t h-have as-”

The breath was knocked from your lungs by the sudden feeling of Larissa’s bulge pressing against your tailbone, the rest of your sentence dying in your throat as your mouth went dry.

“Shh…” Larissa murmured in reassurance. “I’m glad that you asked… I want to.” You could tell from the way that the words dripped from her lips like honey, her voice low and velvety, that she did want to - the second your mind was free of doubts, you pressed yourself back against her, the breathy sigh tumbling from your lips mixing with the deep moan that emanated from Larissa’s chest.

Larissa pulled her fingers out of you, her hands trailing up your body, slipping underneath your t-shirt and tugging it up, up, up, until she’d freed your upper body entirely. The t-shirt was tossed haphazardly aside, and Larissa’s hands immediately found your breasts, groping and squeezing, toying with your nipples, pulling moans and whimpers from your lips as she subtly rocked her hips against you from behind, grinding against your tailbone, teasing both herself and you.

“R-riss…” you warned breathily, your arousal so intense, so burning, so all-consuming that you could hardly stand it. 

“Sorry,” Larissa let out with a chuckle that was just as breathy, just as laced with desire, and she gripped your hips, urging you from between her legs and encouraging you to lie back against the pillows, so that she could get on her knees between your legs to make quick work of your shorts and underwear and toss them onto the floor beside the bed. She slipped her fingers beneath the waistband of her own trousers and gave them a tug, revealing black, lacy underwear that clearly wasn’t made to contain the bulge straining inside of it. Your legs spread a little wider without you realizing it, revealing your dripping cunt to Larissa, who quickly removed her remaining clothing to reveal her hard cock. 

She leaned over you, placing one hand beside your head to prop herself up as her other hand began to caress the outside of your thigh, sliding down to the back of your knee and urging you to bend it and spread yourself open as far as you could. She took hold of her cock and ran the tip up your slit, her cheeks flushing and her eyelashes fluttering as she felt how wet you were. “Fuck…” she mumbled, finding your entrance and slowly pushing in.

The stretch felt incredible, and Larissa was careful to go slowly, taking her time as she sheathed herself inside of you. It was hard to keep your eyes open but you wanted to watch Larissa, wanted to see every micro-expression crossing her face as she fucked you, so you fought against your fluttering eyelids, one of your hands reaching to grab Larissa’s forearm next to your head, needing the physical contact.

Larissa gave you a moment to adjust to the feeling of being full once she’d bottomed out inside of you, her now free hand reaching up to cup your cheek and draw you in for a kiss that was so tender it made your heart clench. 

Your cunt followed suit, your walls fluttering around Larissa’s cock as you started to subtly rock your hips against hers. “Mmmh… p-please…”

Every single nerve-ending in your body seemed to light up as Larissa began to thrust, the drag of her cock in and out of you feeling heavenly against your tight, slick walls. Larissa’s hand slid from your cheek to your throat, closing gently around it as her tongue pushed your lips apart and flicked eagerly against your own, her hair falling in waves around your face, acting as curtains and shutting out everything that wasn’t her.

There was something about her moans when she was fucking you with her own cock that drove you mad - they were deep, guttural, loud, a tangible representation of how good you made her feel as she started to pound into you. The air filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, your moans mixing with Larissa’s grunts, the occasional bump of the bed frame against the wall. It was obscene and it made your head spin - judging by the arousal written plain as day across Larissa’s face, she was feeling exactly the same way, her eyes scrunched shut in absolute bliss.

You managed to pull a vulgar groan from Larissa’s chest when you sucked her tongue between your lips, humming against it, and her hips picked up their pace, your body jolting with every thrust. You reached a shaky hand between your legs, rubbing your clit with desperation, your breath hitching audibly in your chest.

Feeling the coil behind your navel tighten rapidly, you released Larissa’s tongue from between her lips to mumble out “f-fuck, g-gonna cum…”, your head tipping back against the pillows and your back arching as you tried your best to keep it together so that you and Larissa could cum together.

“It’s okay, d-darling,” Lariss murmured hoarsely against your lips. “‘m - ahh - c-close… let go…”

With Larissa’s permission, you came undone - unraveling completely beneath her. No longer able to keep your eyes open, you rode out your high with your eyes slammed shut, stars exploding against the backs of your eyelids, your orgasm prolonged by the feeling of Larissa trembling above you as she came as well, emptying her load into your cunt.

“Mmmm…” Larissa let out a breathy hum as her muscles began to relax and her cock went soft inside of you, and you could tell that her orgasm had tired her out - which had been your goal in the first place. She slumped against you, her hand releasing your throat and fisting at the sheets next to your head instead, her breath hot and heavy against your collarbone.

Your arms wrapped around her automatically, pulling her tightly against you, her skin warm and sweaty against your own. Her head rested in the crook of your neck, and she brushed her lips against your pulse point with a soft sigh and a sleepy smile.

~~~

The following morning was a slow one for you, with Larissa rising early to take care of some things before she had to drive Wednesday to the train station. 

You curled up on what had unofficially become your side of the bed, your eyes heavy-lidded with sleep as you watched Larissa get ready at her vanity, prying each and every bobby pin open with straight, white teeth, holding them between long, nimble fingers and sliding them into her hair, her usual updo slowly taking shape. It reminded you so much of the first time you woke up in this bed, a little confused and a little embarrassed and just a tad nervous - only this time, you were none of those things. 

Nestled beneath the covers and looking up at Larissa, who twirled her silvery locks between her fingers, whose bright blue eyes danced over her reflection in the mirror as she made herself presentable, you felt a sense of safety, content, of love so overwhelming that it stole the air from your lungs. And this time, instead of frantically trying to cover your bare torso with the sheets, you simply nuzzled against your pillow and allowed sleep to pull your eyes shut again, drifting back to sleep as Larissa took care not to wake you.

You woke a few hours later and took your time getting dressed and making coffee before heading for the door to Larissa’s office with two mugs in hand. You listened first for any signs that Larissa could be on the phone or in a meeting, before using your elbow to gently ease the door open just a crack and peeking into the office.

Larissa’s head turned automatically at the sound, her frantic typing ceasing almost instantly and her lips curling into a soft smile. “Good morning, darling,” she hummed, beckoning you into her office.

“Coffee?” you asked as you strode over to her desk, placing one of the mugs in front of Larissa and the other at the edge of her desk as you leaned down for a kiss, which the principal eagerly returned.

“Thank you,” she murmured against your lips, cupping your cheek as she pulled away. She brushed her thumb across your lower lip for a moment, her eyes tracking the movement, watching your lip snap back into place as she retracted her hand. Her attention fell to her coffee and she closed her eyes as she took a sip. “This is so much better than the coffee in the teacher’s lounge.” 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sleep in so late…” Your brow furrowed as you saw the empty mug on Larissa’s desk, not one of her own. “Why did you go all the way there instead of just coming into the kitchen?”

“I didn’t want to wake you,” she replied simply. “You deserve the sleep.”

Your heart swelled at that, so much so that it was hard to keep the smile off your face. “And you deserve good coffee,” you countered with a raised eyebrow.

“I mean it, sleep in while you can.” Larissa smirked. “When you get to my age, your body will start to wake you up early against your will.”

You started to giggle, which turned into a full belly laugh, drawing a chuckle out of Larissa as well. Larissa returned to her work shortly thereafter and left you to prepare some food, as it was almost lunchtime. A meeting would cut Larissa’s lunch break short, but you joined her at her desk to soak in her company while you ate.

At a quarter to four, Larissa snapped her laptop shut and stood from her desk with a heavy sigh. “I want to take you to dinner tonight,” she declared as she slipped her phone into her handbag and rummaged around the top drawer of her desk for her car keys. 

“Yes, ma’am.” You grinned up at her, rising to your feet as well to meet Larissa halfway for a quick kiss.

“Wednesday’s train leaves in an hour, I should be back around 5 at the latest,” Larissa added as she headed for the door, and you called out a goodbye before she shut the door to her office behind herself. You figured that, if Larissa would be back at 5, and would probably want to check her emails again and get changed, you’d be heading out for dinner around 6:30 at the earliest - plenty of time to just chill. 

You ended up getting more time than you’d bargained for - when Larissa still wasn’t back by 5:15, you shot her a quick text, asking if everything was alright. Perhaps Wednesday’s train was delayed, you figured, that wouldn’t surprise you considering how public transportation could be around these parts.

Still, it wasn’t like Larissa to not answer at all, to not even read your text, and you found yourself growing increasingly worried when the clock hit 5:45 and you still hadn’t heard a peep from your partner, your stomach churning uncomfortably.

You stood from where you’d been seated in front of the fire, pacing about as you wondered how much she would have to be delayed to warrant calling the police. As you stood by the window, watching the sky slowly darken as the sun disappeared on the horizon, two figures came into view, crossing the courtyard and heading straight for what appeared to be a large conservatory at the edge of the school’s property.

The back of the young boy’s head looked vaguely familiar, though you couldn’t be quite sure. What you were sure of, however, was that you recognized the girl at his side - and that she was not supposed to be here.

x

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[grillthegridmydear]

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 　Love You Like A Love Song - Part One :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

F1 Grid X Reader

The grid reacts to a love song you wrote about them.

Part Two

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Max Verstappen

✧Wildest Dreams - Taylor Swift

Max was almost always found on the race track, if not in real life then in the simulator with team redline or just solo streaming. It was his comfort zone, what he knew best. Stepping out of that comfort usually had Max counting down the seconds until it was over and he could go back home to you and the cats, but today was different seeing as he had followed you to the studio on this particular winter morning. You were so secretive on the jet ride to London, furiously scribbling in your leather notebook that was falling apart from being under constant strain of ripped out pages, daily use and the odd time that Sassy got her claws on it when it was left out in odd spaces in their home.

"Tell me again why I had to be here today if I am not allowed to hear the new songs yet?" he mumbled with a cheeky grin as he followed you through the door out of the cold and rainy weather, the recording studio was warm at least. Elliot, your producer, got there before them and had boosted the heat in the building to knock the chill out of your bones before what promised to be a long day in front of the mic. "Because we only have one more song to record Maxie, and I want to know what you think of it." You never really meant to be secretive about your music but the nerves of releasing this particular album were leagues higher than in the past since it was your first studio album since you and Max had started dating a year ago.

You met on night two of the European leg of your last tour, Victoria was a big fan of your music and had dragged Tom and Max to your Amsterdam show. His only exposure to you prior to that night had been through the walls of his sisters home when he came to see his nephews but seeing you on stage that night was the nail in the coffin on his single life. Being the world famous racing driver that he was gave him the chance to meet you after the show and the rest was history.

Which led him to where he was today, sitting on the ridiculously comfortable couch behind the production table watching you working on the final piece of the puzzle that would make up your newest record.

"Alright, lets get playback and do a first run through." Elliot prompted you through the microphone that fed his voice through the soundproof booth into your headset. One nod of acknowledgement from you and the playback started, Max could hear the live feed through the speakers for the first time and the drum beat caused him to sit forward with his full attention.

The last thing he was expecting was the lyrics that came out through those speakers,

He's so tall and handsome as hell

He's so bad, but he does it so well

You had always joked about him being your muse since the week you started dating, when you would be on dates and he would see you stop dead in your tracks to pull out that notebook.

Say you'll remember me

Standing in a nice dress

Staring at the sunset, babe

Red lips and rosy cheeks

Say you'll see me again

Even if it's just in your wildest dreams, ah-ah, ha

He felt the flush in his cheeks and the grin rise on his cheeks before he even had the chance to fully process what was happening. The song you were most excited to show him that you couldn't even wait until the album was finished, it was about him.

After the initial recording session Elliot busied himself with the hundreds of buttons, sliders and dials on the panel in front of him, you crouched to get your water bottle, ready to go again if needed but Max, he couldn't take his eyes off of you even if he tried. When the ok was given from Elliot you crept out from behind the door of the booth with a shy smile on your face as you made your way to stand in front of him, awaiting the reaction of the love of your life.

"so what do you think?"

Max could barely get the words out between the kisses he was peppering all over your face and neck.

"Vic is going to be so jealous I got a song."

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

✧Lando Norris

✧Nonsense - Sabrina Carpenter

Your Vegas show was strategically planned to fall the day before Lando had to be stuck in the paddock all weekend for the first Las Vegas Grand Prix, which led to many of the drivers and their girlfriends to fill up the VIP section of the theatre that housed hundred of excited fans waiting excitedly to see you take the stage.

You and Lando had known each other for years, being in the same year in school up until your GCSE's when he had left to focus on racing and you had moved from England to the states to pursue your music career. You were childhood sweethearts that stood the test of time and the long distance to end up where you are today, both living in Monaco during the off season with you accompanying Lando to each and every race in the last year, spending all your spare time in one of two places, the studio or cuddled up in Lando's arms in the privacy of your apartment. But with your first full studio album skyrocketing you through the charts a world tour soon followed and it had been a few weeks since your schedules had synced up enough to allow you both some real time to spend together. Lando had never been so thankful to have the racing season coming to a close in a few weeks, and with your last 5 shows coming in the following days to wrap up the tour he was ecstatic to have you all to himself for winter break.

His conversation with Oscar and Lily was cut short when the familiar piano notes of 'Emails I Can't Send' ring out through the venue and the screams and cheers of everyone in the room make a dumb grin break out on his face. Your figure appearing on the stage in your iconic tour outfit that Lando was obsessed with, but what made his smile bigger was the slight changes in the style of the outfit that graced your body on the stage, your dress that was usually a hot pink or lavender colour was changed to the oh so familiar papaya colour he knew as his team colours and your white boots had the number 4 emblazoned on them in his iconic neon yellow branding on the chunky heel stem.

The night was electric as he watched you up there, giving the crowd what he would say is the night of their lives as song after hit song was performed with your infectious talent and energy.

Right as the final notes of 'Sue Me' rang out to the crowd he expected the show to end as he knew the set list by heart from being to a few shows at the beginning of the tour, but you weren't leaving the stage and as you started speaking to the crowd his fixed gaze that had been watching you the whole night was broken as he heard the hushed conversation of some of the WAGs that were surrounding him, he barely had time to notice that Alexandra, Lily and Rebecca were looking at him with shit eating grins on their faces and Carlos was recording him on his phone before you stole his attention again.

"So guys, my boyfriend is actually in the crowd tonight." was all you managed to say before the fans cheered, hundreds of faces looking right at him as you let out that beautiful laugh he loves so much before continuing. "Lando is racing in Vegas this weekend and I've been on tour so I haven't been able to see him in like, forever. But the cool thing about that is he hasn't been able to hear this next song, same as you guys."

An unfamiliar melody started to loop through the venue as the cheers of fans kicked up once again. Pure confusion spread across his face as you continued to introduce the new song. "So this is my new single on the deluxe edition of the album and I hope you all enjoy it."

The room was electric as you began to sing, and Lando very quickly realised the reason why everyone of the drivers and their partners surrounding him had the same reaction, because Lando was not expecting to have a song about him drop that very night, but god was he glad it was.

I'll be honest

Lookin' at you got me thinkin' nonsense

Cartwheels in my stomach when you walk in

And when you got your arms around me

Ooh, it feels so good I had to jump the octave

His face felt like it was on fire but his ego was growing by the second.

I'm talkin' all around clock

I'm talkin' hope nobody knocks

I'm talkin' opposite of soft

I'm talkin' wild, wild thoughts

You gotta keep up with me

I got some young energy

I caught the L-O-V-E

How do you do this to me?

The song began to end and the last lines of the outro had Lando impossibly excited for the night to end so he finally got to have you to himself again.

he loves me so good its downright heinous

this songs P1 in my boyfriends playlist

what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas

Oh yeah, he was definitely glad he got you all to himself.

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Oscar Piastri

✧Human - Dodie

University had been consuming what felt like your entire existence, barely having enough time or energy to apply to anything that didn't involve coursework, especially since you had your contemporary song writing final project due in a few days. Life had consisted of spending days locked away in your dorm room in front of your travel keyboard trying to construct a melody that felt lightyears away from you.

"You can't keep rotting away in there you know, I don't think we will get our deposit back if you melt into the carpet."

Hattie had been your best friend from the day you started preschool, your entire lives had been spend joined at the hip, you were unable to be separated in your younger years, down to the first days of school every year which were spent in the Piastri home's kitchen eating a breakfast that Nicole had made while you and Hattie chattered so loud that the whole house was brought to life with your laughter. Your tight bond had extended to today, where you both sat in the shared kitchen of your university housing, cups of tea decorating the table along with a pair of laptops and more sheet music blank than filled.

This had easily become the hardest assignment of your degree for you, where Hattie seemingly had no issue and was just finishing the arrangements of her own work before she got to submit her assignment and go home for summer break, you on the other hand felt like smacking your head against the wall, your fractured concentration being split even further by the commentary coming from your phone that was propped up in front of 6 crumpled pieces of composition paper, the Spanish Grand Prix well underway on the other side of the world, where Hattie's brother (who just so happened to be your boyfriend) was in the final laps of his race weekend.

"I know, I cant for the life of me figure out what's wrong. Nothing I've written feels good enough and I really don't want to fail this assignment. The last thing I need is to be back here in three months to repeat this class."

The voices that seeped from your phone announced that with that final lap the race was over and glancing at the chart that took up the left side of the screen a smile broke out on your face. Hattie let her curiosity get the better of her as she rounded the table to watch over your shoulder. "P2, He will be happy with that."

Your whole body itched for a change of scenery after a further 30 minutes with no progress so while Hattie started on dinner for you both you slipped on a jacket and stuffed your notebook into your pocket, heading outside for some fresh air. The weather had cooled only slightly compared to the usual stifling Australian heat which allowed you to sit under the awning of the bike sheds outside the building. Your phone rings not 2 minutes after you settle into a comfortable position, a the familiar contact flashing on the screen as you swipe to answer.

"Congratulations on your podium, Osc." Your words rang out through the empty courtyard as familiar breathing was heard in your ear, the boy you had loved since your childhood clearly having settled in his drivers room after his race. "Thank you, how is your assignment going? Still giving you trouble?" Your audible groan at the mention of the demonic workload hanging over your week was met with warm laughter on the other end of the phone. "That bad huh?"

"I don't know why but I haven't been able to focus enough to even get a melody going, everything I've tried sounds like it was written by The Wiggles." The snort of laughter that rang through her ears eased the stress that held her body hostage by the second and her own laughter broke out to match. "Hey, everyone loves The Wiggles, I think you would make a very cute Wiggle personally."

Oscar's words had her breaking up laughing this time. "Yeah, you would say that." Her voice taunted him over the line, memories flooding her mind of the ridiculous stories that Nicole had told her when she and Oscar had first gotten together when he came back after graduating from his British boarding school, about Oscar being five years old and in love with the Yellow Wiggle at that stage in his life. "I know you can make something amazing, everything you write is so incredible but you need to be kinder to yourself love, you're only human after all."

Oscar's advice rang through her mind as she ended the call with him, his presence being required to go to his post race debrief before he could go to the airport to fly back home to start the summer break with her. Before she could blink the floodgates in her mind finally let loose the creativity that she had been craving since she began the writing process a week ago. Sprinting up the stairs she had just enough time to grab the bowl of spaghetti Hattie had prepared her with a rushed thank you thrown over her shoulder.

An hour and a half later she finally submitted the dreaded assignment and packed her microphone away with the rest of her minimal recording equipment, quickly attaching the audio file to a text and sending it to Oscar before the night caught up with her and she drifted off to sleep in the navy blue OP81 hoodie that she wore to death.

The next morning was hectic, full of packing and cleaning as both girls got ready to pack up Hattie's car and get on the road, with the semester finally over and the promise of a few weeks on the road with Oscar melting the last of her stress. In the chaos of the morning she didn't get to check her messages until noon, where she was met with two texts, one from Logan and one from Oscar.

Oscars message was opened first, a quick 'I knew you could do it <3' sent in the middle of the night, considering the time difference it must have been when he was getting on his flight. The message from Logan showed a video of Oscar sitting on the plane, her voice playing through the speakers of Oscars phone as he stared at it with pure adoration in his eyes.

I want to give you your grin So tell me you can't bear a room that I'm not in Paint me in trust I'll be your best friend Call me the one This night just can't end Oh Oh, I'm so human We're just human

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George Russell

✧Bewitched - Laufey

"Remind me why I'm doing this again, this feels like something that I shouldn't be allowed to do."

The ball of stress that stood in front of George pacing in a midnight blue evening gown would have been the funniest thing in the world to him if he was looking at anyone in the world other than you, his beautiful girlfriend who looked about 3 seconds away from passing out. This seemed like an appropriate time as any for you to suddenly develop stage fright, because you were used to busking on the streets of London with your guitar in your teenage years, eventually moving up to small, intimate gigs in your early 20s to crowds that seemed smaller than a classroom, this was in a whole different ballpark. George met you when you both attended a charity event three years before that was funding for sick children across the UK, part of what drew him to you was your unwavering confidence that you walked through life with, he supposed that musicians had to be born with a certain level of audacity but you were unlike anyone he had ever met before, which is why your anxious behaviour was such a shock to the system.

It eventually became too much for George to take as he stood from his seat in the dressing room and held you firm by the hips, halting you from burning a permanent line in the ridiculously expensive carpet that lined the floors. That seemed to do the trick as you finally managed to take a deep enough breath to ease the tension in your body long enough to look him in the eyes. "What if it's shit Georgie?"

Your statement pulled a chuckle from him before he he could think to stop it. "Impossible love, you've never been shit at anything you've ever done." His reassurance sent a visible comfort through your body as the rest of your muscles relaxed. "Except for padel, you are brutal at padel." George took the laugh that lit up the room as a good sign, god he loved your laugh, he once described it as reminding him of sleigh bells at Christmas which got a good laugh out of Lando and Alex, they still hadn't let him live it down, not that he minded much.

The knock at the door sent your body rigid once more as the stage hand that had been sent for you poked his head around the door to give you a 5 minute warning until you took to the stage. It was unlike anything you had ever done before, George supposed that being invited to perform at one of the most prestigious concert halls in the UK was daunting to begin with, but being asked to perform at their anniversary celebration that was being attended by what seemed like every important person they could think of, royalty included, well George was impressed that this was the extent of your nerves. A big deal indeed.

"You'll be watching me the whole time?"

Your request was endearing if unnecessary, because there were very few moments in his life now that George was not totally enraptured by you, he had been the muse of many memes in his time but his favourite had to be all the times that journalists and fans alike had compiled evidence of the many times that George was probably supposed to be paying attention to something, a meeting, a conversation, but his eyes never left you. "I'll be in the wings the entire time my love, now go, break a leg."

Heavy velvet curtains hid him from sight as the lights faded on to reveal you, centre stage and framed by a beautiful orchestra. The polite applause was so different from the screams of fans that he was used to hearing on a race weekend, but it set the tone as the orchestra began to play, now George was familiar with pretty much every song you had ever written due to how often your voice could be heard through your shared home, but this song was completely new, you had kept it under lock and key deeming it a surprise. As your voice joined the strings and woodwinds he began to realise that this was a wonderful surprise indeed.

You bewitch me Every damn second you're with me I try to think straight But I'm falling so badly, I'm coming apart You wrote me a note, cast a spell on my heart And bewitched me Bewitch You bewitched me

As the audience broke out into thunderous applause and you took your bow, George took a moment to pat the small square box in the pocket of his suit jacket, the box that held the promise of forever.

Bewitched was the only word word to describe him.

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Logan Sargeant

✧Pancakes for Dinner - Lizzy Mc Alpine

In the last few years Logan had been away from his family and friends during the Fourth of July weekend. It was never easy, he spent most of his childhood surrounded by all the people he loved most, with barbecue food and football on the beach filling up the day, the celebrations starting early in the morning and ending with the insane firework display at night. They were some of his favourite memories, the ones that comforted him on the days and nights when his career started to feel like a noose around his neck that tightened with every race weekend that didn't go according to plan.

Which is why he was so happy that this year, the race calendar perfectly bordered his beloved holiday, with Austria ending mere hours before he found himself on a flight back to Florida to celebrate on his week off before Silverstone. Seeing his family was a welcome reprieve from his hectic life, but seeing you was the cherry on top of a perfect week.

The firepit that roared at the beginning of the night had died down to a comforting glow, the beach behind his family home now empty apart from you and him, the rest of the guests gone inside to continue the festivities in the house. "It's good to have you back Lo, I miss you a lot when you're off living the dream" your voice carries across the space between you as you messed with the guitar that sat on your lap, beer forgotten at your feet as you strummed random chords. You had always been his best friend ever since you both met at a karting track as kids, he used to race with your brother before he decided that baseball was his calling, but you and Logan were attached at the hip until he left to move to England to take his career to another level. Now your friendship consisted of facetime calls, battling with time zone differences instead of a 10 minute walk to your house. "You should agree to come to more races then, you know you're invited to basically every one right?"

In reality he knew that globetrotting with him to a new country every fortnight wasn't that simple. You were a veterinary nurse in Florida and he was a racing driver, both of your schedules too hectic to allow for any real time spent together that didn't involve him making the trip back to his hometown. "You really want to put me and your boss on the same continent, I'm too pretty to go to jail!"

The two of you busted up into laughter at the idea of James Vowels being unfortunate enough to be close enough to you that you could finally give the man a piece of your mind. "I do miss Lily though, so might have to take some time off for Austin this year." The fake offended noise that left his lips made you laugh hard enough that Logan was sure his neighbours could hear you. He was sure that the only bond that could rival the one you shared with him was the one that you held with his teammates girlfriend, the fact that you had spent more time at the golf course with Lily this year than you had seeing him face to face sparked emotions in him that he wasn't quite ready to acknowledge.

"What are you playing there?"

The sly smile that crept up onto your face, illuminated by the firelight made his heart stutter, your answer didn't betray your emotions as you started strumming the melody more clearly.

"I wrote you something."

Logan swore his pulse started up in double time as you met his eyes. You had played guitar since you were eight years old but your own songs had been secret for as long as he can remember. But something in the moment caused you to let him into a part of your life he was sure he would never see.

"Play it for me."

The world around them was muffled and felt a million miles away as you nodded before training your eyes on the black ocean in front of you both. Lyrics flowing from you before you changed your mind.

I wanna eat pancakes for dinner I wanna get stuck in your head I wanna watch a T.V. show together And when we're under the weather we can watch it in bed I wanna go out on the weekends I wanna dress up just to get undressed I think that I should probably tell you this In case there is an accident And I never see you again So please save all your questions for the end And maybe I'll be brave enough by then

Laughter from the house behind you both broke the electric energy that filled the air.

"So? What do you think?"

Logan could only hope his kiss was worth a thousand words.

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Alex Albon

✧Juno - Sabrina Carpenter

There wasn't a person alive that believed the joke that Alexander Albon was the biggest WAG in the world than the man himself. While he spent his days driving his Williams car in the midfield of the F1 grid he was more than aware that you kissed him good morning every day you spent together, only to go and play a sold out concert to a stadium of adoring fans, of which Alex was your biggest.

He still found himself pinching his arm whenever he saw you, either on stage playing the global superstar or in the comfort of your own home playing with your puppy Juniper. It seemed uncharacteristic of him when he slid into your DM's one night after seeing a concert with his sisters, but fate apparently had his cards picked out in his favour when you visited a race a few weeks later as a guest of Red Bull and he got to meet you in person, the rest was history as you had been dating the Thai driver ever since.

The distance wasn't always easy but this particular summer break lined up perfectly with the end of the US leg of your most recent tour, which is how you both ended up spending your three week break in Bali, completely wrapped up in each other with no work interruptions.

Until today that is.

His place in your shared bed gave him the perfect view of you pacing the balcony of the villa that had been rented for the duration of your stay. His eyes easily following your body as it appeared in the doorway before disappearing just as quick, back and forth as you spoke to your management team on the phone, a call which was hitting the forty minute mark, causing his patience to wear thin. Luckily just before the call was about to hit an hour in length you ended it and your figure bounding back into the room caused him to sit up against the headboard. You grabbed your laptop from your bag before sliding back into bed, lips meeting his before you settled in and began furiously searching through the files on your desktop.

"what part of vacation do they not understand?" he groaned, his face finding the crook of your neck as you let out a laugh, nudging his side.

"That was Marcus, Short and Sweet drops in an hour."

Alex could feel the excitement vibrating through your body. Your most recent album had been in the works for months and while he usually got to live through the entire process with late night writing sessions and studio visits between races, you had been oddly secretive when it came to this one. He was excited for you, he loved your voice and your music was what had brought you together so seeing you continue to make the music that made you so happy made the challenges that came with your relationship worth it.

A soft "aha" pulled him out of his daydream as you pulled up the folder that contained the songs. He sat up again, ready for the full listening party that he was so used to at this point. Which is why his proud grin turned a tad confused as you dragged the cursor down to the third to last track on the album, his question died on his tongue as you pressed play on the file titled Juno (A.A<3) and the music started to pour through the speakers of your laptop.

Oh, I know you want my touch for life If you love me right, then who knows? I might let you make me Juno You know I just might (Might) Let you lock me down tonight One of me is cute, but two though? Give it to me, baby You make me wanna make you fall in love

His ears burned as the song ended and by the look on your face he was reacting exactly how you wanted.

"So? What do you think?"

Your laptop tumbled onto a stray cushion that found its way onto the floor, as he tackled you back onto the sheets. laughter filling the room.

Thank god for the end of the tour.

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Part two will be up asap. Requests are open.

Hope you enjoyed!

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[trulybetty]

late night.

pairing: dieter bravo x actressf!reader word count: 6,337 warnings: dieter bravo, alcohol, reader has a glass of wine, p in v, practice safe sex, don't take sex ed from fanfics, barely beta'd, mistakes are my own estimated reading time: 31 minutes summary: much to your annoyance, an unexpected guest arrives at the late-night talk show you've been booked on. written for @burntheedges Roll-A-Trope Challenge. ao3: linked

x. masterlist

A/N: I'm terribly late to completing this, not even fashionably late, I dare not look when the deadline was. Without being all vaugebook status - I lost my love for writing, found it and life said lmao, no. But I'm slowly getting back and working through my wip's.

Late Night.

The city lights of London had glowed well into the late night. Casting a hazy glow over the bustling streets when you’d arrived at the TV studios just over an hour earlier. It was Thursday, and the city carried the anticipation of the weekend ahead. You were in town for the recording of a British late-night TV show that would air the following night. The studio was abuzz with energy and excitement as entourages arrived and technicians prepared for the recording.

You were sat backstage, sat in a makeshift hair and makeup set-up for last-minute touch-ups. The hustle of it all, the sound of chatter and laughter fought to distract you. You shifted to get comfortable in the chair you’d been planted in moments ago. Stifling a yawn, you wrinkled your nose as the lingering scent of hairspray hit your nose. Even though you’d been in the city for three days already, this interview—a cap on a whirlwind press tour—the jetlag was still hard to contend with having hit the ground running since you’d touched down in Heathrow.

Adjusting the delicate layered necklace that rested against the crisp white blouse you wore, you watched as the fluorescent lights above caught on the linked chains. Both were items your stylist had picked out for you. A little rich for your own taste, but you were at the mercy of the machine that was the studio bankrolling this press tour.

Your manager, Olivia, stood beside you and flipped through cue cards with the pre-selected questions for your segment. Her stacked bracelets jingled as she shuffled through them again. “Remember, keep it light and engaging, babe,” she reminded you, ignoring the exasperated sighs of the makeup artist as they tried to work around her. They love a good anecdote on this show.”

You brushed down the front of your pants, picking at an imaginary piece of lint. “Got it?” you nodded, despite the fact that your mind was elsewhere.

Something felt off. There was a tension in the air that set your nerves on edge. You couldn’t put your finger on it—call it intuition, call it a severe lack of sleep, whatever it was—it felt like something was going to tip the balance of that evening.

And then you heard it.

That laugh, that unmistakable laugh followed by a voice you’d hoped you’d never have to hear again, at least not in person. Your heart sank as recognition settled in.

“Is that…?” you began, your eyes widening as you whipped your head around to face Olivia, your make-up artist cursing under their breath.

Before Olivia could respond, the unmistakable presence that was Dieter fucking Bravo sauntered into view. His trademark entourage of hangers-on and ego strokers and a gaggle of studio staff hanging onto his every word. His tousled hair and effortless grin only fueled your irritation further.

“Liv, what’s he doing here?!” you hissed.

She looked genuinely perplexed. “I had no idea he was booked for tonight,” she said, rechecking her phone and the hardcopy of the night's rundown. He is not on the schedule. " You shot her a disbelieving look. “Honestly, babe, I had no clue!”

Dieter’s gaze swept the room before landing on you. His eyes lit up, and a slow mischievous grin spread across his face. He smoothly excused himself from his group, reciting that he’d miss them all equally, if not more, in that Hollywood-cliched faux sincerity before he strode toward you, with that infuriating swagger that was all him.

“Well, well, well, look who it is,” he drawled, stopping just within the boundaries of your personal space, “My favourite almost was co-star, fancy meeting you here,” he shot Olivia a look, throwing her a charming wink that she responded to with a roll of her eyes.

You straightened in your seat before clearing your throat, “Dieter,” you replied cooly, fighting the urge to roll your own eyes.

“Dieter,” Olivia said, turning to address him in the hope of running interference, “always a pleasure,” the tight smile she gave him at a contrast to her greeting.

He ignored her, his focus solely on you, “Funny, they didn’t mention you’d be on the show tonight.”

“Funny,” you echoed, meeting his eye in the reflection of the mirror, “they didn’t mention you’d be here either.”

He let out an obnoxious laugh, the sound grating on your nerves, “Must be our lucky day then,” he said, propping his hip against the vanity table—much to the annoyance of the makeup artist who had now given up trying to complete their job and had moved on to organizing their brushes.

“Or just poor scheduling,” you muttered, wishing for someone or something to give you an excuse to leave.

His eyes finally leaving you his gaze fell on the untouched glass of champagne in front of you, “May I?” he asked rhetorically, the flute already at his lips.

“Help yourself,” you said dryly with a wave of your hand, anything to get him moving on.

He took a sip, “Mmm… a 2000 vintage would you say?” he gave you a smirk and you bristled, “A memorable year wouldn’t you say?” his eyes met yours through the mirror over the rim of the champagne flute, a challenge in his eyes.

You were a damn good actress, but it was a fight to keep your face neutral. You weren’t going to give him this, not the satisfaction of pressing on the still tender bruise of the year everything had gone sideways. The year your promising big break had imploded before it’d even had a chance to begin. All in thanks to the erratic behaviour of the man beside you.

Your jaw tightened, “Is there a reason you’re here Dieter? Or are you simply here to raid the refreshments?”

He downed the remainder of the alcohol, making no attempt to hide his grin, “Can’t a guy catch up with old friends?”

The grin on his face only grew wider when the emphasis on the word friend garnered a visible flinch from you. It might have been a loose truth once upon a time, but you two were the furthest thing from it now.

You arched your eyebrow at him, finally turning in your seat to look up at him, “That’s a generous definition of the word, isn’t it?”

Sensing that Dieter was doing a good job of getting under your skin, Olivia cleared her throat, “We should really get back to prepping here, so if you would excuse us, Dieter.”

Dieter made no move to leave, “Oh, don't let me interrupt,” instead, he plucked the cue cards from Olivia's hand shuffling through them. “Let's see—keep it light and engaging,” he read aloud. “Sounds like riveting stuff, maybe you should tell them about the time at Cannes, you know—with the yacht and that producer you accused of stealing your script idea?” You glared at him, your nails digging into the arms of the chair, “You were…loud. And also right, I think,” he gave an exaggerated frown, “Too bad you puked overboard before you could make your point though.”

You glared at him, “It was food poisoning,” you hissed through gritted teeth.

“Sure,” he nodded, his face giving no indication he believed you.

Before anything else could be said a production assistant appeared, “Mr. Bravo, you’re required over in wardrobe to change.”

Dieter casually handed his glass over to an unimpressed Olivia, who took it with a scowl and held it delicately with two fingers as if it might contaminate her, “Well ladies, always a pleasure running into you both.” Then, turning to you directly, he added, “I heard they’re putting you on before me… break a leg,” he winked with a parting smirk.

“This is un-fucking believable,” you cursed, your eyes reluctantly following Dieter’s retreating figure.

Olivia sucked in a breath, “Don’t let him get under your skin,” she cautioned as she deposited Dieter’s glass on the vanity, wiping her hand on the arm of her jacket, “he’s not worth it.”

“Too late for that,” you muttered under your breath as the makeup artist was finally free to return to touch up the rest of your makeup.

The stage lights bathed you in a warm glow as you settled into the plush chair across from the show’s host. The audience had erupted into applause at your arrival, the lights blocking them from view. You flashed a confident smile, the kind that had won over countless fans.

“Welcome back! Always a pleasure to have you on the show,” the show’s host beamed as he shuffled his cue cards.

“Thank you, it's wonderful to be here,” you replied smoothly, well rehearsed in the etiquette of late-night talk shows. The cameras panned out and for a brief moment, you caught a brief glimpse of the studio audience, rows of bright eyes and bright smiles. You spotted Olivia in the wings, she gave you a reassuring thumbs up.

The interview progressed smoothly, the host effortlessly guiding the conversation through your most recent project, those upcoming, and even touching on your personal life. You played along, deflecting the more personal questions with ease and a light-hearted laugh, well-versed in the art of maintaining your privacy all the while still appearing open and relatable.

“So now,” the host spoke to the audience, your interview at a close, “we have a wee bit of a cheeky surprise waiting for us backstage,” he turned to you with a conspiratorial smile, “and I understand you and our next guest share a connection?”

Your smile tightened as you feigned your best impression of surprise, “Oh gosh, really? I’m intrigued. I do love surprises!”

“Well, you’re in for a good one! Ladies and gentlemen, the one and only Dieter Bravo!”

The audience erupted into a thunderous applause of standing ovations. It was a fight not to roll your eyes, how someone as messy and equally irksome as Dieter Bravo could still command such adoration from the public, you'd never understand.

Dieter strolled onto the stage, dressed in a flashy silk shirt, its buttons undone halfway to reveal the glow of tanned skin and a glint of a chain from which his signature Ray-Bans hung. He waved flamboyantly at the cheering audience, blowing exaggerated kisses that only spurred more applause. You had just stood from your seat to shift over for him—hoping to avoid more contact with him than necessary—when his hands settled firmly on your shoulders and pulled you into a theatrical embrace.

With the lights beaming down on you and the cameras rolling, the heat of his body pressed against yours you forced a grin for the watching crowd. You felt the heat of his breath at your ear, just before he spoke in a whisper only you could hear, “Miss me, gorgeous?”

Despite your best intentions, the words sent a shiver down your spine—whether it was annoyance or something else entirely, you weren’t exactly sure, but it wasn’t time to explore those feelings. The audience oblivious to the crackling tension between you two, ate it up as you went through the motions of allowing him to air kiss you dramatically on each cheek.

He released you just as theatrically, gesturing to the audience to keep cheering and you took the opportunity to slide into your seat, determined to continue your air of unbothered confidence in his presence. Meanwhile, Dieter dropped himself into his seat with the kind of shit-eating grin that said he knew exactly how well he was getting under your skin.

The host, picking up on the dynamics between the two of you, beamed, “Well, well, it looks like our stage just got a little more star-studded. How exciting is this?”

As the audience responded with raucous applause, you exchanged a fleeting glance with Dieter. His eyes glimmered mischievously as he raised a knowing eyebrow at you before launching into a charisma-filled anecdote that had everyone eating out of the palm of his hand. It only did well to remind you of the many times he’d used showmanship to deflect attention.

The host leaned forward eagerly. “It's not often we get two dynamic talents such as you two on one stage! You two worked together a few years back, no?”

“That's right,” Dieter interjected, turning to give you a wide grin before you could open your mouth to respond. “It was a really unforgettable experience.”

You shot him a warning look as you shifted in your seat. “Unforgettable, indeed.”

The host leaned in, clearly enjoying the underlying tension. “Do share!” he encouraged as he looked to the audience’s agreement. “Any memorable moments?”

Dieter leaned back casually, his eyes never leaving your face. “Well, there was that time someone decided to rewrite half the day’s script without telling anyone.”

You felt a spike of irritation as you bristled, “Better than not showing up to set at all, don’t you think?” you countered, forcing a tight smile.

The audience chuckled nervously, sensing the undercurrents between you.

“Ah, creative differences!” the host exclaimed, trying to lighten the mood.

“Something like that,” you said, keeping your tone even.

Dieter leaned back in his chair, eyes never leaving your face. “You know, it's all water under the bridge now. Besides, some of us have moved on to bigger and better things.”

“Yes, professionalism can take one far,” you replied sharply.

He smirked. “And a good sense of humour.”

You clenched your jaw, determined not to let him rattle you further.

The host cleared his throat, “So, any chance of a reunion on screen?”

“Unlikely,” you both said in unison.

The audience laughed, and despite yourself, a small smile tugged at your lips. For a fleeting moment, your eyes met his, and something indefinable passed between you.

“Well, one can always hope,” the host said with a wink. “Now, moving on…”

The remainder of the interview continued with practiced ease, though Dieter never missed an opportunity to test your composure. Each surreptitious remark was a calculated attempt to unsettle you, but you held your ground. But by the time the cameras stopped rolling, your patience however had been worn thin.

As you walked backstage, the loud chatter and bustling activity faded into a distant hum. Your pace quickened as you made your way straight to your dressing room, Olivia hot on your heels. Finally reaching your destination, you swung open the door to your dressing room.

“Are you okay?” she asked, concern etched on her face.

“I'm fine,” you replied curtly, though your hands were shaking with frustration. Because despite your best efforts, the memory of Dieter’s smug grin during the interview kept infiltrating your thoughts, a consistent reminder that he had succeeded in getting under your skin.

“At least you won't have to deal with him anymore tonight,” Olivia reassured you.

“Small mercies,” you muttered. Yet even as you said it, you could still feel the unsettled anger burning in your chest that showed no sign of cooling any time soon.

After what felt like an eternity, the commotion of packing up your dressing room finally settled. You breathed a sigh of relief as you opened the door, eager to escape to the comfort of your hotel room. However, before you could take a step forward, a familiar voice rang out from down the hallway, “Leaving already?”

You turned to see Dieter leaning casually against the wall, his gaze unapologetically fixed on you. He looked maddeningly at ease, still dressed in the clothes he’d worn on stage, as though your tense exchanged barbs hadn’t ruffled him in the slightest.

“What do you want?” you snapped, turning to face him against your better judgment.

He shrugged, “Just thought we could catch up,” he said innocently.

“I have nothing to say to you,” you retorted, adjusting the strap of your handbag. “Pulling that shit out there, what the fuck were you thinking?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Still holding a grudge, I see.”

You felt heat rise up your neck. “A grudge? You nearly derailed my career.”

He sighed dramatically. “Must we rehash ancient history? It’s such a bore.”

You felt a surge of anger. “Ancient history? You sabotaged our film and nearly destroyed my career.”

He shrugged, “Depends on how you look at it. I like to think I added a bit of je ne sais quois.”

“You're unbelievable,” you fumed, turning on your heel and striding to the exit. He didn’t even bother calling after you; his amused silence was just another demonstration of his nonchalance to his actions and their consequences—and it only proved to stoke your anger further.

Finally back at your hotel, in the quiet peace of your suite, you relished in the calm after the storm. You’d slipped off your shoes, enjoying the feel of the plush carpet between your toes, before you collapsed onto the sofa. The London city lights twinkled outside your window. Tiny dots across the horizon, highlighting a busy city still moving despite the late hour. Opening a bottle of iced water you’d retrieved from the fridge you tried to unwind. But the night’s surprise encounter with Dieter replayed incessantly and uninvited in your mind.

Before you could reach for your phone, looking for a distraction in the form of some retail therapy, there was a sharp knock at your door.

Frowning, you glanced at the clock. It was well past midnight and you’d already debriefed with Olivia, she’d wished you a good night. Shuffling across the room, pulling on a cardigan as you went, there came a muffled voice from the other side of the door, “Room service.”

Confusion knitted your brow. “I didn't order anything,” you muttered, approaching the door with caution.

On the balls of your feet, you looked up through the spy hole, and groaned when you saw who it was, “You've got to be fucking kidding me,” you said under your breath exasperated. “Go the fuck away, Dieter.”

“Just give me a minute,” he insisted as you watched him scratch at his beard.

You contemplated ignoring him and returning to your bed, but the thought of him loitering outside your door was enough to convince you against your better judgment. The last thing you needed was someone getting wind of Dieter Bravo making a fuss outside your hotel room in the middle of the night. With a sigh, you unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door just enough so that the chain bar was still in place.

“What could you possibly have to say that hasn't already been said?” you demanded.

Dieter held up a hand, a gesture of peace, “Please.”

You hesitated and argued with yourself, “This is highly inappropriate.”

He met your gaze, his expression surprisingly earnest. “I wanted to apologize.”

You shooed him off as you tried to close the door, “Fine. Apology accepted. Goodnight.”

He shoved his foot between the door and its frame, preventing you from closing it. “Can I come in, please?”

You stared at him incredulously, “Why would I ever let you do that?”

“Because I do owe you an apology,” he said, his tone surprisingly earnest, “and you do love to be proven right,” he smirked, knowing you’d let your guard down when he played to your ego. “Come on, it’ll just be a moment.”

You studied him for a moment, he looked too relaxed for what it was he was asking. The dishevelled hair, the t-shirt that looked like it’d never seen an iron, your exasperation wavered for a moment. “You have some nerve showing up after that shit you pulled on national TV.”

He only smiled wider, and it made you want to slap it off of his face. But there was a flicker of something in his eyes, something that suggested that he was possibly genuine in his ask.

“I know,” his voice was devoid of sarcasm, “which is why I couldn’t leave things as they were.”

You pursed your lips together and gave him one last look of lingering frustration before moving back just enough to open the door, begrudgingly allowing him in against your better judgment.

“You have a knack for poor fucking timing Bravo.”

He offered a half-smile. “Better late than never, am I right?”

You regarded him coolly, “You know you really can't just show up at my hotel room,” you told him. “One minute, that’s all you’ve got.”

The smirk on Dieter’s face telling you he believed he’d already won. He produced a bottle of wine from behind his back,

“Technically, I did announce myself as room service,” he pointed out, holding up the bottle of wine, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he ignored the time limit you’d given him.

“Did you steal that from the green room?”

He didn't answer, but his grin told you everything you needed to know.

“You're unbelievable,” you sighed.

You watched as he took in the expanse of your hotel suite. “Nice place,” he remarked.

“Your time is running out,” you reminded him as you checked your watch.

He turned to face you, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry for tonight. For everything, really.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That's quite the blanket apology.”

He shrugged innocently. “Fancy a nightcap?”

You let out a dry laugh. “ You think a bottle of stolen wine and a poor attempt at an apology will fix everything?”

He shrugged, a playful glint in his eye as he spied the wine glasses on the table. “It is a very good wine.”

Despite yourself, you felt a smile tug at the corners of your mouth. “You're absurd.”

“So I've been told,” he said, handing you a generously filled glass.

You clinked yours against his reluctantly. “To better judgment,” you countered dryly.

Dropping onto the sofa, you both sipped in silence for a moment. The wine was rich and full-bodied, warming you from the inside out.

“So, was antagonizing me on live television part of your grand plan?” you finally asked, breaking the silence.

He sighed, swirling the wine in his glass. “Believe it or not, I didn't know you'd be there tonight.”

“I find that hard to believe,” you replied skeptically.

He met your gaze. “It's true. I really was a last-minute addition. Didn’t know I’d be on until half an hour before.”

Silence enveloped the room again, but this time it felt more contemplative than awkward.

“Why are you here, Dieter?” you asked quietly.

He took a deep breath. “I really do want to apologize.”

“She’s in town isn’t she?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You rolled your eyes as the realization settled in, you pointed a finger around your wine glass at him, “She turned you down so you’re on my doorstep.” Dieter didn’t say anything, but instead inspected the contents of his wine glass, “Hah, I knew it.”

Dieter’s tumultuous relationships were nothing short of front-page news and he was never short on supplying exploits for further column inches on the topic. However, his hang-up on this particular ex seemed to haunt him more than any of the others. You’d even worked with her once or twice before. A script for a project she was working on was on your desk back home in preparation for auditions the following month. You had no clue how someone so together had ever been with someone like Dieter if you were entirely honest.

You watched him now, with amusement, noting the way his jaw tensed at your accusation.

He narrowed his eyes at you, “She’s got nothing to do with this and I was actually sorry, though very much reconsidering it now,” he grumbled.

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head. “You're unbelievable, you know that? Classic Dieter Bravo—gets rejected and runs to stir up chaos wherever he can.”

“It's not like that,” he said defensively, though his tone lacked any serious conviction.

You laughed, “Oh please, Dieter. Unfortunately I know you too well. This isn’t about me, it’s about your bruised ego,” you challenged, crossing your arms as you leaned back into the sofa.

He leaned back himself, eyeing you with a mixture of amusement and irritation. “And here I thought we were having a moment.”

“A moment?” you scoffed, “is that what you call this?”

He smirked, “Would you prefer I call it foreplay?”

You nearly choked on your wine, “You’re unrepentant. I can see why she turned you down.”

“Part of my charm,” he winked, though the smile he plastered on his face didn’t meet his eyes.

You took another drink from your glass, it was truly frustrating how this man could occupy so much space in a room, and in your thoughts, without even trying.

“You should go,” you said, dropping your glass to the coffee table with a bit more force than you intended. “I don’t have time for your games tonight Dieter, I have an early flight.”

He reached for his wine glass, draining it, “In that case, I’ll take my leave.”

You raised an eyebrow, this you hadn’t expected, the Dieter you knew would be begging or leaning into some cocky, insufferable line that would make you want to slap him—or kiss him—depending on the day. You watched him gather himself, however he made no move to leave.

A silent impasse passed between the two of you, you bit your lip—you were the first to break, “There’s nothing between us except years of bad history and a mutual inability to get along.”

He tilted his head, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. “Sure about that?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, “Positive,” you replied, with more conviction than you actually felt.

But he sat there, his presence electric, and it was pissing you off how much you didn’t want him to leave.

Dieter turned towards you, his voice low and coaxing. “You could kick me out,” he said, closing the distance between you both on the sofa, “but you know I’ll always come back.”

“Ever think I don’t want you to?” you shot back, ignoring the waver in your voice.

He leaned in, and you swallowed hard, “Then why am I still here?”

You weighed up your options. There was going to be nothing between the two of you, aside from this bitter back and forth—which if you were honest, was getting rather tiresome as the man was never going to admit true fault. However, you would be a liar if you denied he was handsome, and the idea of getting some satisfaction out of this situation would be appreciated given it had been a while since the last time you’d had sex, let alone sex that was worth remembering. And there he was, sitting on your couch like he owned the place, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of his chest.

The wine had warmed you and softened the edges of your irritation and as much as you hated to admit it (and you’d never speak it out loud, his ego was big enough as it was), there was something about Dieter Bravo that made it hard to look away.

“Fuck it,” you muttered under your breath and before you could allow any reason to enter your mind you pulled him by the shirt, your lips crashing with his, his just as hungry as yours. The kiss was urgent, messy and a collision of years of pent-up frustration.

His wine glass slipped from his hand, forgotten, as he leaned into you, his hands finding your waist, “Finally,” he murmured against your mouth, smugness dripping from him.

“Don’t ruin it,” you warned, nipping at his bottom lip to shut him up.

Dieter groaned into your mouth as your fingers dove into his hair, his curls twisting around your fingers and you couldn’t help but tug at them, tilting his head to give you better access. He obliged, pulling you closer until you were practically in his lap.

“Dieter,” you murmured, the name tasting strange on your lips.

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice rough, laced with amusement.

You didn’t have time to argue with him—not when his hands were tugging at the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head in one swift motion. You didn’t protest when he discarded it onto the floor, his eyes raking over you with an intensity that made you shiver.

“I still fucking hate you,” you hissed, your lips felt bruised and yet you wanted more of it.

He smiled, “I know, sweetheart. That's what I love about you."

You shook your head, a wry smile breaking through against your better judgment. “You're insufferable.”

“So I’ve been told,” he replied, his eyes never leaving yours.

“One night,” you said firmly. “This doesn't change anything.”

He nodded. “Understood.”

You took his hand, pulling him in the direction of the bedroom. “Come on, before I change my mind.”

The bed creaked under your weight as you fell onto it, his body pressing against yours. His mouth trailed kisses along your collarbone before finding its way back to yours. You gasped as he nibbled on your bottom lip; a mixture of pleasure and frustration surged through you. He tasted like wine and the stubble from his unshaven beard felt deliciously rough against your skin.

Your hands fought with his to unbutton his pants and pull them down, him pulling away momentarily to strip himself of the remainder of his clothes. He crawled back up the bed, his hair an unruly mess—more so than usual—and his smirk firmly in place, as if he had all the time in the world and you weren’t lying there, aflamed and impatient. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes at him, instead grabbing him by the wrist and yanking him closer.

“Stop dragging this out,” you snapped, your voice low and breathless.

“Impatient now?” he teased, he leaned down, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “Say please.”

You glared at him, your nails digging into his shoulders as you pulled him even closer. “If you don’t shut up and do something useful—”

His mouth silenced you, crashing into yours with a ferocity that made your head spin. His hands roamed over your body, exploring every curve and dip and you couldn’t deny how good it felt—how he seemed to know exactly where to touch to make your breath hitch or your back arch.

“You’re so bossy,” he murmured against your skin as he kissed down the column of your neck, his stubble leaving a trail of delicious friction in its wake. “Kinda sexy.”

“Dieter,” you warned as you lifted your hips for him to rid you of the rest of your clothes.

He hummed, a low gravelly sound as he obliged you, his fingers surprisingly deft as they worked on the clasp of your bra. It too joined the growing pile of discarded clothes on the floor. His hands cupped your breasts, he groaned in delight, his thumbs brushing over your nipples and you had to bite back a moan, you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

But when his mouth soon followed, you couldn’t help the sound that escaped your lips. His tongue circled the peak of your nipple, his lips closing around it—with just the right amount of pressure. You fisted his hair, pulling him closer, arching your hips up off of the bed and he chuckled, the vibrations sending a shiver through you.

“Still hate me?” he asked, lifting his head to meet your gaze, his eyes glinting with amusement.

“More than ever,” you lied.

In no time, his clothes were added to the heap on the floor. You pulled him in as he knelt on the bed above you, your legs spread, and ankles hooked around the back of his knees.

He smirked, his hands sliding down to your hips, his fingers digging into you as he pulled you closer, “Sure about that?”

Before you could answer, he was there, pressing against you, the heat of him searing and teasing. You gasped, aching to take him, and he groaned, the sound raw and unfiltered. He nudged his hips, teasing your entrance and it sent a spark of heat up your spine that had you throwing your head back in frustration.

“Dieter,” you breathed out as you looked up at him, a smug smile plastered across his face, you reached up and grabbed the mess of curls at the nap of his neck, “how about instead of running your mouth,” you pulled him down, “you put that mouth to better use?”

The glint in Dieter’s eyes at not only the challenge issued, but the act of you taking charge of the moment from him lit up his face. Needing no direction, he took his tongue and trailed a blazing hot path from your breasts to your navel. His hands were everywhere, just as chaotic as him, mapping your body in a way that made you wonder if he’d been planning this for years. You hated how good it felt, how your body betrayed you by responding so quickly to his touch, so eager. But you couldn’t deny it—Dieter Bravo knew exactly what he was doing.

His mouth reached the apex of your thighs, and you tensed, your breath catching in your throat. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, a smirk playing on his lips as he lowered his head. The first touch of his tongue sent a jolt through you, and you bit back a moan, your hands fisting the sheets as if anchoring yourself to reality. He hummed, a low, approving sound, and the vibration sent a ripple of pleasure through you. You hated that he was good at this, hated that you couldn’t pretend it wasn’t affecting you.

“Stop being stubborn and let go,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your skin. “I can feel how much you want this.”

“You’re impossible,” you ground out, your hips shifting involuntarily against his mouth, your body already deciding whose side it was on.

He laughed, a rough, delicious sound, and continued his relentless assault on your senses. Your resolve crumbled piece by piece, each touch, each kiss, each expert flick of his tongue pulling you under. Your breath came quick and shallow as heat coiled inside you, tighter and tighter.

“Dieter—” This time it was a plea.

“There she is,” he said, a dark chuckle rolling off his lips as he went back to work with renewed vigour.

You gasped as his fingers slid inside you, working in tandem with his tongue, stroking that sensitive spot inside you that made your toes curl. When you finally came, it was with a cry that surprised even you, your body arching off the bed as pleasure coursed through you like a storm.

Dieter crawled back up, his face gleaming with satisfaction, and you pulled him into a kiss that was as much about reclaiming control as it was about desire. He obliged, his lips meeting yours with a hunger that matched your own. You could taste yourself on him, a dizzying reminder of what he’d just done, and yet it only made you want more.

“Say it,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear. “Say you want me.”

“You’re insufferable,” you hissed, your nails digging into his back.

He laughed, low and rough. With one thrust, he filled you completely. You cried out, the sound muffled by his shoulder as he stilled, letting you adjust to the sudden fullness.

“Not so bad, is it?” he murmured, his voice laced with smugness.

You glared at him, but before you could respond, he moved, pulling back—so far back he teased you with the tip and between clouded thoughts of pleasure you were impressed with his ability to hold himself there. He hovered, teasing your entrance, taunting you with the promise of more. But then he thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth stroke.

“You're so tight,” he breathed, his voice low and rough with restraint. “I could stay right here forever.”

However it was short-lived, he soon picked up the pace, the headboard knocking rhythmically against the wall as he drove into you with increased urgency with a rhythm that left you breathless. His hands were everywhere, his mouth everywhere, and you couldn’t keep up with the sensations. The room was filled with your mingled moans and gasps echoing off the walls.

You hated him. You hated how he made you feel, how he could reduce you to this—this messy, desperate, undeniable need. But more than that, you hated how good it felt, how right it felt, how it seemed like he was made to fit you.

“Dieter,” you whispered, your voice cracking.

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice rough, his pace faltering for just a moment.

“Don’t stop.”

He laughed again, the sound wild and raw, and obliged, driving into you with a rhythm that left you clawing at the sheets, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper.

You were a mess of contradictions—hate and desire, frustration and pleasure, all tangled together in a knot you couldn’t untangle. But at that moment, you didn’t care. All you cared about was the release building inside you, the tension coiling tighter and tighter until it snapped, sending you soaring.

He followed you over the edge, his body tensing as he buried his face in your neck, his groan muffled against your skin. You both lay there, Dieter’s weight settled on top of you, his face still buried in the crook of your neck. You could feel the hammering of his heartbeat gradually slowing against your chest.

Finally, he pushed himself up, his eyes locking with yours. “Still hate me?” he asked, his voice rough and laced with amusement.

You glared at him, your chest still heaving. “More than ever.”

He smirked, rolling off you and onto his back. “Good. I’d be worried if you didn’t.”

[ohsohoney]

When it comes to love you're just as blinded.

Part Two

Eminem x Musician

Summary: It starts with a drunk embarrassing video, it spirals into something a whole lot more.

Note: Thank you for all the love on the last post! Figured I'd post the next part seeing as I said on the last update I have a whole story in mind for this but not sure how well it will go down:)

Set in 2014, just after the release of LP 2 || Em’s daughters are renamed here because it felt weird not to and also have different ages– doesn’t affect the story much but just a warning!

Masterlist

Weeks passed, during which I had spent a lot of my time back home dealing with Lottie’s schooling and making sure that she was mostly settled. She’d had a rough go of it last year, school being something that we both seemed to have had an issue with, but watching her struggle through some of the same problems I’d once faced was difficult and so I wanted her to know that she had the support I felt I’d never had. 

I’d been dragged off to shoots and studio sessions here and there, not much coming out of the latter in truth, but had stayed mostly confined to London. Which was why I was having a fucking mare over the fact that I was set to leave for a couple weeks without her. Not that I wasn’t excited about it all, nervous too, but it was work and that didn’t seem to trump whatever it was that was going on in Lottie’s life. Thankfully, she’d caught wind of my obvious anxiety and seemed to be happier than she’d been the previous term, had even gone out of her way to assure me that nothing would happen in the time I’d be gone.

So she was staying with her mum for a short time, my brother promising to check in on her from time to time too, even whilst he was still deployed overseas, as well as a couple friends of mine. Truthfully, if I’d had to leave her without those extra reassurances in place I don’t think I would have gone.

But here I was, across the pond doing an interview for a magazine spread and shooting in New York. 

It had been a long day, a plethora of outfit changes and little food due to the constant rush of things, so I was thankful for the short break we’d been gifted before the last set was meant to start. Although saying that, I was still stuck staring down at two pairs of heels that had been pushed into my arms the second I’d stumbled away from the cameras.

Eventually I grew tired of chewing on my lower lip and pulled out my phone.

Messages  Help Which shoes?

His response wasn’t immediate but came sooner than expected.

Messages  The Martian Why

With a roll of my eyes, accompanied by a semi-amused sigh, I shot another text back. Because in truth, what had I really expected? I’d learned all too quickly the man wasn’t made for texting.

Messages  I said help?? Forget it, can you call?

The ringing was practically instantaneous, enough so that the sound made me jump at its unexpectedness. 

“You got a foot fetish I don’t know ‘bout?”

I smiled at the sound of his voice and then laughed at the absurdity of his greeting. “Hi to you, too. And no, but if that’s something you’re into I’d rather not know.”

Marshall hummed around a mouthful of swallowed words before there was a slight sound of movement that echoed down the line alongside a door clicking shut.

“Did I interrupt?” I questioned, thinking back to the conversation we’d had earlier that same morning. He hadn't mentioned any set plans but I knew that he tended to frequent the studio at odd hours whenever inspiration hit. “I was just messing before, it’s not that important.”

“You’re fine, they can wait. Wanted to grab something anyway.” He said and the reply warmed me, there weren’t many who’d go out of their way to make time for me. Although that was just me assuming again. “You good?”

I slumped back into the dressing room chair at the ask, it was a ballache to get comfy in but I wouldn’t dare complain about it now, not after having spent two hours sat dead still in the fucking thing. “Just a long day. Got these last few shots to get done and then I’ll be free.”

My voice sounded wistful enough before my face then scrunched at the sudden gurgle given by my stomach. It must have been just loud enough for the mic to have picked up because Em was quick to question, “You eaten yet?”

I shook my head, forgetting for a split second that we weren’t on one of our usual Facetime calls. “Going to, after I get this done.”

A grunt resonated, broken up by the sound of cabinets being opened and closed, “Idiot.”

Smiling at the one word response I’d garnered, I peered back over at the shoes I still had to pick between. I sighed, “Swear it, I’m gonna head straight back to the hotel and order a shit ton of food. Probably pass out beside a bowl of gravy or summat before I have to be at the airport.”

There was a brief pause.

“Paul did sort the tickets right?”

“Yeah, Mila emailed them yesterday.” I reassured him as I reached up to rub at my eye, stopping a second short of actually doing so, having forgotten about the makeup that would have to be redone if I went and followed through on the action. “Again, you didn’t have to do that.”

“What I tell you?” He reminded me and I huffed out a small chuckle.

“To shut the fuck up about it?”

Marshall hummed once more, “Exactly. A car will be outside once you land.”

My lips pursed as I fought to dampen my appreciative grin, knowing he’d somehow hear it, even from a state away. Which was a strange thing to think about, having been an entire ocean apart for the majority of time we’d spoken. That first phone call felt like a lifetime ago almost. “Car’s a bit much, I don’t mind grabbing a cab or calling for one.”

He didn’t deign that with an audible answer.

“Em, I’m serious.” I laughed, the stress I’d felt earlier about the shoot slowly falling away, enough so that I let myself relax into the chair out of hell. “You’re already doing so much for me. I mean, the flights alone but, you’re already letting me stay with you too.” 

And wasn’t that an insane concept, but he’d been adamant on it, claimed it made no sense for me to rent some pricey room in the city when he had more than enough in that big old house of his. I had pressed in return though, told him it was more than fine, me holding up in some hotel, and that I didn’t want to feel as though I’d be stepping on anyone’s toes, or become this ominous presence that he had to keep sidestepping around in his own home. But then the topic of paps had come up, safety, keeping the album underwraps. I hadn’t been able to argue with him much after that. He was a paranoid fucker, but from what I’d heard from him in small snippets, he had his reasons.

“Car will be outside.” He repeated a second time, leaving no room for much more said on the topic, so I gave in, sliding down slightly further in the crappy chair just as a rep ran by the room calling out to me. “Got to go?” He asked, having heard the shout too.

I wet my lower lip, allowing my eyes to close for a moment. “Two minutes.” But I knew that I'd blink and they’d be over too soon.

I listened to his low chuckle resonate and let go of a slow breath at the sound, a sudden tiredness overcoming me. 

“Call me when you get back.” I heard him say, more background noise filtering through his end that told me his time was more than likely up too. “And, the blue.”

My brow pinched at the last comment he gave me before my eyes flickered back over to the two pairs of heels perched on the dresser, one black, one blue. I cracked a grin, “Go Lions?”

I could almost hear the smirk in his retort, “You know it.”

The shoot went over about as well as expected after the short break concluded. It seemed that everybody was about as ready to head out as I was, but I was just so grateful to all of them for the work and effort they’d put in that I made a quick round of thanking the few that hadn’t darted straight out the door the second they could, before I eventually followed.

So by the time I made it back to my hotel it was late enough that the lobby was rowdy with the usual partygoers and a rather large bridal party. I slipped into a lift as quickly as I could and headed straight up to my floor, all too relieved to finally kick off my shoes and topple into bed after having been on my feet since four that morning.

I didn’t earn much reprieve though, seeing as soon after I’d put in an order to room service that my phone started to ring. I groaned into the pillow petulantly before I finally heaved a large sigh and made my way down the duvet to grab at the mobile I’d dropped there upon entering.

“Yeah?”

“Ouch. Haven’t spoken in weeks and that’s the only greeting I get?”

I blinked at the startling sound of a familiar voice and forced myself back up into a sitting position, smiling brightly at the surprise. “I didn’t know it was you!” I retorted quickly, shocked by the sudden call, “I thought you would phone when you got to your next base!”

“There was a switch up, got a couple days off here after–” He paused and I knew then that something must have happened out there.

“You okay?” I murmured, voice quiet but not enough to go unheard. It was always hard hearing about the things my little brother experienced when he was out deployed, but he loved it. It had been his life since the moment he’d left home at eighteen and had enlisted. I felt foolish after I’d asked it and winced at my question, “Sorry, that was stupid. I just meant–”

Danny’s laughter filtered through then, making me feel a tad bit lighter. It was always so hard talking about serious shit with him sometimes, but if there was anyone who could brighten up a room, even one full of the walking dead, then it would have to be him. Which is why I let myself laugh too when he ribbed into me for the stumble, making fun of the way I’d gone and fretted over my poor choice of words.

“Fuck off! I’m running on like four hours sleep and have yet to eat!” I shot back at him, shaking my head at the entire conversation, grateful that we could just jump back and forth between both the good and the bad. I missed him a whole lot sometimes, it was hard not knowing if he was safe. “I’m tryna be a good sister here!”

“Uhuh,” He drolled, dragging the dull sound out. Before he switched things up, “Speaking of, you spoke to Lottie since you've been gone?”

I chewed on the inside of my cheek at the ask, falling back into the mountain of pillows the hotel offered only to glance up at the stark ceiling. “Yesterday. I’ll text her in a sec though, she’ll probably just be getting out of school.” I looked over at the clock to double check that and hummed. “Why, have you?”

“No,” Danny answered me carefully, “But I phoned mum.”

My tongue worked its way between my front teeth at the mere mention of her. “Right. What did she have to say then?” But I was already regretting asking. 

“Said she ain’t seen you. That Lotts got dropped off in some car with a suitcase a couple days ago.”

I felt the skin around my eyes tighten before I took a deep breath, “That so?” 

It was almost funny how much the woman could change and flip things around to better suit her narrative. Lotts had stayed at a friend’s the night before I’d been set to fly out here, she’d been more than happy to have been dropped off at her mums and so I didn’t know why it was now being made into a bigger deal, as though I’d shoved her in some randomer’s car without so much as a goodbye. 

He must have realised I was silently stewing because I didn’t miss the light chortle Danny tried to cover up with a cough.

“I know she’s hard work, El, trust me.” He commented after, always playing the role of referee, “Just surprised me, is all, when she said she hadn’t seen you.”

Hollowing out my cheeks to keep from taking out my agitation on him, I took a second to calm back down and find the best answer to give. “I haven’t seen her because I don’t go there.”

“What, to the house?”

My eyes slipped closed at the startled disbelief in his tone. “Where else? Why would I want to go back there, Dan?”

We knew each other so well that I could practically see his lazy shrug, it made me miss him that much more. “Just figured, you know?”

No, you don’t know. I wanted to say, but wouldn’t. I couldn’t be like her, have the kids running around trying to keep track of who said and did what. I hummed quietly to myself instead, feigning disinterest when really my skin had begun to itch at the reminder. “She okay then?” I asked just for something to say, figuring that there must have been something going on for him to have mentioned it.

“Reckon so,” He replied easy enough though, probably having recognised something or other in my voice to keep from prodding much more on the previous topic, “Sounded off on our call but didn’t mention anything. Still, figured I’d let you know seeing as Lotts is there with her.”

My eyes suddenly stung and I hissed out a curse, “What did she sound like? Slurred, or?”

He knew exactly what I was getting at with that and thankfully was quick to reassure me, “Nah, nothing like that I don’t think. Just sketchy, like all jumpy and shit– careful with her words almost.” 

“Right.” I dragged out in a slow exhale, thinking it over. The question of going back home now spun round in my mind.

“Don’t.” I heard Danny say not a moment later as though he knew exactly what train of thought I'd hopped on, “You’re working, things are fine. Lotts is fine. Everything's good. So just enjoy yourself, yeah? Stop worrying so much.”

“Hard not to.” I huffed and rubbed at my eye.

His next words sounded apologetic, which wasn’t heard too often with him. “Shouldn’t have mentioned it, just wanted to keep you in the know.”

Immediately I shook my head at his retort, “No, you were right to. I mean, you’re a world away and I’d want you to let me know if you thought something was up rather than keeping it quiet and something happening.” 

“You’re a world away too.” He laughed at me, and it was nice for just a moment to listen to the familiarity of it. 

Danny was only three years younger than me, but that gap in age had only ever felt so large when we’d been kids– me sheltering him from everything going on at home until he’d grown too old to not to understand– and now. What with me looking after Lottie practically fulltime and him being stationed thousands of miles away, us only seeing each other when the odds willed it. 

“Don’t mean that you should go and get all pissy over this.” He said, pulling my attention back, “Stressing will just fuck you up more so than you already are.”

I snorted at the irony of that. “Alright, pipe down Private Ryan.”

“Ha ha.” He deadpanned in a way that only your brother could, “When d’you get funny?”

Humoured, my scowl didn’t quite radiate enough scorn and neither did my reply seeing as I went and chuckled around it, “I’ve always been the funnier sibling. Just ask Lotts.”

“Nah, Lotts would say herself and then me.” Danny argued for the sake of it, “Face it, Els. You’re old.”

“Twat.” I shot back childishly, though he merely laughed.

“Yeah, but you’re the cause of it.” He quipped, grinning now, I was sure of it, before he went and changed the subject entirely, “How ‘bout them Giants, anyway?”

Rolling my eyes hard enough to feel a slight strain, I granted the idiot a small chuckle. “You actually care enough to ask?”

“Nah,” He breezed on through a heavy breath, “I’ll stick to the FC, thanks. Just figured since you mentioned you were out in New York.”

I hummed softly, peering over towards the window. The blinds were now open, not still pulled from when I’d forgotten about them in the rush I’d been in this morning, so I figured someone must’ve opened them when they’d come in to clean. Which, even after all these years, still made me feel weird. Sure, it was their job but I hated the thought of people clearing up after me. Even more so when I remembered having had the same role down at the local pub back home. 

“It’s fine, chilly, but it’s October, you know?”

Danny’s ever typical smirk was prominent in his next set of words, “Still warm over here, think I’m actually catching a tan.”

Chuckling, I kicked my legs out over the duvet. “I’m so jealous it hurts. How is it out there anyway? Never been to Cyprus, heard it’s lovely– that’s still where you’re at right?”

He acknowledged it in a soft hum, “Yeah we are, and it’s alright, not as good as Mali though. Miss it there, the food, the people.”

I smiled softly to myself at the nostalgic yearning he voiced. Vaguely remembering his few mentions of a girl during our short calls and odd texts when he’d been there, but I didn’t ask. Thing was with Danny, if he wanted to talk about something he would. Otherwise it was like squeezing water from a sodding stone. “You know where you’re headed next?”

“No, on leave for a bit after this so I’ll find out sooner or later.”

I perked up at that. “What, you headed home then?”

It had been a good few months since I’d last seen the kid in person, let alone had him back home with us.

Danny must have anticipated my excitement because he laughed brightly in turn and his voice was full of warmth, “Yeah, so you’d best get ready to see my mug in a couple weeks.”

My mind tallied up the next month or so of my schedule. I was in Detroit for the next two weeks on an odd sort of break I’d somehow managed to pull, seeing as I was still somewhat ‘working’ and had put in extra hours before flying out. Then I’d been asked to do a couple of video interviews, mostly to keep up appearances and hint at new music in the works– but I could do that anywhere. Everything after that was up in the air.

“You got a place to stay?” I was quick to query and he must have known what I was getting at by asking.

“I’ll swing by mum’s and pick up the spare set of keys I have there, make sure my room’s ready before I get to yours, yeah? Want fresh sheets and a gift basket waiting.”

The fucking cheek. “I haven’t touched it since you left the last time, so if you’ve got shitstained pants lying about or a goldfish in there, then I’ll expect you’ll be in for a right treat.”

“Ah shit! Forgot about Nemo.” He snarked, but it was followed by a snort, “Dick. Besides, I haven’t and you know it.”

I hummed dubiously and then laughed when he clucked his tongue at me, probably geering up to argue, but then the door sounded. I stopped short at the rapid taps and was instantly reminded of the call I’d put in earlier. “Sorry, it’s probably room service.” I told him, already sliding off the bed to head on over towards the knock, “Forgot about it when you rang.”

“No worries,” He said easily, “I’ll try and call you again in a couple days, yeah?”

I paused at that, “What? No, you don’t have to hang up!”

Danny just chuckled though and I could see him sat there humoured by my reaction as he shook that big old head of his. “It’s fine, if you look as tired as you fucking sound then you’ll be out like a light sooner or later. I’ve still got some time here to piss away anyway so I’ll text.”

I couldn’t find it in me to be much annoyed by his quip, he was probably right. “Okay, it was nice to hear your voice though.” I admitted as I went and opened the door to let in a guy with a silver trolley, I thanked him quietly with a smile of my own and a tip as he left.

“You’re welcome.” Danny teased snidely once the door had closed, “Always happy to shed a bit of laughter into your life. Can’t imagine you get too many people brightening up your day out there.”

I rolled my eyes. 

“They ain’t all bad.” I informed him in reply to that Yank reference of his, picking up a chip as I did so, they were still steaming and hot enough to scold my mouth. 

“That so?” Danny wondered out loud, “Got someone special out there, have ya?”

“Fuck off, Danny!” I all but sung, chuckling when he started calling out ‘I knew it’ and making stupid kissy noises into the phone, forever a fucking wind up. “You’re so far from right but whatever. Now can I go eat or you gonna bother me some more?”

“Yeah, yeah. Enjoy your food– and the mystery man!”

He hung up before I could even think to conjure up a word, leaving the room in relative silence. Baffled, I resorted to shaking my head then moved to pick up the few plates I’d ordered, taking them over towards the bed and turning on the tele more for sound than actual entertainment. 

I only glanced back down at my phone again when it buzzed against the plush white sheets beside me. I continued chewing, but felt my brow pinch slightly as I looked back on a few texts and emails I’d received whilst on my call with Danny. I reasoned that I could ignore most of them until tomorrow when I had time to waste waiting on my flight, but there was one that my eye got stuck on.

Messages  The Martian You get back ok?

Typically, it was me that texted and Em who called. But seeing as how the roles here had suddenly reversed I forgoed typing back and instead clicked on the little video camera icon in the top right corner of our chat. 

It rang for a beat, then two.

“The fuck’s this?”

I held the phone up a little higher at the voice, having gotten a bit lost in the lifetime show which had been playing on the tv as well as my food. Glancing down, I was glad to spot his surly face peering back into the camera and smiled, before I caught sight of myself in the small box at the bottom and grimaced. Danny had been right, I looked half dead.

“And what’s with the face?”

With a wrinkle of my nose, I pulled my gaze away from the box figuring that the first time this man had seen me was possibly at my worst so what difference did this make? Still, I answered him. “I look dead.”

He blew an amused breath out of his nose and I realised a second too late that he was walking around in a room I had yet to see, before he eventually fell back onto a plethora of dark sheets. I realised he must’ve been getting ready to turn in when I called. He looked a little tired too, eyes heavier under the dim lights of his bedroom. “You’ve got a black eye. Looks tough.”

The corner of my mouth tugged upwards at the odd compliment as I brought the phone in closer to get a better look at the eye I’d gone and rubbed earlier, smearing a shit ton of glitter and eyeliner all over my cheek. I droned in retort, wiping underneath my waterline in an attempt to somehow save it, but it seemed it didn’t work the way I hoped, not from the smug look Marshall was now sporting. I flipped him off and fell back further into the pillows, taking the plate of chips I’d ordered with me.

“I forgot to take it off when I got in.” I explained, huffing out a slight chuckle, “But I doubt that even I can make glitter look tough.”

Em appeared to tilt his head in a ‘whatever you say’ sort of way, before his eyes turned surveying. “You finally fillin’ up?”

My expression shifted at the way he’d phrased that but whilst he seemed humoured by the reaction he obviously wasn’t just asking for the fun of it. “Yeah, a strange assortment but I’ll take it.”

He looked a little bemused by my answer and so I shifted to better show him what I was talking about. I first pointed out the glass cup I had balancing nearby, perched beside a plate of gooey goods, “I got some weird iced tea ‘cause I forgot that you lot don’t know how to do it right, as well as this cake selection thing.” He hummed, hand coming up to rest on his chest just as I picked up another chip covered in ketchup. “And then just a bowl of chips. Don’t tell anyone but this hotel’s room service sucks ass.”

I watched on as he raised a brow at the shoddy American accent I’d equipped for the end of that sentence before he eventually replied, “Fries.”

“Yeah no.” I rolled my eyes, chewing on another chip just to spite him for the correction. It was one of the many things I couldn’t wrap my head around whenever I was visiting. 

“The hell they’re not.” Marshall was quick to shoot straight back, “You go out and ask for chips at some restaurant you’re gettin’ looked at like an odd fucker. And anyway, how's that a meal?”

“It’s food.” I enforced with a soft snort, pleased to have gotten him a little riled up, “At this point I’d eat gum off your shoe, I’m that hungry. And anyway, fries is only used here and in like, fast food chains?”

“Rolling back round to that foot fetish. This a hint?” He ragged, but his face remained stoic enough that I had to laugh, and loudly too. Marshall just continued on though, still stuck on the debate, “They’re legit french fries.”

“Fuck’s sake, only you call them that! Over there it’s just fried potato.”

“Exactly fuckin’ fries!” It was probably the most animated I’d seen him in a couple days, all because we were both so hellbent on being right. 

I groaned, mostly just to keep up the act. I didn’t much care either way at this point, far too exhausted from the early morning start and too little sleep, but it was nice to finally see him not stressing. Something which had become a recurrence over the passing weeks since the idea of the album had started to come into reality. 

“Whatever. We’ll just call up the Oxford Dictionary tomorrow or whatever, ask them.”

“Biased jury.” He remarked but then there was a barely audible creak and his attention was being redirected to something beyond the screen. “Hey, baby. You have a good time?” I heard him mumble, the phone having lowered a tad.

There was an excited retort that seemed to grow closer, but my breath was caught in the back of my throat at the sudden realisation of just who it had to have been.

Marshall sat up a little further, shoulders coming to rest against the headboard so that he could hug the girl that crept into the corners of the screen. He pressed a kiss to the side of her head, murmuring in her ear, and I let my eyes flicker back down to my food, feeling like I was intruding on a tender moment.

I’d always known that he had kids, anyone who listened to his music could tell you that much, and he’d briefly mentioned them a handful of times in the time we’d spoken too. But I had yet to meet either the infamous Rosie or his eldest daughter, seeing as she was fresh out of college and his youngest wasn’t often around when we did speak. 

They spoke back and forth in a soft cadence for a while and when I chanced a glance back down at my phone I found that Em had me perched on his knee, now sat up on the mattress so that he could better talk to his daughter who sat opposite. I didn’t want to interrupt or just hang up, so I took the time to tidy away the bowl I held, as well as the iced tea I didn’t much like the look of. I was quiet with it, pushing them back onto the trolley but kept hold of the small plate of cakes I had on the bedside table, having had an eye on one of the brownies since it had first been wheeled in.

I still had a couple of makeup wipes left in the packet I’d used that morning by the bed, so I used one to swipe away the heavy black sat under my eyes, internally promising myself that I would cleanse before I ultimately fell asleep.

“Really? Show me!”

I seemed to tune back in at the sound of the small voice, face a little glowy and a touch red from the wipe I’d just used but thankfully now free of smudgy panda patches. 

“You there?”

Blinking, I realised belatedly that Marshall had been addressing me there. I was confused and a little slow in reapproaching the screen, but smiled softly at the sight of Em and his actual mini me, because it was just maddening how much of him she had been given.

“I’m here.” I said, almost a little shyly, unsure but prepared to end the call so that he could spend some time with his daughter. But he went and surprised me, completely actually, because he handed the phone over to Rosie who beamed at the sudden sight of me, gaze lighting up with some sort of recognition.

She was young, I noted, younger than Lottie by a couple of years but not by many. She wore her long hair in a ponytail with a pretty bow at the very top, as well as a smile that seemed to only emphasise her bright eyes. “I can’t believe you’re the El Dad’s been talking about.”

Out of everything I’d expected her to say, that had been pretty low on the list– if it had even been there at all. My mouth parted just as my eyes darted over to where Marshall was sat just behind the girl, still in shot but off to the side. He acted as though he hadn’t heard a word, gaze stuck on the hand he was running through the end of the girl’s hair. Ah, so it was like that, was it?

“Oh yeah?” I ended up chuckling, mostly to ease my emotions and the whirling thoughts that had erupted, immensely glad that I’d had the foresight to wipe my face clean before she’d said hello. I could only guess that she’d probably heard some of my music from that reaction, before I was hastily reminded of the fact that she had been one of the few that had shown Em that video of me. 

There was a hurried nod of her head, “Your songs are some of my favourites!”

I grinned softly at that, immensely pleased by the sweet sentiment, and only hoped that her favourites were some of my newer stuff, instead of the few songs I’d realised before I’d gotten signed, those were angry and aimed at a whole other audience.

“I’ve listened to a couple of yours too.” I shot back teasingly, smile only growing when I caught sight of Em’s slight frown as well as Rosie’s own, “My favourite songs from your dad all feature you.”

She seemed to like that answer and giggled, going on to tell me a little about the last song she could remember helping with. I listened attentively, nodding along and commenting when I could, actually surprised by the amount of knowledge she seemed to have picked on whilst growing up around her dad.

It was just after she said something about the upcoming album that her eyes went wide in shock and she gasped, spinning back around to look at her dad over her shoulder. Marshall stared, baiting the kid into thinking she’d gone and let the big secret slip, which in itself had me fighting down a chuckle, before he soon cracked. 

He cowered playfully when Rosie jumped at him, giggling at the thought that she’d gone and ruined it all for him, only growing louder when the man tickled her sides to roll her off him. The camera followed the pair, landing with a thump somewhere on the floor, before Marshall was back, obviously having picked it up and holding it up high enough so that I could see the little girl’s narrowed eyed expression behind him. Her smile did little to infuse the scowl she bore. 

I bit back my own.

Em took a deep breath and steeled his expression a tad, “Try that again, girlie. I dare you.”

“Dad.” The girl complained as the man knocked her back down when she tried to kneel her way on closer to the phone. I laughed quietly at them and shook my head, catching him watching me for a second too long when I looked back, but then he was sitting over by the headboard again, encouraging the girl to join him too.

When she poked her tongue out at him, he pulled a face in return. It was a moment I was content to be a part of but which also reminded me of the days of when Lotts had been that young, back before I’d managed to score studio time or even a meeting with a label exec.

I must've been wearing an odd look because Marshall’s mouth twitched when he glanced back at me, lifting a single eyebrow. I knew what he was asking with the action and so I dipped my chin in a slow gesture to assure him I was okay.

The night continued on like that for a little while longer, just the three of us talking, Rosie telling us about the afternoon she’d spent with her sister, before Em finally managed to rouse her into getting ready for bed. I took that to be lights out for me too, listening quietly whilst he sent the little girl on her way, promising that he’d be there to tuck her into bed in just a second.

My smile was all mushy when his door rattled shut, I knew it too but was too tired to hide it so simply settled for relaxing my head further against the headboard. His face went through a rapid relay of emotions when he caught it though, before he eventually stamped out anything recognisable. I blinked blearily in return.

“‘Til tomorrow?” I assumed, chuckling softly whilst he dragged a hand over the top of his head. I noticed then that the blond was gone.

He gave a hum, voice low in the quiet of his room, “You gotta be up to catch a plane.”

A wave of anticipation hit me at the very reminder and even as sleepy as I felt, I continued to smile. “I do.”

A quiet pause dragged between us, an odd tension building. I waited for him to say something, perhaps another reminder or–

“Get some sleep.”

Or that.

I swallowed back my grin and then nodded. “You too.”

The tiniest beginnings of a curl could be made out on his lips before he shook his head and turned, leaving me with a black screen and a tally of our time spent on call.

3 hours 17 minutes

[weirdtvland]

Betty Davis photographed by Fin Costello, 1976.

"When I got back to New York, I went into the studio in May to complete the 'Miles in the sky' album with Herbie, Wayne, Ron, and Tony. In June, after we had finished 'Miles in the Sky', we went into the studio to began the 'Filles de Kilimanjaro' album. Then we went on tour all summer and finished the album later in September."

"Things weren't going too well with me and Cecily (Tyson), and we broke up because I met this beautiful young singer and songwriter named Betty Mabry, whose picture is on the cover of 'Filles de Kilimanjaro'. We also had a song on there named for her, 'Mademoiselle Mabry'. Man I was really in love again and fell really good about Betty. She was twenty-three when I met her and was from Pittsburgh. My divorce from Frances had come through in February of 1968, and so Betty and I were married that September while the group was playing a gig at the Plugged Nickel. We got married in Gary, Indiana, and my brother and sister stood for me."

"Betty was a big influence on my personal life as well as my musical life. She introduced me to the music of Jimi Hendrix and to Jimi Hendrix himself and other black rock music and musicians. She knew Sly Stone and all those guys, and she was great herself. If Betty were singing today, she'd be something like Madonna: Something like Prince but only as a woman. She was the beginning of all that when she was singing as Betty. She was just ahead of her time. She also helped me change the way I was dressing. The marriage only lasted about a year, but that year was full of new things and surprises and helped me point the way I was to go, both in music and in some ways, my lifestyle."

"The music I was really listening to in 1968 was James Brown, the great guitar player Jimi Hendrix, and a new group who had just come out with the hit record, "Dance to the music," Sly and The Family Stone, led by Sly Stewart from San Francisco. The shit he was doing was badder than a motherfucker, had all kinds of funky shit up in it. But it was Jimi Hendrix that I first got into when Betty Mabry turned me on to him. I first met Jimi when his manager called up and wanted me to introduce him to the way I was playing and putting music together. Jimi liked what I had done on 'Kind Of Blue' and some other stuff and wanted to add more jazz elements to what he was doing. He liked the way Coltrane played with all those sheets of sound, and he played the guitar in a similar way. Plus, he said he heard the guitar voicing that I used in the way I played the trumpet. So we started getting together. Betty really liked this music, and later, I found out she liked him physically too, and he started to come around."

"See, Betty was too young and wild for the things I expected from a woman. I was used to a cool, hip, elegant woman like Frances or Cicely. Who could handle herself in all kinds of situations. But Betty was a free spirited-talented as a motherfucker who was a rocker and street woman who was used to another kind of thing. She was raunchy and all of that kind of shit, all sex, but I didn't know that when I met her and if I did, I guess, I didn't pay attention. But that was the kind of shit she would do, and with the other stuff she was doing, I just got tired of it. "

"After we left Bill and Camille, I went to London to see Sammy Davis Jr., who was over there opening up in Golden Boy. I also saw Paul Bobeson; I tried to see him whenever I went to London until he came back to the States. I was hanging out with people who had a lot of class, but Betty wasn't comfortable around those kinds of people. She only liked rockers, and that's cool, but I always had a lot of good friends who weren't musicians, and Betty couldn't deal with those kinds of people, and we were just moving away from each other."

"Later on in New York, I ran into this beautiful Spanish girl who wanted to go to bed with me. I go over to her place, and she tells me that Betty is going with her boyfriend. When I asked her who he and she told me, "Jimi Hendrix." She was a blonde, fine motherfucker. So she takes off her clothes and she has a body that just wouldn't wait. I tell her. "If Betty wants to fuck Jimi Hendrix. That's their thing, and I ain't got nothing to do with that, and it ain't got nothing to do with me, either." She tells me if Betty was going to be fucking her man, then she was going to fuck me. I tell her, "It don't go like that, because I don't fuck anybody for reasons like that. If you're going to fuck me, then you got to want to do it because you want to do it, not because Betty is fucking Jimi." She put her clothes on and we talked. Man, that shit I told her just fucked her up. Because she was so fine that she was used to men just falling down over themselves to get her. Just because a woman is fine don't mean nothing to me and never did; I've always had fine women. For me to really get into them, they also have to have a mind and think about something other than how fine they are."

"After that, my relationship with Betty just went downhill. After I told her what I knew and her and Jimi asked her for a divorce- I told her I was getting a divorce. She said, "Naw, you ain't either, fine as I am, you know you don't want to give up this good thing!"Oh yeah? Well, bitch, I'm divorcing you, and I already got the papers made out so you'd better sign them if you know what's good for your ass!" She did, and that was the end of that." -From Miles Davis' autobiography.

[weirdgenetic-fuckup]

heyy can u do a fem reader x slash smut with like daddy kink and praise kink or some shit like that. he’s just so damn fine and also the most recent slash one u did was 10/10 anyways thanks sweetie

A/n: I've had this idea for SO LONG and I needed an excuse to finally write it so thank you <3

Warnings: Smut, age gap, fingering (f receiving), squirting, daddy!kink, praising, if you think I missed anything let me know otherwise enjoy!

Part 2

You were living with Duff for University, it was cheaper for you to go to school in a different country and he happened to have signed up to take in exchange students. Duff was an advocate for better education and obviously wanted to do what he could so why not?

He was great and when he found out you were into rock he wanted to introduce you to his band, Guns N' Roses.

He brought you down to the studio just so you could sit around and hang out. You, however, noticed a certain someone paying special attention to you.

Slash had a hard time taking his eyes off of you and you didn't miss the way he continued to shift uncomfortably in his seat every few minutes.

You weren't sure who brought it up since you hadn't been in the room when they were discussing it but Duff told you about Slash's oldest son, London, and said he was around your age so he wondered if you'd want to hang out.

You agreed since Duff and Susanne had been talking about a date night anyway, thus leading to you spending the night at Slash's house.

London was nice enough, you shared some interests and had a fun time but when it got later you retreated to the guest room.

You tossed and turned but you couldn't ignore the sounds coming from the downstairs TV. You got out of bed and made your way towards the noise and found Slash on the couch watching some horror movie from the 1980's.

He didn't seem to notice you until you sat down on the couch. He glanced over at you, shamelessly eyeing you in a band shirt and nothing else. It was big enough to cover you but even so it had him readjusting himself again.

"What're you doing down here?" He asked, keeping his voice low though no one should be awake to hear.

"I heard the TV." You replied simply, gesturing to the glowing light across the room.

Slash pat the spot next to him. "Come closer, no need for you to be over there." You hesitated a moment, biting your lip before moving closer to him.

He had his arm over you, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. Knowing he enjoyed this you leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder.

You weren't watching the movie and you sure Slash wasn't either, you were too busy thinking about Slash and that musky smell coming from him, his big hands resting on you and the couch. Fuck, you couldn't get him off your mind.

"What do you think you're doing?" Slash asked, not taking is eyes off the TV. You looked up at him with a confused expression on your face. You hadn't even noticed the way you were mindlessly touching yourself, your hand squeezed between your thighs, your hips bucking up every few seconds.

"I-I wasn't- I didn't-" You stuttered, trying to explain yourself and failing.

"C'mere." He ordered, patting his thigh. You moved to sit in his lap, your back pressed against his chest. He hooked your legs over his, spreading them with ease. He ran a hand over your thigh, teasingly tapping your sensitive inner thigh. "Now, why'd you really come down here?"

You bit your lip, back arching at his touch. "Wanted to see you."

"Just 'see'?" He whispered, words falling right into your ear. His hand moved further up, fingers rubbing your clit through you pretty lace panties. "Wet through your fucking panties already." He grinned. "Might as well take them off if they're gonna be that useless, huh?"

You nodded weakly, shifting in his lap to help him take them off of you. You gasped when his calloused fingers touched your bare clit, two rubbing the sensitive bud in circles.

You moaned at the feeling, letting your head fall back onto his shoulder. Slash slipped a finger into you and your eyes widened, another gasp leaving you.

Slash shushed you. "Watch your fucking voice." The digit inside you moved at a slow pace, pushing and prodding at your gummy walls until he found that heavenly spongey spot. Once he found it his pace gradually increased.

Your hands clenched and unclenched, begging for something to grip as Slash finger fucked you. "Fuck, just like that." You moaned, voice airy. He inserted another finger and you moaned louder at the stretch. "Oh, fuck, feels s'good."

A warmth grew in your gut, spreading to the rest of your body. Slash groped your chest, plump lips sucking your neck, his thick fingers sliding in and out of you, using your wetness as lube.

"You keep doing that, sweetheart." He muttered, referring to the way your walls kept fluttering around him. "Gonna be a good girl and cum on daddy's fingers." His words fueled the knot growing in you and when it snapped he pulled his fingers out of you and rubbed your clit.

Your vision went white, you couldn't hear how loud you were being but you felt Slash's free hand slapping over your mouth, you could hear his deep groans in your ear.

Your breathing was heavy and your body was twitching as you came down from your high. "Look at that." Slash's soft voice came in your ear. You struggled to figure out what he was talking about, soon you saw the puddle and splatters on the wooden floor in front of you, the wet spot on the couch more prominent than anything. "I'd definitely like to see that again."

"Dad?" A tired voice called. You panicked and sunk down on the couch, using Slash's broad body as coverage.

"Yeah?" Slash responded, looking over the back of the couch.

There was a long moment of silence before you heard footsteps walking away.

Slash looked down to you. "Fuck was that for?" You chuckled softly and moved back up the couch. Slash gave your thigh a pat. "Why don't you go to bed and I'll clean up for you?" You nodded, leaning against him for a moment before getting up.

You took a step away but Slash pulled you back, wrapping an arm around you and kissing your abdomen. "I'll be seeing more of you soon, right?" You smiled and nodded before heading back upstairs.

You paused outside the guest room, just a little ways further was Slash's room. He was still downstairs cleaning, he deserved a reward for that, right?

You slipped into his room and crawled into his bed. The sheets smelled just like him and you couldn't get the thought out of your mind of him getting in with you, knowing he slept naked.

You pulled a pillow close to you, inhaling his scent deeply before bringing it between your legs and grinding against it, eagerly waiting for him to come find you.

[aussiexlovexaffair]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ Roommate!Luke Headcanons ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

- moving in with Luke happened by chance

- he was pretty keen on staying with Liz for longer, but seeing as he was moving away to London to continue making music with the band, he couldn't do that.

- it didn't help that the label he was signed to, though the band was getting popular slowly, didn't have enough money for an apartment for the boys. they could only provide the studio.

- so he started looking online and around bulletin boards of the coffee shops he went to for adverts

- and lucky you— he saw yours ;)

- he didn't catch the name on the sign, just quickly taking one of the numbers from the bottom of the poster

- he reached out very kindly, saying that he was working in the area and he would have a stable-ish source of income

- and you, desperately needing some company and someone to help pay the bills, immediately suggested you get together over coffee to get to know each other better

- but he didn't expect you to be a girl— let alone a hot one.

- "hello, sorry to bother you, but do you mind if I sit with you? i'm waiting for someone." "oh of course, I am too, anyways!" "oh, neat!.. who are you waiting for?" "i'm meeting someone who is looking to room with me." - "....me too." - he just stares silently, blinking every once in awhile until you have to ease the awkward energy in the air, "are you Luke?" - "yEah." he cringes as his voice breaks

- but instead of making fun of him, you giggle at the red creeping up his neck and tell him it's alright

- and suddenly he's starting to think that taking that number was totally worth it. - he totally finds himself texting the boys groupchat after you two meet like "i just met the love of my life and i'm gonna be living with her 0-0"

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚Living with Him˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

- he makes a mess in the shower

- he wasn't a "making potions in the bath" kid but he does make them now with your skincare and haircare products in the shower

- his room is relatively clean, but it gets messy occasionally when he finds himself, like all boys his age, getting lazy

- he likes to split chores up evenly but he will try to convince you to do his

- one of his favorite things to do is jam out with you

- he likes having speakers around the house so no matter what time it is or where in the house you are, you two can listen to music and sing along

- he has stuffed animals given to him by fans all around the house because he can't find it in himself to toss them— and about a hundred get donated to you

- like all of the boys, he can be a bit of a perv

- especially when the boys are around and you walk out of the room because you can hear calum call him out for staring at you as you walk away

- but somehow he never gets yelled at by you because he does that thing when he gets caught making a suggestive joke or gesture when he goes all wide-eyed

- but the minute you do the same thing, he's gone completely red and he's rubbing the back of his neck softly as he tries to wrap his mind around the fact that you did that.

- he thinks about it for the next week at night.

- speaking of which, he's a very peaceful sleeper, but if he's really tired, he sounds like a foghorn

- luke is the type to wash his dishes and do yours too, but if he gets mad at you, trust the next time you go to the sink, all you will find is your own plates left to clean

- he's petty like that— especially when you bring home another person.

- he's got a bit of a temper and his reactions to them are more passive aggressive than straight on— and everything is whispered under his breath

- he'll bring it up over breakfast when he's having his bowl of cheerios, "...'saw some new shoes at the door last night..." "yeah, i brought someone over last night." "they looked cheap." "oh!.."

- and he'll do it to them too.

- and he'll interrogate them if he can.

- "so, d'you got a job?" "ah... no." "looks it."

- if he has a moment alone with them, the side eye he gives is INSANE

- "are you happy in your relationship, y/n?" "uhm.. yeah?" "...huh."

- but he's also incredibly sweet if you ignore his pettiness

- if he doesn't have anywhere to be and you have the night off, he'll insist you two do something

- at first when you suggest facemasks and doing each other's nails, he has an internal battle.

- he likes you, of course, and doesn't want you to see him as girly or like just a best friend, but after a bit of convincing, he's got a strawberry peel-off on his face and he's trying to stop the shaking of his hands as he delicately brushes on nail polish over your nails with a chick flick in the background

- but he's holding your hand, so it isn't that bad :))))

- he cannot cook for his life, but if you need help with something, he'll try his hand at anything

- he nearly burnt the apartment cooking soup at one point and from then on you decided he'd just be reading off the directions and cleaning up

- but he could make a mean mac and cheese, so if you ever get sick, trust he'll be making you some

- he's kinda icked out by sick people, but he ignores it because he's got a thing for you, so he comes into your bedroom with tea and mac and cheese while holding his breath.

- "Luke?" "..mmph?.." "are you holding your breath?" ".....mhm." - he isn't afraid to stand up for you though

- if you go to a bar, he'll insist on coming with you.

- he doesn't want a creep making a move on you when you're intoxicated

- if you get up and dance, he's a little more hesitant to follow you because while he might do it at the apartment, dancing in front of so many people his age seems like social suicide

- but seeing a guy coming up behind you and dancing with you has the most pathetic whine leaving his lips as he drags his hands through his quiff and he finds himself dragging a very intoxicated roommate back to the house

- "you shouldn't flirt with people like that, i don't know why you'd do that really." "but they were cute!" "so am i!" - and now he's gotta stop you from stumbling as he walks you to your room and brushes your teeth for you and helps you change— all the while he's staring at the ceiling and you're making fun of him for it. - but he can't leave you— you're drunk! - so now he's curled up at the foot of the bed, fully dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, converse and beanie still on, and laying on top of the blankets because he doesn't want you to get the wrong idea when you wake up.

- btw there's an aspirin and a bottle of water on the bedside table— courtesy of Luke Hemmings