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orlaunderrated · 13 hours ago
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The Edges of Us: Chapter 32
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Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader
Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.
Word Count: 2.9k+
Note: Second Last Chapter!!!
im literally SPEECHLESS at the reception TEOU has garnered. thank you for letting me write with you all 🙏🙏🙏🙏
xxx
I think all this “being a better person” nonsense has actually changed me. Not in some self-help-book way — I mean it’s rewired something in me.
How many times have I nearly wrecked a relationship because someone tried to help me and I mistook it for an insult?
How many times have I lashed out because someone suggested an opportunity — and I heard criticism?
Last week, I came home from work to my boyfriend — my boyfriend, still makes me giddy just saying that — suggesting I look into a job that’s going with Sidemen Clothing.
They’re building an app for their products, and Will thought it might suit me.
He said it like it was a casual idea, something that had just popped into his head. But I knew he’d been thinking about it.
Normally, I would’ve snapped.
I would’ve folded my arms and accused him of trying to meddle in my life.
But I didn’t.
I told him calmly (almost carefully) that I moved to London to be a programmer. That I am good at it. That I was headhunted, and they paid me well to move halfway across the world for this role.
Will nodded.
“Yeah, and your contract said minimum of six months,” he said. “It’s mid-November. You got off that plane in January.”
That pulled me up short.
He was right — I’ve lived here nearly a year. And suddenly I could hear that familiar question ringing in my head: Do I go back home for Christmas?
If I don’t book soon, flights will get expensive. That thought alone made my stomach twist. I shake it off. Im having a conversation here.
I wanted to argue with him — to tell him he doesn’t understand hard work.
But that isn’t fair.
He does work hard. His day might not start at 7am like mine, but he’s planning until midnight, editing until dawn, replying to fans, flying out at short notice. It’s not structured, but it’s relentless.
He runs a goddamn pre-packaged coffee business.
When Will does a good job, he gets an all-expenses-paid trip to Monaco, or Portugal, or some other sun-drenched place I’ve only seen on postcards.
When I do a good job, I get more work. That’s the reward.
More hours. More meetings. A new deadline.
I can’t fight him on this. Not anymore.
Will has softened me in ways I didn’t know I could be softened.
He’s chipped away at that stubborn, prickly version of me that always had to prove a point. I didn’t even realise how often I’d dig in my heels — until he gently started pointing it out.
“YN,” he said, quiet but sure. “You find your job completely miserable.”
“No, I don’t,” I replied. Reflexively. Defensively.
“You come home every day sulking about something. Complaining.”
And there it was.
He’s right.
Shit.
He didn’t say it to be mean. He said it like someone telling you it’s raining when you’re standing in the storm, soaking wet, and still pretending the sun’s out.
“And I don’t think you’re really that kind of person, normally,” he added. “When we’re away from it all, you’re so much… lighter.”
That word clung to me.
Lighter.
Like steam on a bathroom mirror — weightless, curling, slow to disappear.
And that’s when my mind flicked back to Bristol.
xxx
The next day, after Will and I… rekindled, was blissful. We spent the entire day floating through the main streets. Linked arm in arm, visiting a few spots I remember from the Exeter days. George and I went a handful of times. I don’t talk to Will about it, but he can tell. He knows. And he asks me about it, properly. Asks me to share that chapter of my life with him.
The day had been sweet and sun-drenched. I’d spent almost all of it with Will. The two of us peeled off from the others after brunch, walking too slowly through side streets and little shops, not really buying anything. We were all teeth and clumsy grins, bumping shoulders. Giddy. Tangled fingers. That weird magnetic feeling where you’re sure the other person is about to say what you’re thinking.
The whole day was just brilliant. I didn’t think about work once. Or even grumble, I think.
But it’s the ride back I keep returning to. That long, half-silent haul to London the day after everything tipped over.
That afternoon, we all met up again — Ruth, George, Arthur, the rest of them — and had one too many drinks. And then somehow, suddenly, it was the evening and we were dragging ourselves back to the station in a blur of hangovers and takeaway pastries.
The train ride was crowded and too warm. Someone had brought crisps that made the whole carriage smell like vinegar. Ruth was sitting diagonally across from me, bouncing one leg like she was holding back a secret. Will was beside me, knees touching mine, and I leaned against the window to cool my face.
That’s when Ruth looked over and said, far too loudly:
“You’re glowing, by the way.”
Everyone turned.
I laughed, tried to shrug it off.
“No, seriously,” she insisted. “What happened today? You two were like—”
And I just said it.
“We’re official.”
Out loud. In public. Like I’d just dropped a match on something soaked in petrol.
Both pods erupted — laughter, cheers, fake swoons. George clapped his hands together in this overly dramatic way that made me laugh even though something in my chest twisted.
He congratulated me. Said I looked happy. And he meant it, I think. But I could see the flicker behind his eyes. That brief, biting pause.
It made my heart swell and my stomach sink. All at once.
The mood shifted after that. Not in a bad way, just in a new way. Everyone was loud and tired and joking too much. Will squeezed my thigh under the table. I let him. I wanted him to.
Somewhere past Swindon, Ruth’s phone started pinging relentlessly. She kept glancing down, swiping away banners.
“What’s going on?” I asked eventually.
“Oh my God, you haven’t seen?”
“Seen what?”
She blinked, then laughed. “Oh my God, wait — you deleted Instagram.”
I nodded.
“Well.” She grinned. “We kind of went viral.”
I frowned.
“At Arthur’s concert,” she explained, pulling up something on her phone, “the group behind us filmed him singing Adore You when he pointed at us — remember that?”
He pointed at her, let’s be real.
I did remember it. Barely. We were in the front part between the mosh pit and the stage. Arthur had pointed, smiled. Everyone had screamed. It was like any other part of the concert.
“Well,” she said, swiping again, “they posted it. And then you and Will making out on the balcony. Like, full on, hands-in-hair, cinematic, Taylor Swift-core snog. Twelve angles. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
I groaned, head in my hands.
The situation reminds me of when you make out with a stranger in a club and your mates take photos of you, pointing at you in the background.
But so much worse.
“They figured out who we are. Somehow.”
George leaned over the aisle to look at her phone.
“You’re all over TikTok,” he said, amused. “There’s even an edit. With sparkles.”
“Wait,” I said. “How? Like how do they know it's us. We’re not… important." Rut gives me a look. "Not like, famous, I mean." Will squeezes my thigh under the table. I forgot his hand was even there. He hates the word 'famous'.
“Someone linked your photos at the premiere with George,” Ruth said. “And I think you must have a photo of me posted somewhere. Even though I haven’t posted since, like, 2018. Your account’s still up though. So, they connected the dots.”
I laughed. What have I gotten myself into
“Jesus.”
“It’s kind of iconic,” Ruth said. “You’re like, recognisable now. To superfans. Like, UKYT fandom royalty.”
She said it with the kind of awe reserved for museum artifacts or rare celebrity sightings. I cant entirely tell if shes joking. She would make a fantastic groupie.
I looked down at my hands. I suddenly felt watched — retroactively observed, like the last forty-eight hours had been filmed from every angle. I didn’t even know what I’d worn the night before, or what my hair had looked like when we kissed.
“I’m in one of the TikToks too,” Ruth added. “From the side. Not flattering.”
I could hear George still laughing to himself.
George was right about the whole premiere thing. I think deep down I knew he was, but I didn’t want to believe it. I wanted him to be all mine, and I had no clue he never was, or ever would be. I was so stupid to have pushed for an invite, to push to be tagged in his photo. But because of his protecting words, of calling me his best mate to the interviewer and in his caption, I was a little more safe from the backlash.
Scrolling through the comments on Ruth's phone, they were mostly "I guess she really is just George's best mate," instead of anything more sinister.
Plus, we have the long standing social media presence to prove it. I’m in a lot of his early TikTok’s.
You can't see Ruth's face too much in the video of her, and Ruth is fucking stunning anyways. It seems she's been exempt from the backlash too.
“It’s not that deep,” Will whispered beside me, but his hand moved to find mine under the fold-down table. Warm. Solid. That helped.
We talked about it for a bit. About what a relationship looks like when one of you is in the public eye. The answer is these things will pop up and eventually, a year or so, we will post them ourselves.
Private-but-not-secret is the goal, eventually.
Outside the window, the world is plunged in darkness. I hate catching the train at night, there’s nothing to look at. No Hay bales. No Cows. No Half-built fences and long stretches of something. We were speeding forward, but my head was still back in that balcony moment. Still lit in stage lights and adrenaline. I didn’t know it was being captured. I didn’t know I was leaving behind evidence.
I mean I kinda did. Chris warned us. But I guess I didn’t care enough.
I still don’t, not really. I got the guy.
At Paddington, when we finally arrived, I caught sight of Arthur F vlogging in the crowd — phone up, smiling, filming his own face as fans swarmed. I knew, instinctively, that I’d be in the background. That maybe someone would slow the footage down, point me out. The girl in the corner. The one Will is smiling at.
xxx
“We just want you to be happy,” he says. Oh yeah, were having a conversation about jobs. “There are so many people in your life who see how brilliant and smart you are, and want you to be happy.”
I smile at that.
In January, I didn’t think that was true. I didn’t think it ever could be.
“And the Sidemen contract is only six months,” he goes on. “Just give it a go. Plus, Chris needs someone freelance right now — for editing. You’d be sick at that.”
“I don’t know how to edit.”
“I can get you enrolled in a course. And there’s one about how YouTube algorithms work too. You’d pick it up in no time — I’ve seen you mess around with this stuff before.” He's talking about when I took apart and reassembled Arthur's film camera for him. I just followed a YouTube tutorial, but I guess he's right.
I sit with that.
The idea doesn’t immediately repulse me — which is new.
“Would I have to, like… keep up an online presence or anything?”
“Not if you don't want to,” he shrugs. “Look at Orla and Aby. Even Ieuan. They barely post anything more than a regular person would.”
He's right.
Damn.
xxx
And that’s how I’m here, leaving a job interview for the Sidemen Clothing gig.
Chris just sent over a freelance contract, too. Its sitting in my inbox.
Fuck.
I might actually quit my job.
No — you know what? I am going to quit my job. Will’s right. It makes me miserable.
I took the morning off for the interview, and now I’m headed back in for lunch. But not to eat, I’m going in to hand in my resignation. I’ll offer to stay until the end of January — that’s when our current project wraps up, and when the Sidemen contract would start anyway. Plus, I don’t even know if I officially have the role yet.
But it feels right.
Knowing my director, he’ll probably tell me not to bother coming in tomorrow. But the joke’s on him. My contract says my salary’s paid through to the end of the project, regardless.
Perks of being valuable. (Or, at least, looking valuable on paper.)
If I’m so damn valuable, they should’ve treated me like it.
If I wasn’t so stubborn, I would’ve walked out the second the six-month clause ended. The feeling of being needed outweighed the feeling of being miserable for far too long.
But now?
Ruth, Will, Chris; they want me. David — the guy I met that one Sidemen shoot day — keeps texting about that other role, congratulating me for finally taking the step towards something cool. I’ve barely heard from him since, and he is still happy to hear I took the interview.
And for the first time in a while, I feel like I’m wanted. Not for my code, or my credentials, or my calendar. Just… me.
I feel valuable outside of work.
And not just because I am good at what I do. But because, I have friends.
And that feeling?
That feeling is enough.
xxx
I was so right.
My boss told me not to come in tomorrow. And it’s a Tuesday. A Tuesday. I’m going to celebrate by hanging out with my friends while we make an absolutely cracked amount of pesto pasta and pretend we’re all contestants on some chaotic, low-budget cooking show.
Well—Ruth and I are making pasta, as always. Matt is making his goddamn sticky date pudding again. If I have to clean that pot one more time, I swear I’ll scream. (He always leaves it to “soak,” which is just code for “you deal with it.”)
But I don’t even care. Because something is shifting.
Everything feels a little fizzy. A little bigger than me. Like for the first time in a long time, I’m not dragging my feet through the day or holding my breath between meetings. Like maybe, just maybe, I’m allowed to feel good about my life.
There’s something magic about this kitchen tonight. It’s loud and warm and smells like garlic and butter and comfort. Ruth is talking with her whole body, hands flying, apron askew. Matt’s doing his usual thing—dramatically narrating his pudding to Oscar like it’s a high-stakes bake-off finale.
And I’m here. Not thinking about Slack pings or code freezes or the anxiety that used to sit heavy in my chest like a brick. I feel light. Not like steam on a mirror��like I did in Bristol—but real light. Tangible. Weightless.
I catch myself smiling for no reason. I feel free. Like I just let go of something I’ve been clenching onto without realizing. Like this is the start of something better.
"Ruth, if I’m glowing, then you’re practically radioactive."
She laughs, that big full-body kind of laugh that makes her shake. But I’m not wrong. She’s all flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, like she’s been running on pure adrenaline and Aperol for three days straight.
Honestly, I was surprised she came home with us on Sunday. The way she looked at him? I was fully prepared for her to hop the barrier and follow him onto the tour bus. Groupie-core. But no. She came home. Back to us. She does have her tickets to Dublin and Paris booked though. Not that she paid for the Paris ones.
"I knew Paris wasn’t too on the nose," I tease, stirring the pesto with exaggerated smugness.
"Yeah, we know that now," she says, shooting me a look but not denying it.
There’s a quiet beat where we both just smile. Stirring. Waiting for the water to boil. Pretending like we haven’t just exploded our lives a little.
"Do you think this is insane?" She asks.
I shrug. "Yeah. But in the fun way."
And that seems like a good enough answer for her.
We move so easily around each other in the kitchen, like we’ve been choreographed. I know exactly when she’s going to reach past me for the olive oil, and she knows when to slide the chopping board my way without asking. We share space like siblings, but with none of the unresolved tension—just that rhythm you build with someone after a hundred shared meals and a thousand unspoken in-jokes. We’re different, but we get each other. And somehow, we always manage to make something edible. Usually.
I think we’re about to talk about Arthur. Ruth shifts like she’s winding up for it—one of those sharp, honest conversations she’s strangely good at. But it never comes.
Instead, we spiral into a rant about people who spell “favourite” without the ‘u’, and how the loops on your jeans always—always—find a way to hook on door handles at the worst possible moment. Ruth acts it out, nearly spills her waterbottle while doing it, and I’m laughing too hard to breathe.
It’s nothing. It’s everything.
No unpacking of emotional baggage, no picking at old wounds. Just noise and laughter and our shoes scuffing against the linoleum as we lean into the quiet parts of each other’s company.
xxx
It’s strange, isn’t it? How change can sneak in quietly, almost imperceptibly—like a whisper carried on the wind—until one day you catch yourself breathing differently. Lighter, maybe. Softer around the edges. The version of me who used to brace against the world like it was a storm has somehow started to bend with the breeze.
I used to think strength was standing rigid, unmoved by others’ opinions, armored in silence and sharp words. But now, strength feels different. It feels like opening my hands, letting go of the need to control, the desperate clench of proving myself. It’s in the small, delicate moments of trust—when I hear Will’s voice, steady and patient, and I don’t snap. When I don’t fight back but listen instead. When I say no to bitterness and yes to softness.
The hardest part is the quiet inside me, where the old fear lingers—the fear of being invisible, the fear of being dismissed. I still wrestle with it in the dark, when I’m alone with my thoughts and the night’s silence is too loud. But it’s losing its grip, slipping away like shadows at dawn.
I see it in the lightness of laughter with Ruth, the shared small annoyances that somehow stitch us closer. It’s in the way my fingers tangle with Will’s, the unspoken promises held between us. The knowledge that I’m wanted—not for a role I play or the work I produce—but simply for who I am beneath it all.
And maybe that’s the real transformation—the shift from surviving to living. From proving worth to embracing it. From chasing validation to giving myself permission to be enough.
I am still me—the stubborn, fierce, imperfect me. But now, I’m learning that being “better” doesn’t mean losing myself. It means finding the courage to soften, to surrender control, and to trust that in doing so, I’m not less—I’m more.
The road ahead is uncertain, full of twists and unspoken fears. But for the first time in a long time, I’m not afraid to walk it. Because I carry with me this quiet flame of hope, this fragile but stubborn light that tells me I am seen. I am known. I am enough.
And that is everything.
xxx
TagList: @meglouise00 @migilini @thankyoulovely @mosviqu @formulaal @jonnybernthalslover @tiredqzl @mrswillne @ravenaz @luvnarthur @capnjosh @ellouisa17
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cheese-anon-real · 2 years ago
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i dont like 3 am
or 4 am
i should be sleeping
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landologged · 3 months ago
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Out Lapped | Part One
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pairing: lando x reader
genre: toxicity, shit aint sweet sorry, like 85% porn and arguing????, its hot tho, angst? i guess, monaco beinf monaco, possessive and hot lando, readers a dumb hoe (but i get it)
description: You sure as hell didn’t expect to find yourself at Lando’s door after promising your therapist you wouldn’t see him again. But your thighs remember things your brain pretends to forget, and Monaco is a dangerous place to have free time and a hell of a lot of unresolved trauma.
So, here you are, stuck in a loop you swore you’d escaped: he wins races, goes home to her, and calls you at 2AM like you’re the reward. You know it’s toxic. You know he’s lying. But every time you try to walk away, he says your name like it still means something. And every time he touches you—you forget how to leave all over again.
WC: 19k
notes: want to preface this is extremely toxic, i dont hate magui but needed her for the plot sorry, this is not a healthy relationship its just toxic n sexy im sorry i have issues, enjoy tho xx | had to repost bc tumblr put a warning on it
You tell yourself it’s just a building. Just concrete and glass and overpriced furniture, just one of dozens of sleek high-rises dotting the cliff-edge of Monaco’s coastline like little temples to wealth. But that’s a lie you started telling before the plane even landed, and now—standing outside of his door, heat curling around your ankles and your jaw locked so tight you can feel the tension in your teeth—it’s all unraveling way too fucking fast. This isn’t just a building. This is a goddamn shrine. To every version of you that lost and begged and bled behind those walls. And the worst part is you let all of it happen. Over and over and over, like some stupid animal who keeps going back to the cage because it’s the only place she remembers how to breathe.
You stand there too long. Not knocking. Not leaving. Just standing like a goddamn idiot. Sweating in your blouse,  clutching your phone like it might ring if you squeeze hard enough, though no one’s called you in hours. You’d deleted his number. Blocked it. Then unblocked it. Then memorized it, like that made you the one in control. The gate code, too. You remembered that one without trying. 
Inside, you imagine he’s probably shirtless. Or worse—fresh out of the shower, towel slung low, smirking at his own reflection in the mirror like he’s still a teenage boy. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s got someone over. That girl he was seen with last week, or the one from before. Some Portuguese model with a body like a Victoria Secret angel and a face the camera loves. Long legs, soft mouth, always sun-kissed and unbothered. She’s been rumored with him for months—not that you’ve been reading, obviously. Not that you have the search saved. Not that you zoomed in on the photos where he’s walking three steps ahead and still somehow looks like he belongs to her.
She has no idea what he sounds like when he’s angry. No idea how fast his mood can turn—how one second he’s teasing, laughing, and the next his voice goes low and hard and mean. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be devoured by him, not kissed but taken, not fucked but owned. She’s never had to piece herself together in his bathroom afterward, thighs shaking, mascara wrecked, trying not to cry just because he simply didn’t stay.
There’s no breeze in the hallway, just stillness. Expensive stillness. Climate-controlled. Smells like fresh-cut flowers and clean linen and the faintest undercurrent of chlorine—like the building itself is trying to convince you nothing messy ever happens here. No broken glasses or slammed doors or whispered confessions between kisses that feel like the end of the world. 
The walls are paneled in soft blond wood, warm under the overheads, you shift your weight, and the tap of your heel against polished wood echoes too loud. Sharp. Embarrassing.
A laugh bubbles up uninvited. Quiet, bitter, barely audible, but still real. What the fuck are you doing here? You told your therapist—once—that you were past this. That you’d written it off for what it was: a phase, a crash, an experiment in self-destruction that just happened to have a face. His face. His voice. His hands. You’d said it with conviction. You’d almost believed yourself.
But that was when you hadn’t counted in the photo.
It wasn’t even new. Just some grainy tabloid resurrection of last summer—him holding your wrist outside the back of a club, the tension in your posture so clear it almost hurt to look at. And his face—god that fucking face. Golden tan, summer-slick skin that caught the flash of the camera like it knew exactly where to land. That haircut—fresh, sharp, fade carved clean down the sides, but the top left long, soft, curled just enough to look effortless. Like he’d rolled out of bed into a suit and made it look intentional. 
White shirt open at the throat, no tie. Slim-fit navy blazer that hugged his frame like he’d been sewn into the thing. And that expression—cool, calm, always calculated. He looked straight into the lens, jaw set, eyes unreadable, like he knew they were watching and didn’t give a single fuck about it. Like he knew you wouldn’t leave. Because you hadn’t. Not really. Not for long, and sure as hell, never for good.
You don’t knock. You can’t. Your hand hovers near the wood, fingers curled like a fist you don’t have the strength to make. You stare at the door like it might open on its own. Like maybe he’ll feel you on the other side and save you the choice.
So when the door finally opens—slow, quiet, just a few inches at first—it doesn’t feel like an invitation. It feels like a trap you’re already halfway inside.
Warm light spills out into the hallway, catching the edge of that honeyed wood paneling behind you, and suddenly you’re in it again. His world. The clean, curated silence of it. Not cold—just impersonal. Too white. Too perfect. A mirror near the entry catches the edge of his shoulder, and for one disorienting second, you see both versions of him at once.
He’s barefoot, of course. Hair damp and pushed back like he’s just gotten out of the shower or maybe just doesn’t give a shit anymore.  Black long-sleeve shirt, sleeves shoved up to his elbows like he’s mid-recovery from something. The fabric’s soft, lived-in, probably smells like skin and detergent. There’s a ring on his finger now—something thin and silver, catching the light as he leans one shoulder against the frame. Something that definitely wasn’t there before.
And just under his collarbone, a flash of color. Sunburn maybe. Lipstick, if you let yourself believe in worst-case scenarios. You don’t want to know. You do want to know. It burns both ways.
Behind him, the apartment stretches long and quiet. Pale floors. White cabinets. Stainless steel fridge that reflects the open-concept kitchen like a showroom. Heineken keg on the counter. DJ deck in the corner. Stacks of papers on the island that say he’s busy. Clean sink that says he’s not that busy. Trophies in the other room. Art that’s mostly just versions of himself—cars, helmets, movement frozen mid-victory.
“Well, well,” he says, mouth curling slow. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”
You raise an eyebrow, defaulting to sarcasm like muscle memory. “You think too much of yourself.”
He leans against the frame, lets his eyes drag over you like it’s nothing. Like it's a habit. “And yet, here you are.”
You hate how calm he sounds. How unsurprised. Like he knew. Like he felt you coming before you even booked the flight. You step forward without meaning to, past the threshold, into the coolness of the apartment that smells like bergamot and money and something darker underneath. Something familiar. Like heat after sex. Like you.
“Are you gonna say why you’re here,” he says as he closes the door behind you, voice low, smooth, almost bored, “or just continue to stand there?”
You shrug. You’re already halfway to the couch. “Didn’t think I needed a reason.”
“You always had one,” he says, following at a lazy pace. “Even when you lied about it.”
You don’t sit. You don’t take your shoes off. You just stand there in the middle of all that soft lighting and polished calm like you’re something feral that wandered in off the street. Your arms cross without thought, instinctive, defensive—like maybe if you press hard enough, you can hold yourself in. He notices. He always notices. That was the problem, wasn’t it? How seen he made you feel. Not loved. Not even wanted. Just known. 
“You look tired,” he says. Not kindly.
You stare at him. Let your eyes drag over every inch of him. The tan. The jaw. The lazy posture. The fucking confidence. You try not to let it show—how familiar it all is. How foreign it feels now. Like you’ve studied it in photos more recently than in person.  “You look the same.”
He grins. “You mean perfect?”
There it is. The smirk. The bait. The comfort in knowing exactly which part of himself still gets to you. He tosses it out like a joke, but his eyes don’t leave yours. He’s watching your mouth. Your shoulders. Your tells.
And fuck—you wish it didn’t still work. And so you do what you always do, you deflect. You roll your eyes, but the sting hits anyway. He’s always been beautiful in that arrogant, accidental way—like he never had to work for it. You always had to work for everything. But he just was. That was half the danger, all of the problem. 
“You must’ve seen the article,” you say, even though you’re not here to talk about the article. Even though this whole thing has nothing to do with whatever the press dug up and everything to do with how quiet your apartment’s been. How empty your chest’s felt. How loud he still is, in every fucking corner of your mind.
“I did,�� he says, shrugging. “You looked good. Even when you’re pissed off.”
You laugh once, sharp. “You looked like a fucking asshole.”
“Branding,” he replies, with that infuriating grin, the one that used to mean you’re not really mad at me and you’re not really leaving. The one you used to fall for. The one you feel yourself slipping toward again, like gravity. Like his goddamn dog. 
You inhale through your nose, slow. Careful. Like control is something you can hold in your lungs.
“Don’t get excited,” you tell him.
He steps closer. One, then two. Not touching you. Just standing there, inches away, his presence thick as smoke. “You came back,” he murmurs. “That’s all I need.”
And your heart breaks a little, just enough to make room for something worse. Because this is the part you forgot—how he looks at you. Like nothing else exists. Like you’re a secret he’s been keeping warm in his mouth this whole time. There’s something about his eyes up close. Something impossible. They make you forget all the bad endings and bruised mornings. They make you think you might want it again. That maybe the problem was never him. Maybe it was you. Maybe you were too scared to be kept.
“I shouldn’t have come,” you say, voice raw around the edges. But it’s not a real protest.
He moves like he hears it for what it is. Like he knows the thread is already pulled, and you’re unraveling in his hands. He steps closer. Close enough that his breath ghosts against your cheek. Close enough that you can feel the burn of him without needing to touch. But then he does touch—just one hand, slow and certain, curling around your hip like he’s staking a claim he never stopped believing in.
“You always say that right before you kiss me,” he says, low, like a dare he already knows you’ll take.
Your breath catches. Just a subtle hitch in your chest that betrays you more than any yes ever could. Your mouth parts like instinct, like muscle memory, like maybe it remembers how good it felt to fall apart under his mouth. His hand moves, slow. Deliberate. Thumb grazing over the front of your shirt, dragging downward. Just enough to make your skin burn under the fabric. It’s not a grope. It’s worse than a grope. It’s casual. Familiar. Possessive in the quiet way that says I’ve had you like this before, and I will again.
His touch isn’t asking. It’s remembering. You swallow. Your heart's trying to crawl up your throat. You should move. Should say something colder, sharper, final. Instead, you just breathe out—
“Don’t.”
Barely audible. Not even a command. Just a plea. God, you’re an idiot.
He tilts his head, like he wants to get a better angle on your mouth. His nose almost brushes yours. The space between you contracts until it’s only breath and tension and history.
“Don’t what?” he asks, and his voice has that low, slanted softness—curious, cruel. Like he knows exactly what you meant but wants to hear you struggle to say it. The kind of voice that used to unravel you in dark corners, in backseats, in beds that didn’t belong to either of you.
He leans in. Just a little. Enough that you feel the heat of his breath against your mouth—warm, embarrassingly warm, laced with mint and something sweeter underneath. Familiar. Him. That exact blend you used to chase in the dark like a hit you didn’t want to quit. It makes your knees weaken. Your jaw tighten. Your pride splinter.
Your eyes flick to his lips. Mistake. They’re right there. Parted. Wet. Waiting. And the space between you shrinks until it feels like a trick.
“Don’t make this something it’s not,” you manage, barely above a whisper, every word scraped from the raw edge of restraint.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just leans in further, and fuck—his mouth grazes yours. Not a kiss. Not yet. Just a ghost of one. A threat.
His voice is so rough now—like it’s been worn down by every time he’s said your name in the dark. “You mean something it is.”
You shiver, and you hate that he feels it. You want to hold out. You want to keep control. You want to say something biting, something final, something that makes him feel the way you’ve felt since he let you go. But then he exhales—slow, hot, right against your tongue. And just like that, you’ve lost.
You kiss him, hard. Desperate. Like a dam breaking. Your hands are in his hair, dragging him in, and his body collides with yours like he’s been holding back since the moment you walked in. It’s all heat, no space. His mouth opens against yours and the taste of him hits like hunger—like rage, like missing something for too long. You chase it. You give him your teeth, your tongue, your breath. He takes all of it like it’s owed.
His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, your ass, sliding under your shirt, fingers grazing the skin he used to fall asleep on like he’s checking to make sure it’s still his. You make a sound in your throat, somewhere between shock and surrender, and he groans into it—deep, guttural—like he’s been waiting months to hear it again.
He pushes you back until your spine kisses the wall, the impact muffled by the heat rolling off him. And you—God—you don’t even think. Your legs part without hesitation, hips tilting, instinctive. You wrap them around him like that’s where they’ve always belonged, thighs locking tight as his hands slide lower. And then you feel it—how hard he already is against you, thick through his pants, straining with a pressure that feels dangerous. You gasp. His hips grind forward, slow and deliberate, dragging that heat against the softest part of you. All muscle. All him.
He’s solid everywhere, unyielding, his abs pressed tight against your stomach, his chest hot through the thin fabric of your shirt. You can barely breathe. He’s all around you, above you, inside you already without even being there yet.
“You miss me?” he growls into your mouth.
You don’t answer. Your answer’s in the way you arch into him, nails raking down his back, pulling his shirt up and over his head like you need to feel every inch. It hits the floor. He’s warm and solid and panting.
“You fucking miss me,” he says again, dragging his mouth down your throat, sucking hard enough to mark.
You nod. A tiny motion. Barely there. Then—brrzt. brrzt.
His phone. 
You freeze. Just for a second, enough for the thoughts to collect. Lando, however, keeps going. Grinding against you harder. Hand shoved between your thighs, fingers pressing through denim like he wants to rip it off with his teeth.
brrzt. brrzt.
“Your phone,” you pant.
“Fuck it,” he mutters. “Ignore it.”
It buzzes again. Long this time. He doesn’t even look. Just lifts you higher, his mouth dragging over your jaw, your cheek, back to your lips. “Come back to bed,” he whispers against you. “Let me show you how much you fucking missed me.”
Your heart stutters. The phone won’t stop. You twist your face away, breathing hard. “Answer it.”
He growls low in his throat. Frustrated. Presses his forehead to yours. “It’s nothing.”
brrzt. brrzt.
You push against his chest. Gently. Not to stop. Just enough to see his face. “Lando. Just—answer it.”
Silence stretches. He stares at you. Jaw tense. Then—without a word—he reaches into his pocket and pulls the phone out. Glances at the screen. Jaw flexes again. You see it before he hides it.
Magui? The model. He doesn’t answer right away. Just holds the phone like it’s radioactive. Then, slowly, he presses accept. Puts it on speaker and doesn’t look at you.
“Lando? Where are you?” her voice asks, soft, breathy, sweet like something that doesn’t know how sharp the blade is. “You said you’d come back.”
Your stomach drops. Something ugly twists in your chest. He looks at you. Finally. Lips parted. Chest heaving. Guilt doesn’t even register on his face.
And you—you just stand there, legs still wrapped around his hips, his hand still under your shirt, his mouth still wet from your kiss.
Listening. Like a fucking idiot. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until it starts to burn. His name is still hanging in the air between you, but you’re not looking at him anymore—you’re staring at the phone, your body gone still in his hands, your heart pounding like it’s trying to scream over her voice.
You said you’d come back. He doesn’t say anything. Not to her. Not to you. And then she says it. Soft. So soft you almost miss it.
I love you.
Your brain doesn’t register it right away. It glitches. Like static. Like maybe it wasn’t real. Like maybe your ears are just cruel. You blink, but your face doesn’t move. Your jaw’s locked so tight it feels like your teeth might break.
And he—he just ends the call. Like that. Like nothing. No goodbye. No excuse. No tone shift, no sigh. Just a tap of his thumb and the silence is back, louder than before.
Your mouth opens. But nothing comes out. You look at him, really look, and you don’t know what the fuck you’re expecting. Remorse? A joke, maybe? Something to soften the way that name is still ricocheting around your skull like a pinball.
But he just breathes—deep, shuddering, like he’s swallowing down the instinct to pull you back in. Like it physically costs him to let go. His chest rises too fast, too hard, like he’s been running, like holding you against him took something out of him. His breath hits your cheek in short bursts, humid and sharp, laced with the taste of everything you almost let happen. It’s the kind of breathing that isn’t just from need—it’s from restraint. Barely-there control. Like his whole body is buzzing with the effort not to drag you right back against the wall and finish what you started.
You slide off of him. Feet hitting the floor like reality. You fix your shirt automatically, hands shaking, lips buzzing from where his mouth had been, skin hot and damp and stupid.
“Are you serious?” Your voice comes out raw.
He watches you, eyes dark, unreadable.
“She—she loves you,” you spit, breath catching as you take a shaky step back, heart still racing, hands still curled into fists. “She said that and you just—what the fuck was that?”
He exhales sharp through his nose, then drags a hand through his hair—fast, rough, like he’s trying to get a grip on something he can’t hold. His curls fall right back into place, but his jaw’s tight, his eyes flicking toward the floor like maybe he’s trying not to look at you. “She doesn’t mean it.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
He exhales, sharp through his nose. “She doesn’t know me like you do.”
“That’s the problem,” you snap. “She doesn’t know what you are.”
“And you do,” he says, voice quiet. Still dangerous. “So why are you here?”
You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again, and this time it’s just a laugh. Ugly. Bitter. “Jesus Christ, I’m a fucking idiot.”
“Don’t,” he says.
“Don’t what? Don’t realize what this is? That I’m your dirty little relapse while your soft little girlfriend plays house and says I love you into your voicemail?”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” he barks. Too fast. Too defensive.
You stare him down, eyes narrowing. “You didn’t say that a second ago.”
He comes toward you and you stumble back.
“No,” you say. “Fuck no. You don’t get to touch me right now.”
He freezes. Stops dead, just a foot from you, close enough to feel the heat of him, too far to do anything about it. His chest rises and falls like he’s running—he’s not. He’s just feeling too much, too fast, too late.
“Look at me,” he says.
You don’t. You stare at the floor like it might save you. Like if you don’t meet his eyes, you won’t fall back into the same goddamn loop that’s already eaten you alive twice over.
He reaches out, fingers brushing your jaw. You flinch, but you don’t move away. Of course you don’t. Because part of you is still standing in the wreckage hoping he’ll lie to you sweet enough to make it okay. His touch is soft now. Thumb tracing your cheek, then dragging down your throat, slow and reverent, like he’s memorizing you again.
“She doesn’t know what I sound like when I’m inside you,” he murmurs.
Your knees almost give out.
“She doesn’t know how you taste when you come.”
Your stomach flips, hard. Heat coiling down your spine, settling between your legs.
“She doesn’t know how wet you get for me, even when you hate me.”
Your thighs clench—reflex, muscle memory, betrayal. His grin brushes your cheek without even forming. He doesn’t need to see it. He feels it. He steps closer. Just one inch. But it’s all it takes. His mouth brushes your ear, hot breath curling into your neck.
“But you do,” he whispers. “Don’t you?”
You close your eyes. Just for a second. Just to breathe. Just to pretend.
His hand slides under your shirt again. Palm flat over your stomach, fingers splayed, dragging up—slow, heavy, deliberate. Every inch he takes feels like a claim. Like he’s reminding your skin who it belongs to. He reaches your ribs. Stops there. Presses in. Just enough to make you feel the weight of it. The heat. The power.
You should pull away. You want to pull away. But your body’s already arching into it. Already melting.
“You’re not some side piece,” he says, low and rough, his mouth dragging along your jaw. “You’re not a fucking mistake. You’re the one I can’t seem to get over.”
You shake your head. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
His mouth finds yours again. Softer this time. Slower. Like he’s trying to rewrite the last five minutes with his tongue. Like if he kisses you deep enough, long enough, you’ll forget her name. Forget what she said. Forget what you heard.
You moan into it. God help you.
He lifts you again. You let him. Your legs wrap around his hips like they never left. He presses you back into the wall and grinds against you, and you’re gasping again, already soaked through your jeans, shame melting into heat like sugar over flame.
“You still want me,” he says. “Even after all this.”
You nod before you can lie. Before you can save face. Because the truth is—it’s not that you want him. It’s that you need him. Like air, you want him more than anything else.  And when his hand slips down, tugging open your fly, fingers sliding beneath the fabric like a claim, you whimper.
Because this isn’t healing. This is a fucking possession, and worst of all you’re still letting him in.
His fingers are in your jeans, dragging them down with that reckless one-handed pull like he can’t wait anymore. As if he’s been fucking starved. The denim catches at your knees, then your ankles, and you almost trip trying to step out of them, but he catches you—of course he catches you—because the fall is always part of the game with him.
“You still get wet for me so fast,” he murmurs, thumb pressing into your underwear, slow circles right over where he knows you’re already soaking. “Just like that. Just like you used to. I didn’t even have to try.”
Your breath hitches. Shame and arousal flood through you in equal measure, but it’s not enough to stop you. He watches you fall apart with that cocky, ruined grin—like he’s proud of what he does to you, but not even remotely surprised.
“Bet you touch yourself thinking about this,” he adds. “About my mouth. About my cock.”
Your mouth opens to protest, but he slips a finger beneath the fabric and slides through you—wet, thick, slow—and your entire brain short-circuits. Your knees buckle and he fucking laughs, low and mean and gorgeous.
“You’re so full of shit,” you whisper, voice shaking. “You don’t mean any of this.”
His mouth finds yours again, teeth scraping your lip. “Maybe,” he says against your tongue. “But it’s working, isn’t it?”
You shove his chest, but it’s not a real push. It’s nothing. You’re already grinding against his hand, thighs trembling, cunt clenching around his fingers as he adds another. The stretch burns in the best way. Your head falls back against the wall.
“Lando—”
“I missed this pussy,” he cuts in, voice rough now, his own breathing ragged. “Fuck. I thought about it every time she opened her mouth. Had to stop myself from saying your name when I came.”
That hits like a slap. Your jaw drops, your stomach lurches, but the worst part—the most humiliating part—is how much wetter you get hearing it. You hate him. Hate yourself more. He drops to his knees before you can think. Yanks your underwear down and apart like he owns it, spreads you open with both hands and groans when he sees how wrecked you are.
“Oh, fuck, baby,” he mutters. “You’re dripping. Look at that. She’s got no fucking clue.”
Then his mouth’s on you. You cry out, hands flying to his hair, trying to push him away and pull him in all at once. His tongue is relentless—circling, flicking, sucking your clit with practiced, hungry precision—and your thighs are already shaking. His fingers pump into you hard, steady, curling just right. It’s disgusting how fast you’re close. How desperate you are. How your hips are fucking chasing his mouth like he’s the only thing you’ve ever needed.
“You gonna come for me?” he asks, voice muffled against you. “Show me how bad you still want it?”
You nod frantically, too far gone to pretend. He chuckles darkly. “Then fucking do it. Let her hear you next time she calls.”
And then he sucks, hard, and everything inside you snaps. Your legs shake, your vision whites out, your body jerks against him with a guttural, broken moan that you couldn’t stop if you tried. You’re still shaking when he stands. Licks his lips, smug. Unbuttons his jeans like it’s nothing.
“Still think I don’t mean it?” he asks, pulling his cock out, hard and leaking, dragging it against your thigh. 
You should run. But instead you grab his face and kiss him again—deep, messy, tasting yourself on his tongue—because if you’re gonna go down, you’re gonna burn on the way.
“Shut up,” you whisper against his mouth.
He grins like he’s already won. Next thing you know your panties are hanging from one ankle, forgotten. He’s panting into your mouth, hand gripping the back of your neck like he wants to fuck you with your face pressed against the wall and your spine bent backwards. His cock is hard against your thigh, leaking, twitching, so ready, and your nails are in his skin, already dragging, already marking.
Then he pulls back.
“Hold on,” he mutters, breathless, and turns away.
You blink. Chest heaving. “What the fuck are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer. Walks toward the bedroom. Opens a drawer. You don’t move, frozen in that second of hot disbelief, like maybe you didn’t just see what you saw.
Then he comes back. With a condom. And your blood boil over, you were going to fucking murder him. You stare at the plastic like it had personally slapped you. 
“Seriously?” you spit in utter disbelief. 
He shrugs, casual, tone light like it won’t explode the whole fucking moment. “What? Just being careful.”
“Careful?”
He shrugs again, tearing the foil open with his teeth, cock still hard in his hand. “I don’t know where you’ve been.”
The silence that follows doesn’t hang—it slams down between you. Sucks the oxygen out of the air. You just stare. Your mouth doesn’t work. Your chest doesn’t move. Rage rises slow in your throat, heavy and hot, turning your blood molten. It crawls up the back of your neck, behind your eyes, makes your vision pulse at the edges.
You take a step. Then another. Close enough to see your own slick glinting on his skin. And then your hand flies. The slap cracks across his face—flesh to bone, skin to heat—and his head snaps with the force of it. The sound ricochets off the walls, brutal and final.
He doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t flinch.
He just laughs. Low. Dark. That sharp, broken sound that says fuck yes. Mean. Worse, turned on.
“Oh, that’s what does it for you?” he breathes, eyes flicking back to you, wild now. “Getting offended that I don’t assume you’ve been sitting at home like a fucking nun?”
“You’re disgusting.”
“So are you,” he snaps back, grabbing your face with one hand, gripping your jaw. “But you’re the one who keeps coming back. Not her. You, princess.”
You’re both panting. Still half-dressed. Still drunk on whatever shit-show occurs whenever you two are in the same room. 
“You think I’m letting you fuck me with a condom now?” you hiss. “After all this? Go fuck yourself.”
“You’d rather I come in you just to prove a fucking point?” he growls.
“Yeah,” you snap. “I fucking would.”
He doesn’t put it on. He just lets it fall. Condom hits the floor with a whisper and then he’s on you—slamming you back against the wall with the weight of his whole body, his mouth crushing yours, tongue and teeth and spit, hands everywhere, gripping your thighs, your ass, your jaw like he can’t decide what part of you he wants first.
He’s cursing into your throat, your name half-spoken—spit out—like a threat, like worship, like an apology he doesn’t fucking mean.
And then—
He shoves into you.
Raw. Bare. Deep.
You gasp—no, scream—your legs snapping tight around his waist, head thudding back against the wall as your body stretches around him with that slick, aching slide that feels like pain, like home, like fuck, finally.
He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t check if you’re okay. Doesn’t have to. Your nails are already dragging down his back, hips tilting into his like your body’s starving. He grabs your ass and drives into you again, again, harder—grinding deep like he’s trying to split you open and crawl inside.
You bite his shoulder. He groans loud, then fucks you harder.
“This what you wanted?” he snarls. “This what you fucking needed?”
“Yes,” you moan, breath caught, body stretched and shaking. “Yes, yes—fuck, yes.”
He pulls out mid-thrust and drags you down the hall, arms still locked under your thighs. You’re dizzy, dripping down his stomach, mind gone. Then he kicks the balcony door open.
You jolt. “Are you serious—”
It’s too late. The breeze hits your sweat-slick skin. Warm air, salty from the sea, cool on your flushed face. He presses you to the glass, your chest against it, city lights glittering like stars below, and pushes back inside you in one brutal stroke.
You scream. Palm slaps the window. He fucks you like he wants Monaco to watch.
“You don’t care if anyone sees, do you?” he hisses, snapping his hips. “Fucking exhibitionist slut.”
You’re moaning into the glass, fogging it up with your breath, clawing at the railing.
“Say it,” he growls into your ear. “Say you like getting fucked in front of the world.”
You can’t even form words.
“You’re mine,” he snarls. “Say it.”
His hands grip your hips like handles, like he’s steering the whole scene, and your face is pressed to the cool glass, moaning open-mouthed against your own reflection. You can barely see the city anymore—just streaks of light and shadow and your own shame, smeared across the surface in fogged breath and desperation. Your knees are going numb. Your thighs burn. You can’t stop clenching around him.
He’s fucking brutal now. Deep. Deliberate. Each thrust hitting with the full weight of him—hips slamming into your ass, chest flush to your back, breath hot and ragged in your ear.
You shudder. Grip the railing, knuckles white, thighs shaking. And all it takes is one more thrust—one more brutal drag of his cock inside your soaked, ruined cunt—and your body fucking shatters. You come with a sob that scrapes your throat raw, clenching down on him, pulsing so hard it feels like you’re trying to pull him deeper.
“Fucking—fuck—I’m gonna cum in you,” he grits, voice torn, no space for permission, no pause for protest.
You don’t say no. You can’t.
He slams forward one last time and stays there—buried to the base, cock twitching inside you, and then he lets go.
You feel it hit. Feel him spill, thick and hot, spilling into you without hesitation, no condom, no fucking thought. Just heat. Just need. Just him.
His entire body shudders against yours, mouth open against your shoulder, groaning low and wrecked, every pulse a brand.
It’s silent for a moment after. Just heavy breathing and the muffled throb of music echoing up from the street below. You can feel him softening inside you. Feel him pulling out, slow. Lazy. Like he’s done. Your legs shake. You press your forehead to the glass, body humming, raw and wrecked.
And when you turn—he’s already walking away. Without a single word, he begins adjusting his waistband. Grabbing a towel. Scrubbing his face like he just finished a workout. Not even a glance back in your direction.
You blink. Still half-naked. Still leaking.
Still there.
“Lando,” you say. Quiet. Maybe it’s not even his name—it’s a plea. A question.  He doesn’t respond. Just walks into the kitchen. Opens the fridge. Drinks straight from a bottle of water like your body wasn’t just wrapped around him minutes ago.
That’s when it hits. The shift. The drop. On queue. You wrap your arms around your chest. The breeze brushes your thighs, sticky and exposed, and you feel it—his cum sliding out of you, running down your inner leg in a humiliating heat.
You feel empty. Not the kind that hums. Not the kind that settles sweet and fucked-out in your bones.
No. This is raw. Open. Like something vital’s been scooped out and left behind. You’re still dripping from him. Still shaking, breath catching in your throat like a secret you didn’t mean to tell. Your legs are barely holding. Your heart’s trying to pretend it’s fine.
He leans against the counter. Phone in hand. Scrolling. Laughing under his breath at something you’re not a part of.
Like he didn’t just fuck your soul out against the glass. Like you didn’t say yes to all of it.
And now—he’s done. And you’re just there. Still wanting. Waiting. 
You don’t know how long you stand there, barefoot and half-naked, the breeze licking at the mess between your thighs, spine still curved from where he bent you against the glass. The city glows on without you. Somewhere below, people are drinking champagne and laughing under golden light. The world keeps turning. You peel yourself off the railing. Limbs heavy. Walk stiffly back inside, legs aching from the way he held you open like a vice. You grab your jeans from the floor and pull them up without really thinking, fabric clinging to sweat and everything he left inside you. You’re dizzy. It doesn’t feel real. Or maybe it feels too real. Like the high’s just starting to rot from the inside out.
He’s still in the kitchen. Shirtless, scrolling. Water bottle on the counter, beads of condensation sliding down the side. He hasn’t looked at you once.
You watch him for a second, arms wrapped around yourself like you’re trying to hold your insides in. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. Just scrolls.
You clear your throat.
“I… guess that’s it, then?”
His eyes flick up. Casual. No longer interested.
“Thought that’s what you came for,” he says. Not cruel. Not sharp. Just flat, just honest.
Dismissive. Like the fuck was the favor. Like this was a transactional itch, not a relapse that shattered something in you.
You blink. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
He goes back to his phone.
You step forward. One bare foot against the marble tile, cold and slick beneath your toes. “So what now?”
“Now nothing.”
He says it like it’s funny. Like you’re the one being too dramatic. Like you didn’t just let him inside you. Like you’re not still stretched around the memory of him.
Your stomach tightens.
Of course. Of course. Because his is how it’s always been, isn’t it? Because he fucks you, and then he pulls away. Mentally. Physically. Spiritually. Every time. He rolls off. Goes quiet. Distracted. Picks up his phone like your body didn’t just bend around him like it remembered how. Like you didn’t give him everything—again. And on the rare nights he let you stay, he wouldn’t touch you after. Wouldn’t hold you. Wouldn’t even turn toward you in the bed. Like warmth was permission. Like kindness meant commitment. God forbid he see you after.
And still, you stayed. Every fucking time. Still hoping that one day he’d kiss you on the forehead instead of just your mouth. That he’d trace your back after instead of zipping his pants. That he’d make breakfast. That he’d ask you how you felt.
But he never did. He never wanted that part. And still—you came.
“I came here because of that photo,” you say, quietly. “Because I thought—fuck—I don’t know, I thought maybe we should talk. About what we were. About what we never really finished.”
That gets a reaction, but not the one you want. He exhales sharply, smirks at the counter. Shakes his head.
“You’re kidding, right?”
Your jaw tenses. “No. I’m not.”
He sets the phone down, finally looks at you, and the look is pure Lando—half exasperated, half smug, like he’s above it all. Like he’s already out of reach again.
“What did you think this was?” he says. “Closure? A love story?”
Your throat closes up. You swallow hard. “I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t think. Okay? I just missed you.”
The words feel pathetic in the air. He tilts his head. “Yeah, and now you don’t have to.”
And that’s it. That’s fucking it. No tenderness. No gratitude. No I-missed-you-too or it’s-complicated or even a lie to soften the blow.
Just that. He picks his phone up again. You start to say something—maybe don’t make me feel used, maybe tell me this wasn’t nothing, maybe just lie to me—but you stop.
Before you can even finish inhaling, he’s pressing the phone to his ear.
“Hey,” he says, soft.
So. Fucking. Soft.
Your heart caves. It doesn’t break. It caves. Like something imploding from the inside out. It’s not the volume of his voice—it’s the tone. The shift. Like he’s wiping you off his skin and putting on someone else’s smile.
He turns his back to you, leans against the counter. “Yeah… I know. I’m sorry, baby.”
You just stand there. Your arms still crossed, but now it’s because if you don’t hold yourself together, you’ll fucking fall apart. You feel the cum drying between your legs. You feel it leaking into your jeans. You feel like a mistake wearing your own skin.
“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “Just had to handle something real quick.”
Your breath stutters. You’re not a person. You’re not even a memory. You’re a thing he had to handle.
He glances over his shoulder. Sees you still standing there. He turns back, still murmuring sweet nothings into the phone, and you’re left standing in the middle of the room with your mouth full of dust and your thighs still slick with the lie you let back in.
You stare at the back of him, phone cradled to his ear, voice soft in that way you haven’t heard in months—not since he used to call you at 1AM, whispering like a promise. He’s murmuring something now. You catch pieces. Missed you too. No, just tired. I’ll come by tomorrow. Yeah, I will.
The words don’t even hurt as much as the tone. That casual affection. The tenderness you’ll never get again.
Your body aches. Not from pleasure, not anymore. From the aftermath. From the sharp reminder of how quickly he empties you out and walks away. You’re still sticky with him. Inside and out. You don’t say anything. No dramatic line. No last jab. That would give him too much. Let him think you still want a reaction. That you’re still clinging.
Instead, you start collecting your things. Quietly. Your shirt’s wrinkled where he tugged it. Your panties are still damp, shoved in your back pocket with shaking fingers. Your shoes by the door—you slip them on without a sound. Your bag. Your phone. What little dignity you can scrounge from the marble floor.
You glance back once, not because you want to, but because your body betrays you even now.
He doesn’t look. Still on the phone. Still laughing quietly. Still calling someone baby like it means something. Your throat burns. You swallow it down. You told yourself this wouldn’t happen again. You told yourself it was just to talk. Just to finish what never got finished. Just to say goodbye properly.
But you knew. You knew the second you saw him. This was never going to end clean. Not with him. Not with you.
You open the door. His voice fades behind you as it clicks shut. You hold your bag close to your chest as you walk down the hall, staring straight ahead, blinking fast and hard.
Because if you cry now, you’ll never stop. And he doesn’t deserve to know that he still has that power. He already knows.
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You don’t even remember walking back. You must’ve called a car. Or maybe you walked half the way and then gave up. Maybe you blacked out the drive, staring out the window with your lips still swollen and your thighs still sticky with him, flinching every time a memory passed too close. Maybe you held your phone in your hand the whole time and didn’t unlock it once. You can’t remember. You don’t want to.
You’ve never felt less like a person and more like a ghost dragging her ruined body across white marble and velvet hallway carpet. Everything at the hotel is too pristince. Too quiet. No one at the front desk looks at you, but you feel like they know. You feel like you’re wearing it—like guilt is a stain bleeding through your clothes, like they can smell him on you.
You ride the elevator in silence. Your reflection stares back from the brass paneling. Eyes rimmed red. Lip a little bitten. Hair half-wrecked from where he’d fisted it. You don’t fix it. What’s the point? There’s no one left to impress. You get into the room and it feels smaller than it did this morning. Like the walls have leaned in, closing around you. You don’t turn the lights on. You just stand there for a second, letting the dark settle. Your bag slides off your shoulder and hits the floor with a dull thud. Your phone clinks against the dresser when you set it down too hard. And you’re still holding your shoes.
You sit on the edge of the bed and stare into nothing. The shame doesn’t come all at once. It creeps in. Starts as a whisper behind your ribs, an ache behind your eyes, the slow, growing awareness of what you just did. And who you did it with.
Lando.
Your heart clenches at the sound of his name in your own head. Not because it’s romantic. Because it’s sick. Because you want him still. Want more. Want his mouth, his hands, his fucking voice even now—like he didn’t just toss you aside like old gum. Like he didn’t walk away mid-mess and call her. Like he didn’t say nothing when you stood there, humiliated and half-clothed.
You drag yourself to the bathroom and flick the light on. It’s too bright. Makes everything worse. The mirror is a crime scene. Your makeup is half-gone. Mascara smudged. Lipstick faded and smeared. You can still see the mark on your collarbone where he bit you. You run cold water. Cup it in your hands. Splash your face. It does nothing. You strip slowly. Shirt. Jeans. Bra. That ruined pair of panties you shoved into your back pocket like a secret. You drop them all onto the cold tile, one by one, and stand there naked, not touching the towels. Not stepping into the shower. Just standing. Letting the air hit your skin.
You feel used. Your thighs are sticky. The inside of your cunt aches, sore in that way that used to make you feel desired, but now just makes you feel stupid. You stare at the spot on your hip where he used to kiss you, back when it meant something. Back when it felt like worship instead of a routine.
Your exes never fucked you like this. Not even the worst ones. Not even the ones who said all the right things with their mouths and none of it with their eyes. They fucked you politely. Or carelessly. Or selfishly. But never like this. Never like they needed you to feel it days later. Never like they hated you and loved you and wanted to punish you for both.
Lando does.
Lando always did.
You sink to the floor. Slowly. Your bare ass hits the tile and you curl your knees to your chest like you can somehow close yourself off from the parts of you that are still open. Your hair falls in your face. You don’t move it. You just breathe.
You told yourself this wouldn’t happen again. You said it out loud. Like a spell. Like if you repeated it enough, it would become a truth. I won’t let him do this to me again. I won’t let myself want him. I won’t go back.
But here you are. Back. Fucked. Full. Empty.
And still—wanting.
You reach for your phone. Not to call him. Just to look. Some part of you is already anticipating it. Hoping for the text. The breadcrumb. Some half-assed “You okay?” that’ll make you hate yourself more because you’ll respond to it. You always do.
You unlock the screen. Nothing. You check the signal. Perfect bars. You wait. Another minute. Five. Still nothing.
You open his contact anyway. Just stare at it. That stupid name. The photo you should’ve deleted months ago—him grinning at some party, hand in your hair, that cocky fucking smile. You remember the moment. You remember thinking this might actually work.
You close the app. Open your messages. Type something.
“You didn’t have to call her while I was still in the room.”
Delete.
“I know what this was, but you could’ve at least—”
Delete.
You lock the screen. Drop the phone next to you on the floor.
You sit there, knees tight to your chest, bare skin on cold tile, heartbeat echoing in your ears like a countdown to nothing.
You won’t cry. But the part of you that still aches for him—still wants him—knows the truth. This isn’t over. It never is. And when he calls again, you’ll answer. Because you always do.
The morning’s too bright. Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Just literally—too fucking bright. The Mediterranean sun punches you in the face the moment you step out of the hotel, and you’re instantly sweating through your shirt. You should’ve worn black. You should’ve stayed in bed. You should’ve never come to this country in the first place.
The streets are already buzzing. Tourists, locals, teams in branded polos. You can hear the distant whine of an engine on a test run somewhere, that sharp scream of speed slicing through the heavy, salt-thick air like a knife. The city’s waking up, but not slowly—Monaco never does anything slowly. She wakes up hungry, already half-drunk, already waiting for someone to crash.
You hope it’s him. You hope he hits the wall. You hope he qualifies dead fucking last. P20. God, give him P fucking 20. It’s petty. It’s cruel. But it’s all you have left. You wrap your arms around your stomach like it’ll hold in the sour twist of jealousy and hurt and sex you still haven’t scrubbed off. He’s probably already awake. Already laughing. Already sending her good morning texts while stretching in those silk sheets you bled yourself into last night.
You duck into a small shop near the marina—overpriced bottled water, sunscreen, last-minute branded merch. A cap with his fucking number is front and center on the rack. You want to set it on fire. You want to smash the display. You want to grab it and scream at the teenage girl fawning over it, he’s not a hero, he’s a fucking coward.
You buy gum and painkillers and overpriced sunglasses you don’t need.
At the register, the clerk asks, “You here for the race?”
You smile too hard. “Yeah. Something like that.”
Your body’s sore in that deep, intimate way. Not just your thighs, not just your hips—but your core, your chest, your fucking heart. Your insides feel rearranged and not in the poetic way. Your stomach is tight. Your mouth is dry. You didn’t even eat dinner last night. Just swallowed him. Let him fill every empty space. Let him win. You keep walking. Past yachts bobbing in the harbor, past velvet ropes and security guards and women with lips like weapons. Everyone’s beautiful here. Everyone looks like they belong. 
Your phone stays cold in your pocket. No text. No call. No you okay? You imagine her posting something. A soft-boiled egg on a white plate. His wrist in the corner of the frame. His smile. Her caption: my love.
You hope the car catches fire. You hope he gets lapped. You hope he feels a tenth of what you’re swallowing with every step. 
You sit at a café just off the main street. Order espresso. Black. No sugar. Your phone’s on the table. Face up. Still nothing. You chew your gum until your jaw hurts. You glance around. Every man in the city looks like a ghost version of him. Curls and sunglasses and soft voices ordering oat milk lattes. Every laugh sounds like the one he gave her. Your legs are crossed tight. Like if you keep them that way, it’ll keep the shame in. You still feel it. Every time you shift in your seat, you feel the dull ache of him. The stretch. The emptiness. Like he’s still inside you, just in the form of silence.
It’s not that you wanted love. You just wanted to not be discarded. Not like that. Not so fast. Not so quiet.You check your phone again.
Nothing.
You sip your coffee and watch a woman walk by in a Ferrari shirt, her toddler in tow. The kid’s got a tiny McLaren cap on. Your stomach flips. You wanted to be seen. Instead, you were handled.
Just another fucking pit stop. You close your eyes. Inhale. Count backwards from ten.
But the only thing that fills your mind is his voice from last night, low and smug in your ear.
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You almost don’t go.
The cab ride feels long. The restaurant feels too much. Too much candlelight, too much glass, too much silver on the table, like it’s all trying to distract you from the fact that you’re still aching in all the places he touched. Your body’s clean, but it doesn’t feel that way. The shower didn’t help. The makeup didn’t help. The dress—tight black silk, slit to your thigh, halter low enough to tempt—feels more like armor than anything else. You wore it to forget, not to remember.
The guy across from you—what’s his name again? You haven’t said it out loud since you saved it in your phone—he’s sweet. Easy laugh. Well-dressed in a way that’s intentional but not obnoxious. Confident, but not a narcissist. The kind of man who should be able to make you forget. You’re nodding along to something he’s saying about race weekend logistics, sipping cold white wine and tasting nothing.
You laugh when he laughs. You answer questions. You twirl your fork in risotto you’re not hungry for. And you look fucking good. You know you do. Hair pinned. Collarbone sharp. Lip gloss like lacquer. There’s a version of you here that could do this. Who should be doing this. Being adored. Taken out. Picked up and shown off. A version of you who isn’t still bleeding for someone who left her dripping on a balcony.
But you’re not her. Not tonight. Not when your heart’s still a clenched fist in your chest. Your phone lights up once.
You glance down.
Lando.
No message preview. Just the name. Just the knot that forms instantly in your throat—tight, familiar, awful.
You don’t react. Not outwardly. You don’t flinch. Don’t gasp. You lift your glass like nothing’s wrong, like your whole body isn’t already curling inward from the contact.
The guy across from you is still talking. Still smiling. Still thinking you’re here.
“—so I told him, mate, you can’t just buy the yacht, you actually have to learn how to drive it,” he’s saying, laughing at his own story, voice too loud, too clean. “Rich kids, man. No sense of reality.”
You nod. Smile, maybe. You’re not sure what your face is doing. Everything sounds underwater.
Your phone lights up again.
Lando.
You shift in your seat. Cross your legs tighter beneath the table.
“Anyway, so we ended up in Saint-Tropez for the weekend—crazy, right?—and I swear to god the guy tried to dock it by just, like, aiming.”
You pick up your drink just to keep your hands busy. The rim touches your lip but you don’t sip. The screen lights again.
Lando.
And again.
Lando.
“Have you ever sailed? I feel like you’d be good at it. You’ve got that… I don’t know, that calm presence. Like you’d be the only one not panicking.”
Your fingers twitch on the stem of your glass. Calm. He has no fucking idea of the whirl-wind occuring in your head this very moment.  Your phone buzzes again and this time you don’t even look. Because you don’t need to.
Lando.
Lando.
Lando.
Your hand tightens around the stem of your glass. Your lips part like you might say something. Like maybe you’ll stand up and run before this moment becomes what you know it’s about to be.
You look over your shoulder.
Not because you want to.
Because you have to.
That awful sixth sense prickling at your neck, crawling down your spine. Your body stiffens before your eyes find him. Because somewhere inside you, you already know.
And then—
There he is.
Far end of the restaurant. Slipping in through the private entrance like the front door was beneath him. Like he hasn’t made a mess of your insides. Like he didn’t fuck you breathless against his balcony railing not even twenty-four hours ago.
Tan coat. Dark trousers. Curls pushed back like he ran a hand through them on the drive over. Jaw tight, smile easy. There’s a laugh in his throat—God, that laugh—like he didn’t tear yours out with his fucking teeth. She’s with him. Magui. In the flesh. Long legs. Loose hair. White silk dress, delicate little thing hanging off her body like an afterthought. She’s laughing at something he said, hand on his arm, and your gut plummets.
He doesn’t see you yet. Or maybe he does, and he’s just pretending. Your face burns. You want to disappear. Melt into the leather of your chair, vanish into the floor. The guy across from you says something about dessert. You smile. You think you do. Maybe you grimace. He excuses himself to the bathroom, promising to be quick.
You’re already grabbing your phone the second he stands. And now you look, you read, properly. 
Lando [9:37 PM]
nice dress
Lando [9:39 PM]
trying to impress him or just make me crazy?
Lando [9:40 PM]
it’s working
Lando [9:41 PM]
you think I won’t walk over there?
Lando [9:41 PM]
you think I won’t remind you what you begged for last night?
Lando [9:42 PM]
you can’t fuck him. you won’t. i can see it on your face.
Your heart pounds so loud you can feel it in your throat. Your hands are trembling against the phone. Your thumb hovers and then you type it.
go fuck yourself
You don’t even get the full breath out before another text lights up.
Lando [9:43 PM]
already did. thinking of you the whole time
Your stomach turns. You look back across the restaurant—and now he’s looking at you. Head tilted. Smile carved into his mouth like a dare. His hand rests on Magui’s lower back as he murmurs something in her ear.
She doesn’t notice you. But he does. His eyes are locked on you like a blade. You want to stand. You want to scream. You want to slap him across the face in front of everyone, tear the candle off your table and set that fucking smile on fire.
Instead—you grab your wine and down it.
Pick up your phone and you type.
what do you want from me, Lando?
Because you know exactly what he’s going to say. And you know you’ll give it to him anyway.
You don’t send another text. You don’t need to. Because you already feel it—his eyes. Continuing to burrow into you across the room. You don’t have to look again to know he’s watching your every move, jaw tight, tongue pressed hard behind his teeth. She’s still talking to him. Smiling. Leaning close like she’s won something.
But you know better. You’ve played this game before.  He’s not listening to her. He’s watching you.
Before you know it, the bathroom door swings open and your date returns, all warm smiles and lightly cologned confidence, none the wiser. He slides into the booth beside you now instead of across. And you—oh, baby—you let him. You lean in. Just enough. Just close enough that your perfume slips into his nose and your thigh brushes his. Your knee rests against his under the table and you don’t pull away. You’re smiling now—really smiling, lip caught between your teeth, eyes bright with something vicious.
“Miss me?” you murmur, voice syrupy.
He laughs. “Was only gone a minute.”
You rest your hand on his forearm. Light at first. Then you drag your fingertips down to his wrist, slow and soft like you’re mapping out where you’ll bite later. He pauses, eyes dipping down to your hand, then back up to your mouth.
“You’re… different all of a sudden,” he says, smiling. “Something change?”
You shrug, eyes hooded. “Just realized I like this table better from this side.”
You know what you’re doing. You tilt your head, your mouth just a little too close to his neck, and you laugh at whatever he says next—something harmless. A joke. A compliment. It doesn’t matter. You laugh like Lando isn’t sitting ten tables away, burning. You laugh like you’re not already thinking about unzipping this poor man’s pants just to get revenge on the one who broke you.
You rest your chin on your hand and trace circles on the inside of his knee. You cross your legs in his direction and let your dress slip higher. You sip your wine with your lips parted, slow, tongue flicking the rim.
And then—your phone buzzes again. You check it casually, still smiling.
Lando [9:51 PM]
what the fuck do you think you’re doing
Oh, there it is. The leash pulls tight. Instead of answering, you reach for your date’s collar and straighten it instead, gentle, intimate. He’s blinking at you now, almost stunned, not quite believing his luck.
You feel Lando watching. You can taste it. Your hand drifts down to your date’s thigh. Not obvious. But not subtle either.
“You wanna come back to mine?” you ask, quiet, like a secret.
His breath catches.
“Yeah. Definitely.”
You feel the heat in your cheeks. Not embarrassment—arousal. And rage. And something darker. You want Lando to lose his fucking mind. You want him to picture it—the way you’ll moan for someone else, even if you’re faking it the whole time. You want him sick with it. You want him to feel what he did to you.
Yo grab your bag and stand, letting your hand trail down your date’s chest as you say, “Come on, then.”
You don’t look back. But you don’t have to. You can feel Lando watching you walk away like he’s about to snap a wine glass in his fist. And for the first time all fucking day, you feel a little bit like you won. The cool air hits you the second you step outside, crisp with salt and a faint hint of fuel—Monaco always smells like money and speed. You’re holding his hand. This new guy. The sweet one. He’s talking about the afterparty, asking if you want champagne or tequila when you get there. You nod. Smile. Pretend.
But it’s all wrong. Every step you take feels heavier. Your stomach twists once. Then again. Sharp, then dull, then sharp again. It’s not the wine. It’s not the food. It’s the lie you’re living inside, stretched too tight around your ribs.
By the time you reach the curb, your throat is dry. He’s hailing a car, jacket off, offering it to your shoulders like a gentleman, still thinking this night is going somewhere good. He’s got no idea you’re two seconds away from falling apart.
You stop and pull your hand back.
“I can’t,” you say, voice too small.
He looks over. “What?”
You shake your head. Your smile’s already cracking. “I’m sorry. I just—I can’t.”
He takes a step closer, brows pulling together. “You okay? Is there something wrong?”
You press a hand to your stomach. It does hurt now. Real pain. Not from food. From grief. From self-disgust. From the way your body still remembers another mouth, another weight, another name.
“I thought I could,” you say, voice barely above a breath. “I thought I was over it. But I’m not.”
He just watches you. Confused, maybe. Definitely kind, and kind in a way that only makes it worse. You hate that he’s decent. Hate the way he listens without interruption, the way he offers space for your sadness without trying to fix it. He’s doing everything right and it still feels wrong. Because no matter how gently he holds you, how safe his hands are, your mind always drifts elsewhere. Always pulls back to something sharp. Something dangerous. Something that doesn’t even belong to you anymore.
To Lando. To the way his name still lives under your tongue like it has a right to be there. To the taste of him, the weight of his stare from across a room, the way his laugh ruins you even now. To the memory of his hands on your body while someone else wears his heart in public. It’s shameful, the way you crave what hurt you. The way your skin still prickles for him while someone good stands in front of you trying to love you without a fight. And still—he’s the ghost you reach for in the dark. Even now. Even here.
“I’m sorry,” you say again, stepping back. “You don’t deserve this.”
And before he can speak, you turn. He calls your name once. But he doesn’t follow.
You walk. Fast at first, then slower, then fast again. The city glows around you—buzzing, alive, gearing up for a weekend of victory and champagne, of golden boy headlines and photos that will never include you. The heels you wore start to hurt. You carry them, bare feet on warm pavement, heart thudding in your ears like a warning bell.
You don’t cry. You don’t scream. You don’t throw your phone or punch a wall or sink to the floor in some kind of cinematic collapse. That would require an emotion that hasn’t already been wrung out of you. What you do is walk. Barefoot. Purse in one hand, heels in the other, dress still clinging to your skin like it knows it’s part of the performance you didn’t get to finish. You walk like you’re being timed, like if you slow down even a little you’ll notice what your body’s doing—shaking, buzzing, trying not to feel anything too loudly in case someone hears it. In case he does.
You walk back to the hotel. Back to the quiet. Back to the too-cold lobby where the concierge doesn’t even glance up. Back to the elevator that moves too slow, back to the room that feels too clean. Back to the bed where you let him inside you, to the window you pressed your palms against, to the glass that still holds the outline of your spine. You walk back to where last night still breathes in the sheets, where the air remembers what your mouth sounded like when he pulled you open.
You unlock the door with shaking hands. Not trembling—shaking. That kind of shake that lives in the marrow, in the hollows between bones, the kind that doesn’t show up until the moment things go quiet. You twist the handle and step inside like the room might have changed, like maybe it’s not the same space where you peeled yourself out of his grip hours earlier, where your knees hit the carpet and you thought maybe, for a second, that he might look at you and see something. The door closes behind you with that soft hotel click, and it sounds too final. It sounds like the kind of soft that doesn’t care how heavy the silence is on the other side of it. You don’t turn the lights on. You don’t move beyond the threshold. The air feels stale even though the window’s cracked. The sheets on the bed are still half-pulled back from when you rushed to get dressed, from when your fingers fumbled over your bra strap like it mattered, like decency was something you still had access to.
And that’s when it hits you—that feeling. That pulse. That presence.
Not the man you left at the restaurant, not the one who leaned into another woman’s ear while staring straight through you across the room. Not the one who smiled like he hadn’t had his face between your thighs the night before. Not the one who let you walk out without chasing. That version of him is for the public, for the cameras, for the kind of girls who don’t know better.
The one you feel now is the one who told you, under his breath, that no one would ever fuck you the way he does. The one who kissed your throat like it was an apology, like it was a promise. The one who held your hips in both hands like he needed to brace himself against the want. The one who said I love you with a groan and meant it in the filthiest, most broken way. The one who left you full and aching and ruined and somehow still wanting more.
He isn’t here. He isn’t anywhere. But his name is still wet in your mouth, and his breath is still in your lungs, and your underwear is still sticking to you from where he finished without asking, and every part of your body still feels like it belongs to him. And maybe that’s worse. Maybe this—this absence, this phantom weight—is heavier than the act itself.
Because this is what he does. He invades. He stays. He lingers. And when he goes, he never really leaves.
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The phone rings just past two a.m.
You stare at it, thumb hovering over the screen, not moving. You don’t answer right away—not because you’re trying to punish him, but because it’s a moment, and it’s yours. The quiet just before. The breath held. The anticipation curled at the bottom of your stomach like something alive. You hate how much you want this. Hate how your body remembers his name before your mouth does. Hate how none of it has dulled, not even now.
It rings again, softer somehow, though you know that’s impossible. It’s just the hour. The way silence thickens around sound this late, the way everything feels heavier when you’re alone. The way he feels heavier when you’re alone.
You press accept on the third buzz.
You stare at the ceiling while the line connects, the glow of the screen fading into the dark again as your hand drops back to the mattress. Your fingers brush the edge of the pillow but you don’t turn over. You don’t shift. You stay exactly as you were—still, flat, undone. He doesn’t say your name. He never does right away. That’s part of the performance. That moment he lets the silence settle just long enough to remind you that he holds the leash, that if you want anything—words, answers, closure—you’ll have to crawl for it.
He sighs, soft, like he’s tired, like it’s been a long day, like this is normal. “Hey.”
Just that. Just hey.
And it’s nothing. It’s nothing and it’s everything, because your chest tightens immediately, stomach flipping like you were still twenty minutes from him and not lying here in the wreckage of what he left behind. His voice sounds rough, maybe from the champagne, maybe from her, maybe from the way he always sounds when he’s just had something and still wants more. You want to hate it. You want to pretend it makes your skin crawl. But all it really does is make you ache.
“You alone?”
The question lands too gently, like he’s not really asking. Like he knows.
“Yeah.” Your voice sounds like it’s coming from someone else. Brittle. Caught in your throat.
A pause. You can hear him breathing. That quiet, familiar rhythm that used to mean something. That used to make you feel safe before it made you feel like a fucking joke.
He clears his throat, and the smirk is audible even over the line. “So? How was he?”
You flinch. You don’t know why—you should have expected it. It’s exactly the kind of thing he says when he’s trying not to ask the real question. When he’s trying to keep the power even while he’s already lost it.
You pause. Too long. “Fine.”
“Just fine?” His voice drops, dark amusement curling at the edges. “You let him fuck you, then?”
Your jaw clenches. You know what he’s doing. You know exactly where this is going. You roll onto your side, tuck the phone closer to your ear, press your thighs together without thinking.
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first. You swallow. Hard. “No.”
He laughs. Just once. Dry. “Didn’t think so.”
The silence stretches again, and it’s worse this time, heavier, like it’s his. Like he brought it with him and left it in your lap and now you’re the one holding it. You shift onto your side without meaning to, knees curling into your chest, hand still clutching the phone like it might anchor you to the bed.
“Hmm,” he hums, dragging the sound out like he’s picturing it. “Thought so. You always tighten up when you lie.”
You don’t respond.
“You were thinking about me the whole time, weren’t you?” His voice is softer now. Dangerous in a different way. Not sharp. Sweet. “Sitting there all pretty, playing the part, but your pussy was still sore from me.”
You swallow hard, lips parted, phone hot against your cheek. It feels heavier than it should—like it’s holding his whole mouth on the other end. Like if you press it tighter, you might feel the weight of his breath against your skin, humid and amused.
“Lando…” You don’t mean it to come out like that—weak, soft-edged, needy—but it does. It always does when he says your name first, or doesn’t say it at all. When he lets the silence settle until you have no choice but to fill it.
“I bet you didn’t even want him to touch you,” he murmurs. Not a tease. Not even mean. Just certain. Like he’s telling you something you haven’t admitted to yourself yet. “You sat through dinner, acting like a good little date, and all you could think about was my hand on your throat. My mouth on your cunt. The way you begged for it on that balcony.”
Your breath catches. The kind of catch that expands across your chest and makes your lungs feel too full too fast. You shift—barely—but the movement gives you away. Your hips tilt into nothing, like muscle memory took over. Your chest rises too quickly. You’re trying to hold it back, but your body’s already mid-confession. You make a sound, low in your throat, too soft to call language. Half protest, half surrender.
And he hears all of it.
“You touching yourself right now?”
You don’t say anything and he takes your silence as a yes.
“Do it.” He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t coax. He never has to. His instructions always sound like they’ve already happened, like you’re just catching up to the inevitable.
“Slide your hand down. Just one finger.”
You move slowly, not because you’re trying to be seductive, but because there’s shame in the familiarity. The way your body responds without hesitation. The way the sheets shift as your hand disappears beneath them. The way your fingertips graze your stomach and you pause—not out of modesty, but reverence. Like you already know what you’re going to find. You press your thighs together, the way you used to when you were trying not to let him see how bad it got, how fast. You hesitate. You want to blame him. But you’re already wet. Already ruined. Your panties cling, soaked and still warm, like your body’s been waiting for this call all night.
“Lando,” you whisper, but it’s not a plea to stop. It’s a surrender.
“Yeah, baby,” he breathes, and it lands deep in your ear, rough and syrup-slick at the edges. His voice has thickened—fuller, slower, like the sound of someone wrapping their palm around a want they’re trying not to show. “That’s right. Show me you still fucking need me.”
You hate how good it feels. Not the words. The tone. The certainty. He never doubts it. Never doubts you. Your need. Your body. He speaks to it like it’s his, and the worst part is—it still listens. God help you—you do.
Your fingers hover beneath the sheet, suspended above your stomach like they’re waiting for permission. Caught there in limbo. Not quite obedience, not quite defiance. The space between his command and your compliance is thin, delicate, the place you always seem to fall into first.
His voice lingers, curls around you like a second skin. Honey-laced gravel. That sound you’ve heard pressed to your shoulder, your mouth, the inside of your thighs. It tugs. Not gently. Not violently. Just effectively. It would be so easy. To give in. To surrender under the guise of pleasure. To let your body chase his voice and pretend—for five minutes—that this is love. That he means any of it. That wanting you is the same as keeping you. That this ache, this pull, is more than just habit wrapped in heat.
But something clenches in your chest. Sharp. A tightness just behind your sternum, hot and specific. A different kind of knowing.
You pull your hand back. “No,” you say, quiet, but not soft. A whisper, yes—but one you mean.
The line stills. His breath shifts—no longer seductive, just audible. A pause, an exhale, the kind that happens when someone wasn’t expecting a refusal.
“No?” he repeats, slower now. 
You swallow. Your throat tightens. “Not like this. I’m not—” You sit up in bed. The sheets slip down your chest like they know they’ve been dismissed. Cool air replaces the warmth of your body, and it feels like stepping outside of something. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to say that shit to me after what happened.”
You wait. Expect the smirk in his voice. The pivot. The sarcasm. The cruel, clever deflection that always comes when you try to reach for something with weight.
A beat passes. Then another. You brace yourself for the mockery, the deflection, the teeth. But instead, he sighs. Honest. A sound you’ve only heard a handful of times before. The sound he makes when his armor slips, when he thinks no one’s watching.
“I know,” he says snd it sounds like truth.
You blink.
“I just— fuck,” he mutters, voice dropping low again, but not to seduce this time. Just honest. Raw. “I keep trying to not think about you. I go to sleep next to her, and it’s you I’m dreaming about. I kiss her and it doesn’t taste like anything.”
Your breath catches.
“I thought maybe if I pissed you off enough, you’d stop being in my head. But then I saw you tonight.” He laughs under his breath. “You looked so fucking good. I hated it.”
You’re quiet. Staring at the far wall of your hotel room like it might give you answers.
“I don’t want to keep doing this,” you whisper.
He doesn’t protest. Doesn’t try to sell it as love or misunderstanding or timing or fate. He just waits, still on the line, still breathing, letting the weight of your words—and his silence—do what it always does. Fill the room with him.
“I want to stop,” you say again, but it sounds different this time. Smaller. Your voice loses its bite somewhere on the way out, like your throat already knew it was a lie.
“So stop,” he murmurs. “Block my number. Forget my name.”
You don’t answer.
“Exactly,” he says, softer now, and the smile bends downward in his tone, into something resigned, something rotted. “You won’t. You fucking can’t.”
You close your eyes, let your head fall back against the pillow. The ceiling’s too white, too still. Your chest feels hollow, carved out with something blunt, something dull and wide. Like he reached in with both hands and took, not just the good parts, but the name you say when you’re alone, the thoughts you think when you’re cold, the you that existed before him.
“I miss you,” you admit, and it guts you to say it.
He breathes in like you just unzipped his skin. Like you reached down the line and dragged his ribs apart with your teeth. “Say it again.”
You shake your head, lips parting, but no sound comes.
“Please,” he says, quieter now, the way he gets when he really means something. Like you’ve just put your hand on the door, and he’s begging without pride. “Just once.”
The silence feels like it stretches forever, like the night itself is holding its breath just to hear what you’ll say next. Your fingers tremble where they rest on your chest, tracing the curve of your collarbone like distraction could be enough. It isn’t. You should hang up. You should. But your throat is tight and your stomach’s hollow and your whole body feels like it’s still locked in the shape of his. You wish it didn’t matter anymore. You wish his voice didn’t still pull at the part of you that needs to be seen. You close your eyes and inhale through your nose, a sad attempt at trying to ground yourself in this moment. “I miss you,” you whisper, again. And it cracks something in your own voice—thin and breaking, like you hate yourself for meaning it.
You hear him groan. Deep. Loud. From the chest. The kind of sound that doesn’t start in the throat—it starts lower. Beneath the ribs. That heavy, involuntary kind of noise that escapes before it can be shaped into something cooler, something controlled. It scrapes up through him like the words pulled something raw out of him and left it there, exposed.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You don’t know what that does to me.”
You picture him—eyes closed, jaw tight, knuckles white around the phone. Picture him tilting his head back, one hand dragging over his face like he’s trying to shake it off, like the sound embarrassed even him. Like your voice still reaches places he keeps locked and your thighs clench instinctively, traitorously from the thought of it. Something inside you twists, low and hot and helpless.
“You can’t say that to me and expect me to stay quiet,” he mutters, voice ragged now. You can hear the shift in him, the sudden tension coiling under his words like a wire pulled too tight.
You bite your lip, but you don’t interrupt.
“I’ve been thinking about it since you walked away tonight,” he says, lower, slower, each syllable like a bruise dragged across your skin. “How your hips moved in that dress. How empty your hand looked without mine in it.”
Your fingers slide beneath the sheet again, slow this time, like surrender—like there’s no point pretending you won’t. Not when he’s already in your ear, in your body, in the rhythm of your breath. You barely brush your own skin, but it’s enough to light up everything he left raw. You don’t stop. You can’t. Something in you has already given way.
He exhales, sharp and sudden, like he felt it—like he knew the moment your hand moved. “Are you touching yourself now?”
Your breath catches in your throat, tight and unsteady, and you hate the pause that follows. Hate how long it takes you not to answer, but not to lie either. The silence is its own admission.
“Yeah…” he says, voice dipping. “You are.”
You swallow hard. Hard enough that it hurts.
“I can picture it,” he murmurs. “Your legs spread just a little, that pretty little cunt already soaked for me. You’re rubbing slow, aren’t you? Just like I taught you.”
Your hand obeys without permission, palm pressing down over the thin cotton of your underwear. You gasp—quiet, quick.
“God, I miss the way you taste,” he groans. “I’d fucking die right now to have you sitting on my face, one hand in my hair, grinding like you always do when you’re too far gone to be shy.”
Your hips jerk.
“I’d tongue-fuck you ‘til your legs shake,” he growls. “Wouldn’t even stop when you begged me to.”
You moan, involuntary, soft and choked.
“That’s it,” he breathes. “Don’t hold back. Let me hear you, baby.”
You slide your hand lower. Inside. Fingers sliding through slick heat. Shame and need pulsing together under your skin. You want to stop. You don’t. Because his voice is the only thing that feels real right now.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick now, every word catching on the edge of a groan. “Nice and slow. Fuck yourself for me.”
Your fingers move without thought, caught between his breath in your ear and the ache blooming low in your stomach. The wet sounds are obscene in the quiet of your room—shameless, slick, and sinful. And he knows. You haven’t said a word in minutes, but he knows exactly what you’re doing.
“I bet your thighs are shaking,” he says. “Bet your fingers are slipping because you’re so fucking soaked. You always were, weren’t you? Always such a desperate little thing for me.”
You bite your bottom lip, hard, your free hand grabbing the sheets beside you, twisting them as your hips start to move.
“Are you gonna come for me?” he asks, voice low and reverent now, like it’s prayer instead of poison. “Yeah? You’re close, aren’t you? I can hear it. I can fucking feel it.”
You moan. Soft. Broken.
“God, I miss how you sound,” he groans, the sound raw in your ear like he’s fisting the phone. “I used to make you scream, didn’t I? When I had you bent over the edge of the bed, dripping, wrecked, begging me not to stop.”
Your back arches off the sheets.
The room is too still—dim and expensive and wrong, like every object inside it is holding its breath with you. Fingers move frantically between your thighs, slippery with sweat and want, chasing that high you swore you wouldn’t let him give you again. The bedsheets twist beneath you, cool against your calves, sticky at your back. You’ve kicked them off entirely now, one leg stretched toward the edge of the mattress like you’re bracing for impact. You are.
Outside, the faint drone of the sea whispers through a cracked window. Somewhere in the distance, a car rips down the avenue too fast, tires humming against wet asphalt. Monaco never really sleeps—just hums at a lower frequency, like even the city is in on it. Like the architecture itself is bent toward indulgence and regret. And then his voice drops again—low, measured, threading into the stillness like silk soaked in kerosene. Almost tender.
“You wanna know something?” His voice drops even lower, into something almost tender.
You make a noise. Can’t speak. Don’t trust yourself to. Your eyes are closed but you can feel him—his voice in your ear, his name still carved into the rhythm of your breath. He doesn’t wait.
The words drop like fire in your chest. They land hard. Searing. Like you swallowed something molten and now your lungs are screaming, your spine melting into the mattress. Your thighs jerk. Your fingers falter. The ceiling above you stays dark, indifferent.
“I fucking love you,” he says again, this time harsher. Desperate. “I hate how much I do. But I do.”
It’s not soft. It’s not romantic. It’s a wound splitting open in real time. A confession flung into the dark because he can’t hold it anymore. And you—you shake. You can’t breathe. You can’t stop. Your fingers stop and then start again, harder, faster, like maybe if you come it’ll drown it out. Like you can flood it out of your bloodstream, sweat it out of your skin. But it doesn’t work. It’s still there. In every heartbeat. In every gasp.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
“You’re mine,” he breathes. “Even when you’re not. Even when you walk away. I still feel you. Every fucking day. No one else even comes close.”
And your orgasm hits like a crash.
It’s violent. A wave slamming your body against itself. Your legs tense. Your stomach seizes. Your breath breaks into pieces. A sound claws its way out of your throat, and your hand flies up—reflex—trying to cover your mouth, trying to keep it in. You can’t. It’s too late. He hears it. Of course he does. He always does.
“That’s my girl,” he growls. “Fucking knew you’d give it to me.”
You don’t say anything. Can’t. The words won’t come. They’ve drowned under the weight of him—of this. The way his voice still owns the oxygen in the room. The way your body still says yes when everything else is screaming no.
The line is quiet.
You can still hear him breathing, but it’s distant now. Removed. Not soft or hungry anymore—just there. Like a metronome ticking at the end of a hallway. Background noise in a house that doesn’t feel like yours anymore.
You curl onto your side, away from the phone. Away from him. The sheets are cold on this side—untouched, undisturbed. Your arm tucks under your head, and your legs curl toward your chest on instinct, like your body’s trying to hold itself smaller. Contain the ache. The trembling hasn’t stopped yet, a slow pulse beneath your skin like something sacred was scraped out with a dull edge.
He should say something.
You should say something. But neither of you do.
The heat is already fading from your skin. It evaporates too fast, like it was never yours to keep. The chill that replaces it seeps under your ribs—quiet and surgical. It settles in your throat like a question you don’t want to ask. You blink at the wall. At the dark. At the soft glow of the city bleeding in from the window. The room’s filled with dim gold and ghostlight, shadows cast by luxury fixtures and memories you didn’t mean to resurrect.
Everything is still. And wrong, you fucking hate how familiar this feels. The after. Always the after. That hollow stretch of silence where he pulls away—not with excuses. Not even with guilt. Just absence. Just a breath you can’t sync with anymore. A distance so thick it presses against your chest like a hand. You’re alone in a room that smells like him. On sheets that remember your back arching. And now it’s quiet. And cold. And exactly like the last time.
When he finally speaks, it’s low. Measured. Like he’s collecting himself. Like the version of him that just broke you apart is already folding itself back into something clean, something that won’t ruin the rest of his night.
“You still there?”
When he finally speaks, it’s low. Measured. Like he’s collecting himself. Like the version of him that just broke you apart is already folding itself back into something clean, something that won’t ruin the rest of his night.
“Yeah,” you whisper.
You wait.
You try not to. You tell yourself not to. But you do. Of course you do. For softness. For proof. For anything that makes what he said—I love you—feel like a truth and not just a well-aimed knife disguised as comfort. You wait for the voice that said it to come back with warmth, with meaning, with something that makes the wreckage worthwhile. But all you get is silence.
And then—his voice again. Casual. Neutral. Airy, even. Like a light switch flipped somewhere between your thighs and his pride.
“You gonna be at qualifying?”
It hits like a slap. Not a sharp one. A dull one. Open-palmed and slow, the kind that comes after the fight’s already over. The kind that reminds you who’s still standing. You roll onto your back. Stare at the ceiling like it might peel away and let you float out of this. Your chest aches, hollow and wide. Your thighs are still slick and parted and ruined. Your mouth still tastes like his name. And he’s asking about fucking qualifying. Like this was a meeting. Like this wasn’t a bloodletting.
“No,” you say. Flat. Tired. Honest. Like your voice has finally given up trying to be anything else.
He doesn’t argue. Of course he doesn’t. That would require effort. Would require remembering that you just let him back inside a body that still flinches from the last time.
The pause stretches. Long. Unearned. The kind of pause that should hold regret. But doesn’t. You wonder if he’s already looking at her. If she’s asleep in his bed right now, one leg kicked out from under the covers, soft breathing and sheets still warm from her skin. If he’ll crawl back in like this was just a break. If he’ll kiss her shoulder and curl into her like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just call you from the next room and come in your ear while whispering your name like a prayer. If she’ll roll over and whisper I love you back.
“Okay,” he says, finally.
That’s it. No pause. No catch. No sorry. You don’t say goodbye, won’t allow yourself to give him the satisfaction. So instead, you just hang up. Slowly and quietly. Like if you move too fast, the grief might notice you. Like if you make a sound, whatever just died might come back and ask for more. And then you lie there. Alone. Cold. Numb in the exact places he made you feel again. The wet between your legs isn’t even arousal anymore—it’s humiliation, pooling like proof. The room feels too big. Your skin too tight. Your heart too loud for how little it’s getting back. You close your eyes. And you try—god, you try—not to remember how good it felt to believe him.
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You told yourself you wouldn’t watch. Told yourself you’d go out during the race. Walk the port. Maybe take a train out of the city. Catch a ride into Italy, buy a coffee in some no-name border town where no one gives a fuck about Formula One. You told yourself if you left early enough, you wouldn’t hear the engines start.
But you did. You heard them. Sharp and brutal. Like the city itself was exhaling all at once. The engines howled to life like beasts shaking off sleep. And the streets—those narrow, glittering veins winding around the harbor like silk on bone—filled instantly. People spilled out of hotels, bars, yachts. Laughter carried down alleyways. Shoes clacked against marble and cobblestone. Horns. Screams. Sirens. The whole city vibrating in a single fevered pitch, like a heartbeat you couldn’t separate from your own.
And that was it. You felt it again.
That tug. That sick little string wound tight through your ribs. Strung there by him. Still holding. Still pulling. It didn’t matter how much distance you told yourself you needed—when the world turned toward him, you did too.So you ended up outside a bar near the track. Not the private ones. Not the ones with velvet ropes and industry passes and terrace views. Just one of the ones carved into the street-level buildings, open to the chaos, full of heat and sound. Flat screens bolted above the bar. Fans shoulder to shoulder. Bottles sweating in metal buckets. Flags tied like bandanas. Champagne already foaming across tabletops like victory was a guarantee.
You stood by the railing. Arms crossed. Sunglasses still on even though the sun was behind the buildings now. Shadows stretched across the street like tired ghosts. Your foot tapped against the base of a rusted stool, your hip leaned just barely into the edge of the counter like you weren’t really here. Like maybe you were just watching a version of yourself watch him.
The race blurred by.
It always does. Too fast, too clean, too cinematic. Like it’s not real. Like it’s something you could turn off if you found the right remote. He looked good—of course he did. He always does when there’s something on the line. Fast. Confident. Hungry. His car didn’t take corners. It swallowed them. He moved like he was dancing with the track. Like he could feel its heartbeat better than his own. You didn’t blink when he overtook on Lap 42. Didn’t flinch when the leaderboard adjusted like it had been waiting for him all along.
But when the checkered flag dropped? When the whole bar erupted—glasses raised, hands slapped to backs, phones held high and recording?
That’s whens something inside you cracked. It was clean and silent. Like glass under pressure. You watched the screen. Watched him throw his fists into the air inside the car, helmet still on, adrenaline turning his voice to something breathless and boyish through the radio.
“Fuck, man! We did it!”
And he sounded happy. Not like he’d sounded on the phone. Not like last night. Not like someone torn in two. He sounded whole. He sounded free. You stood still while the rest of the bar screamed and spilled and toasted and laughed. While confetti machines burst at the table beside you. While someone popped a bottle and poured foam into a stranger’s cup like they’d both waited their whole lives for this.
And you—still in your sunglasses, arms locked across your chest like armor—you felt like you were being erased. Not slowly. Not softly. Violently. Like the footage of him crossing that line was actively overwriting you. Like every frame of his win was bleaching your name from his mouth. Then you saw her.
Not up close. Not at the podium. Just a flicker. A flash of white on the screen behind him. Behind the fence. Her hair. Her silhouette. Her hand.
Raised in a wave. And the way he looked at her—god. You thought you’d collapse. 
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You don’t know why you’re here. You already booked your ticket back to Italy. You packed your bag with one hand while brushing your teeth with the other, You checked out of the hotel like it was a fire you had to get away from. You had a plan. You were going to leave before the city woke up, before the papers hit the stands, before your own stomach could catch up to the shame curling in it.
But then you didn’t. You didn’t leave. You didn’t get in the car. You didn’t do the smart thing, or the sane thing, or even the thing you promised yourself you would. Instead, you walked. Shoes in your hand, face bare, heart kicking like it wanted out. You walked past the marina. Past the crowds still drunk off the race. Past the café where your phone first lit up with his name. You told yourself it was a loop. A muscle twitch. A final look.
You knew it was a lie and now you’re here. You ride the elevator in silence, arms crossed, your teeth sunk so deep into your lip you can taste blood. The hallway stretches out in front of you like something cinematic—floor-to-ceiling windows on one side, pale wood on the other, recessed lights humming low like they know what you’re doing. You don’t even knock. The apartment door is already cracked open.
Of course it is.
He’s inside. Shirtless. Sweaty. Champagne-drenched hair curling messily across his forehead. Still wearing his fireproofs, halfway unzipped. His chest rises with breath that’s only just started to slow. He smells like victory. Like sun-warmed metal and sweet rot and something you used to beg for. He looks good.
Of course he does. He turns when you step in. Smiles. The real kind. That one that used to mean I knew you'd come.
But it fades the second he sees your face.
“Hey,” he says, cautious now. “You okay?”
You shake your head once. Quick. Like it might stop the tears from crawling up your throat.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” you say. But that’s a lie.
He steps forward, slow, cautious, like approaching an animal he’s already wounded once and isn’t sure won’t bite again. His arms stay loose at his sides, fingers twitching like he doesn’t know what he’s allowed to reach for anymore—your waist, your wrist, your forgiveness.
“You—uh, did you see the race?” he asks, and it’s not small talk. Not really. It’s a test balloon. A toe in the water. Like maybe if you say yes without venom, maybe if your voice stays level, he can convince himself none of this is a disaster.
“Yeah,” you snap, the word scraping up your throat like it came with splinters. “You were amazing. Congratulations.”
His smile twitches back onto his face, but it doesn’t land properly. It hovers at the corners like a glitch in the system. Like he knows it’s too late to fix the part of him that doesn’t know how to be soft when it counts.
“Thanks,” he says, and it should mean something. Should carry weight. But it floats.
You step closer. Not because you want to be near him, not anymore. But because the distance feels dishonest. Like if you’re going to bleed in front of him, he should at least have to watch it happen up close. Your voice shakes when you speak, but you don’t try to hide it. You don’t care if he hears what it costs you. You want him to.
“Why wasn’t I ever good enough?”
He blinks. His head pulls back just slightly, like you slapped him. Like the words hit somewhere he wasn’t guarding. His brow creases—not out of confusion, but something worse. That dawning realization that this conversation isn’t going to end where he thought it might. That this isn’t another soft landing.
“What?” he says, but it’s not really a question. More like a deflection. A delay tactic. Something to stall the blow he knows is coming.
Your heart’s beating so hard it feels physical now—like it’s trying to break out of your chest and throw itself at his feet in one last act of desperate, humiliating honesty. Like it still wants him even as you drag yourself through the fucking wreckage of that want.
“Why have I never been enough for you to choose?” you ask, and your voice cracks on the word like it’s never been said out loud before. “Not fuck. Not sneak around with. Not call when you're lonely or bored or drunk at some goddamn afterparty. I mean choose. I mean claim. Why have I never been the one you tell people about?”
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes. His throat works around it. His eyes drop to the floor and back up again, and for a second—just a second—you think he might lie. Might try to salvage this with some half-truth about timing or image or circumstance.
“Why her?” you whisper, and this one hurts more than the rest—not because of what it means, but because of how quietly you ask it. Because it comes from the part of you that’s already accepted the answer. “Why does she get to be seen?”
He looks at you like you’ve just thrown a grenade at his feet, like he doesn’t know whether to jump on it or run. And maybe that’s always been him—too cowardly to save you, too selfish to leave you alone.
“I let you inside me,” you say, and now your voice is breaking for real, cracking down the middle like an old fault line that’s finally splitting open. “And you walked away. I let you hear me. I told you shit I’ve never said out loud before, not even to myself. I gave you everything. And I didn’t say I loved you, not because it wasn’t true, but because I knew it didn’t fucking matter. Because I knew, no matter how much I gave you—no matter how deep I let you in—I’d still just be the thing you come back to when you’re bored. Or lonely. Or drunk. Or broken. But never when it matters.”
He doesn’t speak. Not right away. Just stands there in the center of his spotless, silent apartment—an altar to success and self-control—still radiant with the remnants of the win. His chest rises in slow, shallow pulses, adrenaline still flickering beneath skin damp with sweat and victory. There’s a gleam across his collarbones, the faint shimmer of champagne that never got wiped off, dried sugar crusted along the edge of his jaw like celebration had kissed him and refused to let go. His hair’s a mess—curling, golden, clinging to his temples like he earned the chaos. And maybe he did. Maybe he earned every fucking second of it. But all you want is to ruin it. To drag your hand across his face and wipe the triumph off like it’s blood that doesn’t belong to him.
Because he looks too happy for someone who’s left you bleeding this many times. But when his eyes land on you—finally, fully—something shifts. He’s not smiling anymore. Not smirking. Not playing cool or disinterested or oblivious. He’s just looking. At you. Carefully, as if he’s cataloguing damage. Like he’s not sure if you’re about to cry or scream or throw a glass, and the fact that he doesn’t know is maybe the only honest thing he’s ever done in your presence.
You step further into the apartment. The floor is cool under your feet, too clean. Everything here is intentional—curated—like even his grief would be expensive. Your arms are still crossed tight over your chest, but it’s not a defense anymore. It’s just something to hold while the rest of you starts to come apart in slow motion. The tension in your shoulders doesn’t brace you—it betrays you. It trembles loose. Not strength. Not anymore. Just unraveling in real time.
“I shouldn’t have come,” you say, and your voice barely makes it past your teeth. It sounds like someone else said it first and handed it to you to carry. “I told myself I wouldn’t. I watched you win and I felt sick.”
He shifts his weight, opens his mouth, but you hold your hand up. You’re not finished. If you stop now, you’ll never say it.
“I’m tired of pretending I don’t care. Tired of pretending that what we had was just sex. You know it wasn’t. You know. We talked. We laughed. You let me in. You made me feel like I wasn’t crazy for needing you. And then every time I get close to believing you—really believing you—you disappear. Or worse, you show up like nothing happened and expect me to melt for you. And I do. God, I always do.”
His gaze drops. His jaw clenches. But he still doesn’t speak. And that silence—it’s not passive. It’s precise. It’s brutal in its precision. Like he’s figured out by now that anything he says will only confirm how much worse he made it. So he doesn’t say a word. Just lets the weight of what you said sit there. Lets you carry it alone, like you always have. And that silence? It hits harder than anything he’s ever said. Than every lie. Than every I miss you that came too late.
You take another breath, but it doesn’t settle. It just wobbles on the way out, shakes loose in your throat like it’s trying not to turn into a sob.
“I just want to know…” you start, and your voice is thinner now, worn down to something soft and splintered. “Why I’ve never been enough. Not once. Not for a full day. Why I’m always good enough to fuck. To call. To cry to when you’re falling apart at three in the morning. But never good enough to stand next to in daylight.”
Your hands shake, but you keep going.
“Why it’s always her when I’m the one who knows how you take your coffee. When I’m the one who told you to breathe before qualifying, when you couldn’t stop pacing. When I’m the one who stayed.”
That’s the part that undoes you a little. That last word. Stayed. You weren’t supposed to say it—not out loud. It’s too naked. Too pathetic. But it tumbles out anyway, like the truth was tired of waiting for permission. And it lands. You see it shift something in him. His eyes flick toward the floor, then back up. His fingers twitch at his sides, curling briefly into fists, then flattening again. His shoulders rise with a breath too deep to be casual—like he’s dragging something up from the part of him that doesn’t usually speak.
“I never meant for it to get this far,” he says finally, voice raw around the edges, like he’s chewing on the words even as he gives them up. “I didn’t think I’d need you like that.”
You almost laugh, but it’s not funny. It’s sharp. Bitter. It curls in your mouth like acid.
“You needed me,” you echo. “But not enough.”
He steps toward you then. Slowly. Cautiously. Like he’s approaching a live wire. Like he thinks there’s still something left to salvage in the wreckage.
“It’s not that simple,” he says.
But you shake your head before he can finish the thought. “Yes, it is.”
And this time you don’t snap it. You don’t spit it out like a weapon. You just say it flatly. Like a fact that doesn’t care how he feels about it.
“You either love someone,” you say, “or you don’t.”
“I do love you,” he replies. Just like that. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been true, and always been enough.
But it costs you everything to hear it. Every little ounce of composure you’ve been clinging to. Every version of yourself that held out hope. It’s not relief that hits you—it’s grief. Not longing. Not even disbelief. Just loss. Again. All over again. Because now that he’s said it, now that the words are out, you know for sure: his love was never the kind that saves you. Never the kind that holds you in the light. His love only ever lives in the dark.
You look at him, and something twists in your chest—not from happiness, but from mourning.
“Then why has it always felt like I had to beg for it?” you whisper. “Why has it never once felt like it came freely?”
He doesn’t answer.
Doesn’t lie. Doesn’t soften. Just stands there, mouth parted like he wants to say something, anything, but he knows. He knows whatever he gives you now will only make it worse. So he says nothing. And the silence between you—thick, heavy, final—says everything.
You stare at him—not the Lando the world loves, not the polished boy in champagne and fireproofs and grins for the cameras, but the one in front of you now. Quiet. Flickering. Human in the worst way. The kind that disappoints just by standing still.
Your arms drop to your sides. Not in surrender. In exhaustion. Your limbs feel too heavy to hold upright, your ribs ache from holding in this pain for too long. You’re sagging under the weight of it.
“You love me,” you repeat, hollow now. Like the words are ash in your mouth. “But you’re still with her.”
He doesn’t deny it. Just lowers his eyes, clenches his jaw, like maybe he hates himself for it. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s just tired of pretending it’s not true. And that’s the answer. That’s the only answer you’re going to get. There’s no grand speech. No twist in the narrative. Just the sharp silence of reality pressing down on you like gravity finally remembered your name.
And somewhere behind you, the elevator dings.
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sevsbunny · 4 months ago
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the warmer weather right now makes want sevika to act a damn fool when she sees you coming out in a thin sundress, barely going past your knees.
and you love wearing nothing underneath to give her a little surprise when you’re sitting on a park bench and her hand is on your thigh, rubbing circles into your skin with her thumb
and she has to do everything she can to not take you out in public and bend you over the wooden bench.
i can imagine her bunching your dress up at the hips while he has you pressed against a brick wall concealed in an alleyway as you both are walking home
her thigh pressed snug in between your own, the plane of her own skin from her shorts she was wearing makes you shiver as you can feel how wet you are the second she settles
and fuck you can feel the heat of her warmth from her cunt as she grips your hips and moves them forcefully over her own skin.
“fucking tease, no goddamn underwear on.” you groan as she speaks, taking her metal hand to cup your ass and push you firmly against the wall to make sure you weren’t going anywhere.
not that you would anyways.
“always wearing shit like this…” she doesn’t really know what she’s saying, her mind too focused on how soft your skin feels against her palm, how your cunt is sliding all over the place easily on her exposed thigh — and those fucking whines
she grunts softly as you let out a soft whine, your clit pushing against her skin and she can’t help but bury her face into your neck to hide her own moans. “shhh, doll,” she nips your skin on your neck making you whine in response. “can’t let people hear you when they walk by.”
you let out a soft groan as she takes her flesh fingers and push them gently on your swollen clit, feeling the way it throbs against the pads of her fingers and her slick dribbling down the sides of her thigh
“you’re fucking soaking me baby.” she can’t wrap her mind around it, her cunt throbbing incessantly with each stroke of your hips and ew h time you swallow a whine in your throat.
“please, vika…” your head rested gently against the brick wall, your eyes hooded as you look at her like she was your life saver. she saw the fire in your eyes as she added a bit more pressure to your clit at your plea.
you let out a breathless sigh as you moved against her fingers and thigh at your own accord, not needing her help much. she leaned back to watch you closely, seeing your chest heave, throat bobbing in anticipation as your stomach clenched
“tell me what you want, love.” you let out a frustrated whine as she grins softly, rubbing your clit harder as you feel your cunt clench around nothing.
“wanna cum, please,” she grunts a soft ‘good girl’ before angling her thigh a bit higher, enough to make your move hips towards her giving her enough access to slip her two fingers into your wet hole
“there we go, fuck,” she pushes them deeper watching your body go slack as you relaxed, moving your hips to fuck yourself in her fingers with her help as her thumb presses and rubs your swollen clit. “cum on my fingers, baby.”
you let out a whine as you felt your cunt clench her fingers as your orgasm washed over your body, slick leaking down sevika’s wrist and a mess all over her shorts. “dirty girl,” she murmurs as you ride your high on her fingers and thigh, leaning into her body as she kisses all over your face.
she slips her fingers from your cunt, before bringing them up to her lips to clean them off. she moans softly at the taste of your cum on her fingers, your cunt quivering on her thigh as more slick leaks from your hole
“so needy. let’s get you home so i can fuck you properly.” she says as she puts your dress back down, and letting your feet fall to the floor, a soft gentle hand pushing your hair back and a quick peck on your forehead
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mattsundaes · 4 months ago
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hiiiii dee !! omg i was so excited to see you have a drabble event. oliver w wake him up, if you please?
— ave
oliver aiku x reader — 18+, morning after
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Can a pro footballer not afford fucking blinds?
It’s the first thought that stretches awake in the shallow sea of your sleep-addled brain as you find yourself bathed in what’s quite frankly an obnoxious amount of early morning sunlight. 
And this is what naturally leads into your second thought, one that clicks into place with unnerving clarity mere moments before your gaze falls on the sight of a football jersey hanging over the back of a chair. 
You let out a quiet, resigned exhale before carefully turning your head just enough to see the culmination of last night’s collective assortment of bad decisions: a shirtless Oliver Aiku, fast asleep and snoring softly on the pillow beside your own.
He’s facing away from you, dark grey sheets pooled at his waist, and you have to mentally slap yourself for the way you find yourself suddenly distracted by the smooth, wide, muscled planes of his back.
You’re only wasting time letting your traitorous eyes sweep over his sleeping form, tracing a map along the source of each tender, pliant, well-fucked ache that lingers across your body. 
You really need to leave—
But the sheets shift with you as you go to extricate yourself from the tangle of them, and the mattress groans in protest as Oliver rolls over and slings a heavy arm over your hip. And it’s infuriating, the magnetic pull of his body heat as he curls around you. 
“Are you sneaking out?” he murmurs in a sleep-rough voice against the nape of your neck.
You try not to shiver at the sensation.
“Oliver,” you sigh. The exasperated way you say his name is answer enough. 
His hand slips up beneath the shirt you’re wearing, his shirt, and he slowly strokes your hip, thumb catching against your underwear.
“I drove you here,” he reminds you, and each word feels like a kiss.
“I can get a Lyft home,” you reply mildly. 
Oliver huffs in amusement before he rolls you over onto your back, and you resolutely stare at the ceiling as he rests his chin in the dip of your collarbone. The scruff of his beard is scratchy against your skin, and you’re unreasonably annoyed by how much you don’t hate the feeling of it. 
You swear you feel him smiling, even if you’re pointedly not looking at him. 
“Let me make you breakfast, and then I’ll drive you back to your apartment. And we can both pretend you snuck out and left me high and dry without saying anything, if that’s what you really want.”
You sigh, turning to look at him and hating the way your heart fumbles around within the tight confines of your chest cavity when your eyes meet his. 
He grins.
Twenty minutes later, you come hard seated atop the cool marble countertop in his kitchen with Oliver's face buried between your spread thighs, your fingers tangled in his messy hair, and the scent of nearly-burnt bacon wafting out of the frying pan.
He cajoles you into a shower after, and it’s a lost cause trying to muffle the desperate, needy moans that echo off of the bathroom walls when he fucks you deep and slow up against the tiles under a hot spray of water.
And even if he keeps his promise not to walk you to your door, he still hooks a finger in the back pocket of your jeans and tugs you back down into the passenger seat when you go to get out of his car, his mouth catching yours in a soft, tender kiss.
Later, with a clipboard in your hands and an ID tag hanging from the bottom of your track jacket that reads ‘ASSISTANT MANAGER - UBERS’, it’s all you can do not to deck Oliver in the head with the former when he has the gall to blow you a goddamn kiss as he jogs out onto the pitch.
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thexsilentxwordsmith · 2 years ago
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Just a little something something for you guys...as a treat😈
When Simon's away for a while on deployment, it can get lonely. He's knows by the way your texting, when he gets the chance and can text, that you are missing him like crazy. You tell him how you can hardly wait till he returns, how your body is just aching for him something fierce.
And fuck his aching for yours too.
If he could hop on a plane, he would in an instant just to get back to you. Unfortunately, that's not something available to him at the moment.
But that doesn't mean there's nothing for him to do.
Simon knows his baby needs something to take the edge off, something to tide over that insatiable appetite for him until he can come home and fuck her proper the first chance he can get. You never asked for it, but he knew you wouldn't mind.
Ding
Your phone goes off. It's late, but youre no stranger to staying up well past dark; sometimes that was the only way you'd get a minute to talk to Simon when he was away across the world.
You check your phone. It's a text... a picture...
At first glance at the small icon on the lock screen, the image is kind of dark so you have to click on it to bring it up and when you do you nearly faint.
The caption reads: “Gotta be stealthy so they don't fuckin' catch me, but this one's for you sweetheart."
Simon is clearly propped up in his cot, his legs splayed open, shirt off. All that you can see is his thick torso with it's small speckling of light colored hair across his abs. The belt and zipper of his pants are completely undone and the waistband flung open. In one of his meaty hands he has a hold of his cock, already swollen with a little glistening at the top caught in the low light - most definitely a product from thinking of you.
You have to swallow to keep the spit from dribbling down out of the corner your mouth. Instantly you feel the heat rise in your cheeks, burning through your face as the blood pools there. It feels like you are going to pass out.
He's done it, he's taken your breath away in an instant.
Not even recovered from that glorious image your phone dings again, this time downloading something for a few seconds. Your heart pounds in your chest, your breath caught in your lungs, as you wait to see what he's done now.
Ding
It's downloaded. This time it's a video...about a minute long. Your shaky, excited finger instantly clicks play.
"Mmmm..." his breath groan hits your ears as the vision of him stroking his length plays across the screen. His voice in hushed, clearly trying to be as quiet as he can while still making sure you can hear his words. "Fuck darlin', I wish you were here... rather have that sweet little pussy 'round me than my hand."
You've stopped breathing, literally; you could hear a pin drop in the room. The video of his abdominal muscles contracting and releasing as he continues to stroke his cock is all you can focus on now. Looks like he's in the middle of things.
He groans again, his breathing getting faster. "Fuck, I miss ya luv. It's been hell not having ya near for this fuckin' long. Nearly rippin' a hole in my goddamn pants from being so fuckin hard. I swear... gonna absolutely wreck ya when I get back. Don't even bother wearing any panties cause they're gonna get shredded off ya. Nothin', and I mean fuckin' nothin' is gonna keep me from buryin' all this in ya the fuckin' second we're alone. I wanna make you cum so fuckin bad baby."
The video fades out amongst the sound of another low, gravely moan and your sanity is gone. Dear God you were a lucky one tonight. You have to take several minutes just to relearn how to function properly again so you can text him back.
Before you can do that your phone goes off once more.
Ding
One final message pops up on screen: "Think of me later when you cum, sweetheart..."
Oh, you would, you would. And maybe just to be nice...you'd send him something back too.
Part 2:
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thisapplepielife · 1 year ago
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Written for @steddiesongfics.
If He Wanted To, He Would
July Prompt: Any Song Lyrics | Word Count: 2000 | Rating: T | CW: Language | Tags: Eddie POV, Modern Setting, Sports AU, Rockstar Eddie, Baseball Player Steve, Very Public Love Affair, Corroded Coffin, Good Uncle Wayne Munson
I've used lyrics from Take Me Out to the Ball Game & Blank Space.
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Even the news is covering it. 
That's fucking ridiculous. There's an animated graphic, a live tracker of where his plane is, a moving dot over the Atlantic, like it's Christmas Eve and he's Santa Claus.
Eddie's gonna make it. He was always gonna make it, even as the press ran the numbers, the miles, and milked every ounce of drama out of it.
He made game one, and game four, and now he's racing back from playing Wembley in London to make it for game seven. The media has tried to sell the idea that Steve wanted the World Series to go to seven, just so Eddie would be able to attend.
Eddie's glad he's getting to see it, of course he is, but if they could have swept it in four, or locked it down in five or six, that would have been fucking awesome. Even if that meant Eddie missed seeing it live, and had to watch on television, in the middle of the night, across the world.
There are a shitton of tiktoks every week, dissecting their every move, looking for easter eggs. Eddie is just living his life, even if a million people are always watching him like a fucking hawk.
Goodie is walking back from the beer garden in the stadium, carrying his plastic cup in his mouth as he fiddles with something in his hands. Not spilling a goddamn drop. Eddie can only see this because he's being broadcast onto the stadium jumbotron.
When he climbs the stairs into the suite, Eddie asks, "Where's Gareth?"
"Got spotted. Now he's taking pictures. I just slipped away unnoticed. Sucker," Goodie says, putting his cup down on the table.
"Unnoticed, huh?" Eddie teases. He won't tell him. He'll just wait until Goodie sees it online for himself. "There's free beer back there you know?" Eddie asks. Neither one of them needed to venture out into the crowd.
Goodie shrugs, "I wanted this kind."
He could have had that kind, could have had any kind, if he'd just asked for it. But no, he wanted to be out among the people. 
None of them are particularly fond of baseball, but they are fond of Steve, so here they are. The whole band doesn't always come, but it's the championship game, so they did.
And the score has been 1-0 forever. 
Wayne is pacing. Unlike them, he loves baseball, even if he's been a little turncoat, switching teams like a lifetime of dedication meant nothing at all. He's gotten a little shit from his friends back home, but Eddie thinks it's honestly very sweet. Eddie loves that Wayne likes Steve enough to put him and his team as his number one with a bullet, now.
It helps that Steve's part of a fucking dynasty. It's fun to win, even Eddie gets that.
Wayne doesn't always hang out in suites. More often than not, he'd rather sit in the stands. Focus on the baseball, not the celebrity that's now surrounding it. But Wayne's been dragged into their highly publicized love affair, and now he's starting to get recognized all on his own, so Eddie worries. 
Plus, he'd rather have him right here, where they can spend time together.
"What's the count?" Eddie asks. 
"3-2," Wayne answers.
Eddie's distracted, filling his plate with the various appetizers that came with the steep price of the private suite. Sliders, pigs in a blanket, and all kinds of other fancified versions of comfort food. He's just scooping some mac & cheese on his plate when he hears his main guitar riff from Buckwild. He puts down his plate, making his way to the big windows just in time to see Steve step towards the batter's box. 
Steve only changes his walk-up music to Corroded Coffin when Eddie's in attendance. He currently walks-up to Milkshake, which is fucking hilarious. He's one of the first openly out players, and he really leans into it, changing up his walk-up music, usually to something a little queer. Eddie knows it's partially to poke fun at himself first, before anyone else can. 
But tonight, it's his song. Eddie's sure he's being broadcast on the jumbotron from some camera he can't even see, and may even be on live television. Eddie watches as Steve briefly points his bat, and at first Eddie thinks Steve's calling his shot, but no. Not unless he's intending to hit a foul ball.
No, he gestured at Eddie. At least where he assumed Eddie would be.
Eddie fiddles with the rings on his hand, moving from finger to finger, twisting them around and around as Steve swings and misses for the second time. Eddie can hardly watch, it makes him so nervous.
"What's the count?" Eddie asks. It's the only question he knows to ask.
"2-2," Wayne says from somewhere behind him. Wayne doesn't stand at the front when it's likely the camera is on them. Eddie gets it, he does, but he'd like him at his side. The windows are open tonight, and the fans in the seats in front of the suite have leaned up to talk to them, to get things signed, and Eddie has done it. They all have. Waving off security.
Nobody is being shitty, just excited, and Eddie's grateful he's been accepted by most of Steve's fans. There was always the fear that he'd be seen as a distraction, and sure, that's been a bit of the narrative, but Steve's in the goddamn World Series. His head is obviously still in the game.
Eddie signed a custom Corroded Coffin jersey with Steve's number on the back earlier, and if that wasn't fucking weird and delightful. And Harrington jerseys have been increasingly spotted at their gigs, from one in the crowd, to a dozen or more.
Steve takes the next ball, and Eddie was terrible at baseball as a kid. He swung at everything. He never had the self-control to wait for something good. 
He's glad he grew out of that, at least a little, because he waited, and now he has Steve. A goddamn home run in human form. 
Eddie's relieved when he hears the crack of the bat finally making contact with the ball, and he watches intently until Steve's safely on first, Eddie leaning out of the open box window, hanging onto the frame, screaming.
He rights himself, clapping hard as he spins in a circle, screaming some more.
Then, Eddie watches as Steve steals second on a wild pitch, and the stadium sound system blares to life with Gimme Three Steps.
Steve dusts himself off from his slide in, and Eddie is so fucking smitten. 
And his ass looks damn good in those pants. His milkshake did bring Eddie to the yard.
It's the seventh-inning stretch, and Eddie hears the familiar, "for it's one, two, three strikes, you're out," being sung by the entire stadium.
He's nervous now. More nervous than he ever is going on stage anymore.
They've made it this far, and he wants Steve to win the whole thing. 
They do win. Steve fielded a grounder, whipped it to first base, and with one last out, it was finally over. Gloves being thrown in the air, lots of hugs and jumping up and down.
Steve did it.
And Eddie smiles.
Steve isn't released, not yet. There'll be interviews, and a parade that Eddie unfortunately can't attend, so Eddie only gets a few minutes in the tunnel with him. Some stolen kisses and a silly groped handful, just giving Steve's cup a squeeze, to make him laugh. 
It's all too brief, but he'll see him soon. 
They go from the game straight back to the airport, Goodie and Gareth both pretty drunk after too many celebratory shots, leaving Jeff and him to babysit as they get wheels up, to head back across the pond. Their world tour, waiting.
They'll make it. 
Steve swears jet-lag is a choice, and Eddie's choosing to believe him.
Another city, and his turn on the big stage, as Eddie looks out towards the VIP tent. Steve waves with both hands over his head, making himself larger, more easily seen.
Steve attended a few Monday shows with Robin, when their schedules lined up enough to allow it. But now his season is over. He's a fucking world champion, and it's the offseason, which is Eddie's new favorite word.
If he'd known he'd fall in love with a sportsball guy, he would have made sure their tour had a lengthy break during this magical offseason.
Next year.
And Eddie is confident that next year is a given. That's how in he is with their relationship, with Steve. They both have their own lives, their own fame, their own increasingly busy schedules. But they make it work, because they want it to work.
The fans have dubbed all their crisscrossing travel as "if he wanted to, he would" and have been straight up swooning. 
Eddie likes that thought, because he does want to, and he knows Steve wants to, too.
He's committed to this thing, and so is Steve. And if that means flying for hours to be there for the important shit, even if you have to turn around and fly right back, well fuck, you do it. And you don't even think about it.
Eddie slips in a pop cover, mid-set, just being silly, because he wants to shout out Steve a little bit extra tonight. He sings and when he gets to "'cause you know I love the players, and you love the game" and the crowd gets behind it. Steve, too, if his hands in the air are any indication. 
He's a pop girlie at heart, and Eddie loves him for it.
Steve is comfortable in his own skin, and he likes what he likes. He's supportive of Eddie, of Corroded Coffin, and very demonstrative with his affection and admiration. The love is always free-flowing. But, heavy metal isn't his thing. Not really. And that's okay.
So, a little pop is injected for his benefit, Eddie saying 'I love you for who you are' right back.
Buckwild is last, is always last, and Steve's here, so that means a subtle lyric change. He only does it when Steve's in attendance, and it makes the crowd go wild. Changing one word is enough to send them into a frenzy, like they're part of something special and sacred.
They are.
When he approaches the lyric, Steve has moved closer, right at the stage, in front of the barricade, and puts his hand up to his ear, hyping the crowd, getting ready for it, and Eddie can hardly sing through his fucking smile.
When they exit the stage, the first face he sees is Steve's, and Steve opens his arms and Eddie hugs him, pulling back and kissing him, over and over.
He's the one. 
The one he loves.
The one he'll marry.
The one. Period.
Steve waves to the crowd that's gathered to watch, and then he puts his arm around Eddie's waist, ushering him away, one more show over.
In bed, Eddie rests his head against Steve's bare chest. These last few weeks have been different, brand new, and exciting. It's the first time they've really gotten to feel like they're coming home to each other. Getting to be in the same place for an extended period of time, Steve following the tour.
Steve brushes Eddie's bangs off his face, and kisses his forehead.
"You were amazing tonight," Steve whispers, and Eddie grins. 
"So were you, working the crowd," Eddie says.
Steve laughs, and Eddie loves it. Steve's not shy. He's had all the media training, probably more than Eddie, because he's got a brand, a team, to protect. Eddie just runs his mouth at-will, always has.
Steve doesn't hide backstage where Eddie can't see him, no, he always makes sure he's supporting Eddie out loud and with his whole goddamn chest.
So, because he wants to, he does.
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If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddiesongfics and follow along with the fun! 🎶
Notes: Obviously inspired by the very public relationship of Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce. Goodie carrying the beer in his teeth is straight up a shoutout to Jason Kelce doing that at the Eras tour. 🍺
This one was so hard to stop writing for at the 2k max word count, lol.
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fettuccin-e · 2 years ago
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Fires In Those Eyes
Kinktober Day 11: Seduction
Tags: Joel Miller x Reader, afab!fem!reader, oral (m!recieving), fingering, unprotected piv (pls wrap it irl omg please), joel is whipped, but also so is reader, degradation, possessive sex, joel's filthy mouth again my bad (w/c: 1.3K)
A/N: Second Joel fic of the month! Hooray! This time they actually get naked and get down and dirty so double hooray. I tend to just write Jackson!era Joel just because I want him to be happy okay. Also day 10 will be up eventually so sorry about that lol (I have been using these prompts from flightlessangelwings!)
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Most of the time, Joel doesn’t think you’re even trying to seduce him like you do. You’re just you. Perfect, soft you, the woman he fell in love with when he didn’t think he was even capable of it anymore. And God, it’s embarrassing with how much he wants you all the fucking time. When you’re on patrol with him, when you’re making dinner for him, you, and Ellie, in the house that you managed to make a home. He feels deranged with the way he wants to tear your clothes off and fuck you until you scream for him at only the drop of a hat. And you’re not even trying.
You’re trying now, though.
He can tell, from the moment you step inside the house, peeling off your gloves and looking at him with a glint in your eyes that has his breath hitching and cock bulging in his jeans.
“Ellie’s sleeping over at Dina’s tonight,” you whisper, smoothing your hands over the planes of his chest. There are flames in your eyes, and Joel feels like he’s burning. 
“Yeah, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his voice rougher than he means it, but you only lick your lips and look up at him through your lashes. You look like pure fuckin’ sin. 
You perch up on your tip-toes, leaning close enough that your lips brush the skin of his ear. “What are you going to do about it?” you whisper, and Joel can’t help how he growls.
He’s got you slammed up against the wall before he even knows what he’s done, tearing your coat off your shoulders and letting it fall carelessly to the floor. You pull your shirt off, throwing it somewhere behind him, before you lick into his mouth in the messiest, dirtiest kiss he’s ever had. You claw at his back, rubbing against him like a damn cat in heat, and Joel feels lightheaded with how fast blood rushes to his cock. 
“What do you need, sweetheart?” he rasps against your lips, and you whine so sweetly for him.
“Need you to fuck me, God, I need it so bad, Joel.” Your hand comes down to squeeze the bulge of his cock through his jeans, and fuck, you’ve never been this bold, never taken him like you are right now. 
“C’mon, baby,” he groans, “let’s go to bed.” But you’re shaking your head, your deft hand unzipping him and freeing him from the confines of his clothes.
“No, no,” you whine, “‘S too far, Joel, need you now.” 
You look up into his eyes as you sink to your knees before him, and Joel’s vision blurs at the edges when you lick a long, slow stripe up the underside of his length. He has to brace his hands on the wall as you take him into your mouth, hot wet heat engulfing him as you sink deep. The tight clutch of your throat has him groaning, his hips pitching forward.
You grab onto his hips like you love it, sucking hard enough to make the breath punch out of his lungs. Your head bobs obscenely, your hair brushing his thighs every time to take him to the root. His knees tremble, struggling to hold himself up as you suck his cock like you’ll never get the chance again.
“Baby,” he groans, and you pop off of him, grinning with that same fire in your eyes that makes him want to rip you apart on him. Fuck, he thinks you want him to do just that. 
The way he gets to the floor, gets you on your hands and knees for him, is a goddamn mystery. It can stay a mystery, a blur in his memory for all he cares, because when he gets your pants off, peeling your panties halfway down your thighs, baring your beautiful, glistening pussy to his gaze, none of it fucking matters anymore. All that matters is the way his fingers drive into you, reckless, insistent, hammering into you so hard you see stars.
“Fuck, honey, you’re drippin’,” Joel mutters, and your face burns, even as your hips hump back into his hand on pure instinct. “She’s just gonna suck me right in,” he says, twisting his hand as his fingers spread you apart in a way that makes you sob.
And he’s right, he’s so right. Sinking into you is a goddamn revelation, hot and tight around him as you scrabble at the floor for purchase, moaning and pushing your hips back against him. Your pussy lets him in so easy, so perfect, and he shudders as your body clutches at him like a vice, hot and wet and at his fucking mercy.
“God damn it, baby,” he groans, thrusting into you to the fucking hilt and relishing in the way it makes you scream. “You’re so fuckin’ wet f’me.”
“Oh God,” you gasp, even as it feels like your pussy is being stretched to its fucking limit. “All day, fuck- I’ve been wet for you all fucking day.” His hips slap against your ass so hard, pressing in so deep that all you can do is gasp for air and fucking take it.
“Yeah, honey? Needed this cock all fuckin’ day? Comin’ home just to fuck me like a goddamn slut,” he rasps, and God, it’s true. His cock in your cunt is all you need, all you ever need. Even with the wooden floor digging into your achy knees, your panties tangled around your thighs, fuck, this is all you’ve needed since you woke up this morning. He’s right, you’re a whore for the way he fucks you.
“Yes, yes, oh my fucking- Joel,” you cry out as he hammers into that sweet spot buried deep inside, not letting you breathe for a second.
“This what you needed, sweetheart? Needed me to fuck you on the goddamn floor like we’re fuckin’ animals?” He presses a hand to the small of your back, shaping you into an obscene arch that has you getting tighter around him, practically choking his cock with your pretty pussy. “Such a fuckin’ whore,” he snarls. “Who can fuck you like this?”
“You, Joel,” you cry, tears dripping from your eyes onto the floor. He pulls your hair into his hand, yanking your head back and pulling your body onto his cock with every thrust. The sounds of your cunt smack, smack, smacking against his body are sticky and wet and fucking debauched.
“That’s fuckin right,” he says, sounding about as wrecked as you feel. “Only me. I own this fuckin’ pussy, right baby?”
“Fuck, yes, yes, yes,” you’re gasping, clawing at the wooden floor, and Joel fucking chuckles behind you, deep and dark and primal.
“C’mon, girl,” he rasps, and he snakes a thick hand under your heaving body to rub a calloused finger along your throbbing clit, and you scream. “Squeeze this cock with this slutty little cunt. Show me who owns you.”
And you can’t refuse him, you can’t, not when your body is already locking up with your orgasm. Your pussy strangles his cock, practically forcing his orgasm out of him, and he snarls as he fills you up with his cum. He takes his hand from your hair to wrap it around your chest, pulling you up to press your back against his chest. You tremble in his hold as spasms rock through you.
When you finally settle, he presses kisses to your neck, and you let out soft giggles in reply, running your fingers through his hair.
“Mm, I need a nap,” you sigh, sinking against him. You gasp as Joel nips harshly at your skin.
“Nuh uh, baby. You started this,” he rasps, dark with promise. “And I’m the one that’s gonna fuckin' finish it.”
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cccakessslicemeee · 3 months ago
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Not me immediately thinking about Fig and Riz's relationship and assuming that Fig is the friend who would have to ask "hey are you mad at me?" When she feels like she's done something wrong
In my head I'm thinking after the events of season 2 Fig starts to pull back a little bit from Riz because she feels like she's an asshole for having three cool dads and sisters and then a step brother and more family on the way...but Riz just has his mom. She's amazing and awesome but maybe fig feels like she's usurped Sklonda a little bit? Like damn she's got this big ass family and of course Riz is apart of it but is he mad at her? Is he jealous? She can't even blame him..his dad sounds cool as hell but they can't even see one another because they exist on different planes. Is she a bad friend? Is she ruining another family?
Riz notices the pull back and he's like fuck what did I do? And spirals as he do wondering wtf did he do wrong?
They avoid one another for a little bit but it's still civil until Fig is the first to break. She seeks him out because she has to know are you mad at me?
Fig is on her knees in tears because obviously he must hate her guts for being a piece of shit and sticking her horns in his family and smashing everything to bits. She can't help it, whoops she's really a demon after all. Just like Gilear said she was
Riz is baffled and immediately relieved Fig what the fuck? No I'm not mad at you? Why do you think that? Are you mad at me?
YOU SHOULD BE! IM THE WORST! I stole your mom right out from under you and she's like your whole goddamn world. Your only support. And I already have three dads but I'm greedy I guess and your mom is my mom too now and I don't want you to think that I'm trying to steal your family because I want you in my family too because you're a brother to me and I love you so much. You have to hate me. I'd hate me if I stole my dad's. Like I know it's different but if you dad stuff advice or whatever you can burrow one of mine ? Or all of them for awhile for whatever Gilear loves you almost as much as I do- fig is a blubbering snotty mess as she spills her guts to Riz about how horrible she thinks-no truly believes she's been. She nearly inconsolable leaving Riz speechless.
He's never felt like she's tried to take anything away from him. In fact she's added so much to his life and truly appreciates her friendship. She's so cool and fun and cares so much for their group it's staggering. He isn't so good with talking about his own feelings so he just hugs her and she melts into his chest probably getting snot and whatever all over his fancy clothing and then she has anxiety about that and he's like it's fine my entire wardrobe is the exact same outfit I really don't mind. (Even if it's kinda gross but he can shower it's cool.)
Fig probably says some weird shit about "I could pretend to be your dad and we can throw stones in the river" trying to be sentimental but it's so out of pocket and Riz politely declines. He assures her he's not mad and he's sorry she felt like that..he's not mad and their cool. About everything from day one and the possessed bit. They're all cool.
He knows in her own way she's just showing how much she truly, and deeply cares for him.
Maybe they get ice cream and for once Riz opens up a little bit.
The fucked up thing about beating Kalvaxus is, we won, we did what we were supposed to. Mom and I killed that bastard but my Dad still didn't come back home and there was never going to be a time where he could just... Come back and be here. I know he's okay in heaven doing what he does but...I don't know if saying this makes me selfish or not so I guess I'll just shut up...
Stop being so damn good all the Riz. It's your dad right? You should be selfish about wanting him here. That's so normal.
....I mean... Yeah I guess but he's doing stuff in heaven or hell? Or rather was? And now I'm doing stuff for him since I kinda fucked that up for him... I can talk to him when I find out anything useful for the mission-
That's kinda fucked up... He's your dad. Shouldn't you be able to talk to him whenever you want? Outside of some mission or whatever? Doesn't he want to talk to you?
Well yeah...of course. But I don't want to bother him when he's busy. He's doing important work
You don't think he thinks you're important?
Hard fucking silence
I know he loves me, you weren't there but when I saw him in heaven he opened up a door to the mortal plain for me and I could have just...jumped in at anytime but he asked me to stay and wanted to talk to me about everything. All the stuff I thought didn't matter because I already told him all the big important things at his grave. If he didn't want me there he would have thrown me out or no... He would have just let the devils do whatever...he. I blew his cover...I can't do that to him again he's doing important work.
You ARE important though.
I...yeah okay...thanks
I mean it
I know that
Do you? Do you really?
I have no reason to believe you'd lie to me. At least in this particular instance. So thank you Fig...for that.
Hey anytime. Also have you considered moving into the manor?
Fig. No. Im already there enough.
You should just move in!
And then they enjoy the rest of their day doing xyz
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glassbxttless · 2 months ago
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Homecoming
derwin (d.f.) grunauer x fem!reader
word count: 2.3k+
summary: Derwin’s finally coming home.
warnings: themes of ptsd, Derwin’s a US Army Combat Medic and Paratrooper so if that makes you uncomfy— skip this one, It’s the 1940’s
notes: Tara sent me so many 40’s references for this baby. I love Derwin and the story i’ve got in my head for him. Thanks to @prettycalla and @getaapologist for reading over this sucker. And big thank you to @peachyproserpina & @keeryhours for editing!
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Derwin hadn’t slept the whole ride. They had slapped him on a train somewhere in Virginia with a one way ticket back to Miami. Like they’d expected him to return to what normal had been years prior? He couldn’t. Not really. So he dozed in fits, lulled to sleep by the low clatter of the train tracks and the hum of voices from the other soldiers who couldn’t quite believe they were heading home either. Some were laughing far too loud, some were dead silent. Derwin sat somewhere in the middle— his elbows resting on his knees, his dog tags tucked into his shirt— cold against his skin, his hands were clasped together and his thumb was rubbing circles over his wedding band like he needed the confirmation it was still there.
He was still married.
He was still here, alive, and on his way back to you. 
He kept seeing your face, every time he closed his eyes. Not the way you looked in the letters you had sent or the photos you tucked between the pages— though he’d memorized the way you looked in those too— but the way you looked the day you married him. Just a few weeks before he shipped out. You were just eighteen then (he was twenty), crazy about him (just as he was crazy about you), and just insane enough to believe that getting married right before he left would be a good idea. Your hair was pulled back, your smile brighter than every star in the sky, that yellow dress you wore was hugging your hips so beautifully, he’d never forget it. You hadn’t worn white. Didn’t have time to pick out a dress. You’d decided it over a quiet moment tangled up in the sheets of Derwin’s bed. His parents in the room next door, your head against his chest as he let his fingers trail up and down your arm. It was a whisper, marry me, and without a second thought you’d agreed. It was just a run to the courthouse that weekend, a justice of the peace, and the way you’d looked at him when you said “I do,”. You had let the words fall from your lips like you meant the word forever with every part of your soul.
And then the next week, he was gone. 
The war had become everything. 
Derwin leaned back against the seat and let his head hit the window. His ribs still had a dull ache from the last jump he’d done. The one that went bad, the one he doesn’t talk about. The limp in his left leg was lighter now— barely noticeable unless you were looking for it— but the weight in his chest? That was harder for him to hide. He could still hear the gunfire ringing through his ears when things got too quiet. He could still feel the dirt under his nails from when he’d pulled comrades from what would’ve been their graves with his bare hands. He can still see the boy from Omaha Beach plain as day when he closes his eyes, he had never gotten back up.
He should be grateful to be here. To be going home. Hell, he was grateful. But he was also tired. So goddamn tired.
And he was scared in a way he hadn’t been since that first night he had spent in France. Now there were things for him to lose again. He wasn’t jumping out of planes or sprinting through mortar shells anymore— he was just a husband on his way home to his wife who still wore yellow and wrote him letters that smelled like her lilac perfume. A woman who had only spent six months of their relationship physically with him before he left her for years on end. 
He twists his head a bit and presses his forehead to the glass, eyes hooded as he watches the green blur by. “I’m coming home, baby,” he whispered, still as in love with you as he had been those first few weeks. “I’m really coming home.” He’s so quiet, he didn’t think anyone could hear him. Maybe he didn’t want them to. The words were just for you, somewhere. So he passes the time by thinking of your hands. How soft they’d felt and how cold your ring was the last time you touched his face— right before he boarded that bus and promised you he’d write every week. He thought of how you kissed him, raised up on your tiptoes and how you’d smoothed down the front of his uniform.
 How you whispered, “Come back to me, D. I don’t care how, just come back.”
He had come back. Mostly, anyway. He was a little banged up, a little bruised. Different in his head. But he was breathing. His heart was still beating. His ring was still on, he was still married.
The conductor called out the next stop— home— and Derwin’s throat tightened. His fingers curl around the edge of his seat as he sat up straighter. He wipes his palms against his uniform slacks, and ran one hand over the short stubble on his jaw. He’s not clean-shaven today, not neat and smooth like he used to be, like he likes to be. But he’d done what he could with what he had. Outside the window, metal clangs against metal— screeching as they begin to slow once the station breaks into their view at the top of the hill. There’s person after person lined up on the platform, no doubt waiting for the cabins full of men he sits among and his heart nearly stops. 
The train pulls in with a long, low whistle that cuts straight through his chest and your own, standing on the platform. Everyone around you had erupted with noise— shouts, cheers, feet running, laughter breaking into sobs— but you can’t seem to move from your spot. Your fingers fist into the skirt of your yellow sundress, the one you’d gotten married in. Derwin used to tell you how much he loved it with a grin and a tilt of his head. Your feet still planted right where they were when the stationmaster shouted they’re here. You couldn’t see him. 
But back on the train, he stood and grabbed his bag. The glass of the windows scraping against their tracks as the soldiers he’s spent the better half of the last week with, lean out the windows. They’re cheering, hollering for their girls, their kids, their families. Happy to be home. Derwin smiles, a bit too tired, and then he shuffles out behind the others to the door. His breath caught deep in his chest. His boots hit the platform with a solid thud, and that Miami air hit him like a wave—hot and loud, filled with shouts and weeping and women calling out names that didn’t belong to him. Until he heard your voice. 
There he is.
At first, you barely recognize him. His uniform is the same as it had been the day you sent him off— creased and heavy with dust settling against the fabric from the journey— but Derwin is a bit broader now. A little older. The boyish 20-year-old  glow he left you with is gone. It’s been replaced by something quieter, something that settles behind his eyes like he'd seen things so unwelcoming overseas, and the look doesn’t leave, not even when he smiles. But he does smile, almost just like he used to, the second he sees you on the platform waiting for him. 
“Derwin,” you speak, too afraid to raise your voice— like if you do this will all just be a dream. You must’ve spoken loud enough for him to hear because he finally turns to you— eyes meeting, and then your feet finally start moving.
He’s still a few yards away from you, but he’s dropped his bag and he’s moving too. And then you’re running. Not gracefully, no— your shoes feel wrong, your bag falls off your shoulder, the skirt of your dress is getting twisted up— but you don’t care. You don’t care about the noise or the people or how ridiculous you might look as you make your way to him. You would never care again, because he’s here. He’s really here.
When you crash into him, you don’t kiss him. Not yet. You’re in his arms. Yours tangled around his neck and back, and his are wrapped tightly around your waist. You bury your face into his shoulder and breathe him in— he smells faintly of sweat, dust from the train car, and just a tinge of his aftershave— it’s the smell you had tried so hard to remember for three long years. The one that never came no matter how hard you tried. Now suddenly you can picture the empty space in your bed being filled with it. You’re pulled from your thoughts by the shaking in your arms.
 “I’ve got you,” you whisper softly, one of your hands pressing him closer. “I’ve got you, D.”
He locks his arms around you just a bit tighter. His breath shaky against your cheek.
“God,” he rasps against your hair, nudging his nose against your temple, “You’re real. You’re really here. I thought—” He cuts himself off, not allowing the thought to even tumble out before he presses his face into your neck. 
You rub his back gently, just holding him as tightly as you can, like he might slip through your fingers if you aren’t paying attention. You can’t wrap your mind around it. He’s here. He’s home. He’s standing right in front of you, wrapped in your arms, as tears well up in your eyes and threaten to fall down your cheeks. He’s got his own tears, streaming down silently and wetting your neck. You’ve never seen him cry, not when he got his draft letter, not even when he left. But his shoulders hitch like he might cry harder now. And your Derwin, your brown-eyed, smiley boy, who used to dance you around his parent’s kitchen like a fool, looks like the world’s been pressing on him for far too long. And it unfortunately had. He’s spent the better half of your relationship shipped off, first Harvard, then Europe. Now he’s finally here. Finally crying. Letting everything he’s been feeling for the last half decade catch up with him. 
You pull back just far enough to look at him, bringing your hand up to cup his cheek. You swipe a tear away with your thumb and tuck a loose curl away under his hat. His hair had grown out, he’s got some stubble now, a little scar over one brow that you don’t remember being there. His eyes— still brown, still beautiful— won’t quite meet yours. Not yet. He drops his arms from your waist and takes your free hand in his.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers under his breath, like it physically hurts to say the words he’s been holding on his tongue for so long. One hand comes up to your face, fingers trembling as they trace your jaw, your cheeks, your lips. He settles on his thumb brushing your cheekbone as he cups your face. “God, I missed you so much.”
You press your forehead to his, letting your eyes flutter closed. Your hands slide from around him to grip the front of his uniform. “You’re home, D. You’re home with me now.”
“I don’t really know how to be here anymore,” he admits softly, his own eyes closed as he keeps his forehead pressed against yours.
“That’s okay,” you whisper, hands smoothing out his collar. “We’ll figure it out together, yeah?”
He nods once and swallows hard, he’s afraid if he doesn’t he’ll start to fall apart before he even has a chance to settle in. His free hand curls around the wrist on his chest, anchoring himself in place.
 “Did you wear this for me?” he asks, letting go of your cheek to run down your body, pinching the hem of your sundress between his index finger and thumb with a tired smile.
“Of course I did.” You smile as his eyes lift to meet yours, “You always said it was your favorite.”
He lets out a breath at that, that’s almost a laugh, and then his mouth finally finds yours. The kiss is gentle at first, careful, like he’s scared to push too hard and break you after all of this time. But when you don’t pull away from him— when you melt into him instead and thread your fingers through his growing hair— he kisses you like a man who’s been starved of touch for the better part of three years. Like your mouth is the first delicious thing he’s tasted since he left. Someone on the platform lets out a cheer for another couple not too far from where you’re standing, and the spell breaks just long enough for Derwin to rest his forehead against yours again.
 “I dreamed about this… coming home,” he whispers. “Every night. Had to come home to you. You made me promise.”
“I kept the bed warm,” you smile. “Figured I spent all that time moving, you might come back and wanna sleep in it.”
He rolls his eyes, but his lids are heavy and there’s another tear threatening to fall. “I love you. So much I can’t stand it.”
You wrap your arms around him again, taking a deep breath. “I know. I love you, too.” 
Standing there on the train platform with the world still spinning too fast and his heartbeat finally starting to slow, Derwin Grunauer lets himself believe he’s made it home.
And you don’t let go of him the whole way to the car.
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tags ;; @peachyproserpina @djomorelikedelulu
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nyxtickled · 7 months ago
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non-kink hella depressing personal update feel free to skip
my 3 year old corgi (whom i literally gave birth to) has been confirmed to have a mediastinal lymphoma. they gave her 3-4 weeks to live worst case scenario, 6-9 months at best if she responds well to chemo. these are obviously still estimates and sure she could still ✨defy the odds✨ but i’m not about to start thinking like that cuz my hopes cannot handle the potential whiplash lol.
they gave her an injection to help her feel better physically for now & kept her another night. hoping she gets to come home tomorrow. spent the evening convulsing and sobbing so hard i almost passed out in exene’s arms until she was basically crying just as hard as i was. so goddamn grateful i have the best most loving woman in the universe if nothing else in times like these.
anyway i wanted to share for those who have been keeping up with everything. i’m going to fight to give her every med, every chance, every good thing i possibly can in her little life for as long as she has left. she’s my fuckin baby, man. i flew on 4 planes in one day to take her home from my friend on the east coast. i’d do anything for her.
love you all.
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lamardeuse · 3 months ago
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Friday fanfic fragments
tagged by @eddiestightywhities <3
This is one I've posted before, a start on a 911 AU where Buck is an LFB firefighter and Eddie is the new pro on Strictly Come Dancing, which seems like something fun to throw out there in the current moment. I'm tempted to pick it up again - I dropped it because reckoning with Grenfell made it hard to find the right tone.
The first thing Eddie thinks is: goddamn, he is huge.
Not just ripped as hell, but tall, topping Eddie by half a head, which means he’s probably going to have to be the lead. And doesn’t that throw a monkey wrench into all of Eddie’s plans.
Plastering on a TV (sorry, telly) ready smile, he puts his best foot forward and extends a hand. “I’m Eddie,” he says. “And you must be Evan.”
“Buck, actually,” the guy says, returning the smile and making a small tingling feeling two-step along Eddie's nerve endings. “Everyone calls me Buck.”
“Your name is Buck Buckley?” Eddie asks, just as the guy’s warm, strong hand wraps around his and that tiny little tingle Eddie was feeling spikes to twenty thousand volts.
“Yeah, erm,” Buck begins, “it’s sort of a crap play on Evan Evans, because for a while there I was always traveling, and – you’ve never heard of them, have you?”
“Nope,” Eddie says. Evan’s – Buck’s eyes are a stunning, clear blue and his mouth has a sensual fullness to it that makes Eddie want to bite it.
Down, boy. Eddie has heard all about the Strictly curse from Karen, who has so many salacious stories about Blackpool after-parties and heated assignations outside of London clubs. She loves dishing the gossip while never being the subject of it herself; Eddie can only imagine what she’d have to say if he fucked a smoking hot firefighter who danced in a same-sex pairing on the show. He’d be on a plane back to LA before he could say Daily Mail.
Not that Buck Buckley – dios mio – is necessarily available, or interested in a fling that will doubtless get him paparazzi parked outside his door. But then, neither is Eddie. At the end of the day, he has a kid at home who comes first, and he’s not going to risk disrupting Christopher’s life for an affair.
Not that he'd be up for a relationship, either. That's not what he's here for; he can't afford to get too attached to anyone when he's not planning to be here any longer than he has to be.
Eddie belatedly realizes their hands are still entwined and pulls away, his fingertips gliding over Buck’s palm as they let go.
“I’m afraid you’ve got your work cut out,” Buck says, clearing his throat. “My mates say I have all the grace of a day-old giraffe on ice.”
“Any of your ‘mates’ professional dancers?” Eddie asks.
Buck shakes his head. “Not a one.”
“Then they don’t know shit,” Eddie tells him. He looks Buck up and down. “How much do you deadlift?”
“Erm,” Buck thinks about it. “Last week it was eighty.”
“Pounds?”
Buck snorts. “Kilos, bruv.”
“Uh,” Eddie says, “holy shit.”
They can do lifts. Buck could lift him.
And then Buck ducks his head and smiles, and Eddie thinks, this is going to be fun.
tagging anyone who wants to play!
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briefinquiries · 2 years ago
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Luke Alvez x Reader: Shattered
Request: ‘Can you do a Luke x Reader imagine where they get into a really big argument but somehow it ends in fluff / Luke comforting the reader? Thank you so much!’
Word count: 1.6k
Warnings: minor blood mention
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Luke watched you silently as you poured yourself a glass of wine. 
It was nearing midnight, but the both of you knew that this fight wasn’t ending anytime soon. At this point in time, you had almost forgotten what you were fighting about. Only that you were frustrated, and angry- really angry.
And Luke was too.
“I just don’t understand it.” Luke let his head fall. 
You scoffed, shaking your head at him. 
“What?” he barked, “I don’t!”
“That’s because you refuse to even try to see things my way. You only ever think about yourself.”
Luke’s nostrils flare as he spoke, a hint of malice to his voice. “That’s not true.”
“It is true!” You raised your voice, your emotions getting the best of you. “You were too wrapped up in yourself tonight, to have the decency to call or text me, to let me know where you were. Instead you let me just sit here waiting. ”
“I already apologized for being late tonight, what more do you want for me?” 
“That’s not the point, Luke!” You practically screamed. “I gave up my job, my family- everything for you. So that we could move here and you could join the FBI. I did all of that, just so what? I could be stood up? So I could be waiting for you the rest of my life, wondering if you’ll ever come home at all?”
He didn't even bother to lift his gaze to meet yours.
“Now who’s being selfish?” he sneered. “Women, young girls, were getting stabbed in Charleston, and you’re seriously mad that I didn’t make it home for date night?”
For a moment, the only sound came from the choppy inhale that escaped your lips. 
Then, a tense whisper, “That’s not fair.”  But you couldn’t help the pang of guilt spreading through your stomach.   
“It was a bad one,” Luke barked. “The plane just landed. I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“There’s always going to be a bad case. And another, and another, and another. It will never stop.” 
“For Christ's sake!” Luke tossed his hands up in the air. “And I’m just supposed to what? Quit? Is that what you’re asking me to do? Will that finally make you happy? Will that make you stop interrogating me every night?”
His anger only made you more frustrated- frustrated that he didn’t understand all your anger and annoyance with him stemmed from the very fact that you missed him. Every goddamn minute he was away, you missed him with everything inside of you. Why couldn’t he just see that?
“Oh, cut the bullshit,” you said instead. 
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You just love to play the hero, don’t you?  You can’t stand the fact that being good at your job makes you a shitty husband.”
Luke squinted his eyes at you. “A shitty husband?” he gawked. His lips tugged into a taunting smirk that only makes you angrier. “Right. Well let’s sit down and have that date now. What was it you had planned again? Spaghetti and a movie? Sounds romantic, really the kind of stuff to keep this marriage alive,” he yelled. His sarcasm bled through your skin and penetrated your body to it’s core.  
“You asshole!” You choked, lifting your fingers to your face. You hadn't even been aware that you had been crying all this time.
Luke slapped his hands on the counter, rattling the silverware still laid out. “You know, maybe I’d get home on time if I had something a little better to come home to!”
“You fucking–” you went to raise your hands up in frustration, but in the process you find yourself knocking into your glass of wine with force. A tug against your skin, and then a stinging sensation ripped through your hand before you even realize the glass has been shattered.  
“Damnit!” You screamed as the wine spilled everywhere. You slid down to the floor in frustration. The tears now falling down your face could be attributed to both Luke and the gash now evident on your hand. When you looked down, you saw the blood already dripping down your forearm and to the tiled floor. 
You tried to stifle the cries escaping your body, but it was no use.  You clutched your bloody hand while Luke quickly approached you.  
“Shit,” he muttered, his voice noticeably softer now. He grabbed the dish towel from the counter and stepped over the shattered glass to crouch down next to you. “Let me see,” he murmured gently. 
You tensed up at first and jerked your arm away. “I’m fine,” you sneered. 
But Luke was persistent. "Please don't be stubborn right now, I just want to look."
He reached out again, and once he was convinced you weren't going to tug your arm away again, grabs your wrist, causing you to expose your injury to him. You were forced to surrender under his touch with a sigh. 
Your body was still shaking from your sobs when he wrapped the towel securely around the cut, “It’s okay, it’s not that deep.”
You just nodded weakly, your sobs subsiding into sniffles. "I told you I was fine."
You watched Luke’s face intently. He frowned as he held pressure to your hand. “I’m sorry,” he whispered softly.   
You swallowed a lump in your throat and say, “Me too.” But you were still hurt, and Luke knew that.
So, he sank down onto the kitchen floor so that he was sitting beside you, his long legs stretched out in front of you. And there, in the safety of the shadows, Luke wrapped his free arm around your waist to hold you against him. The moment your body was met with the warmth that radiated from his own, you immediately felt a bit more at peace. He pressed a soft kiss to your temple. “I didn’t mean any of that.” 
You nodded into his sweater. 
“I was just angry,” he explained. 
Luke grounded you. He was the anchor that pulled you back together when everything fell apart. 
“I’m sorry too,” you whimpered. “I just miss you- like all the time.”
You felt exhausted from all that crying. When the room was filled with nothing except for your quiet sniffles here and there, you heard his voice again.
“We should get this cleaned up,” he motioned towards your hand.  It was throbbing intensely under his touch. The decorative dish towel you’d once loved so much was now stained with your own blood. 
You exhaled a shaky sigh and nodded, letting Luke help lift you from the floor. Your knees shook when you saw the amount of blood pooled on the floor from your cut, but Luke was there to keep a steady grip on your hip. 
“How’re we doing?” he asked, clearly noticing your shakiness and fatigue. 
“I’m... okay,” you whispered unconvincingly, your voice raspy from it all. You felt his lips pressing against the top of your head and staying there. You counted five seconds until he pulled away and gave your frame a squeeze before leading you carefully over the shattered glass and towards the bathroom.  
Luke instructed you to sit on the lip of the bathtub and to hold the dish towel in place while he collected bandages and peroxide.  
You watched him as he maneuvered around the bathroom and realized that you didn’t know what you would do if he ever didn’t come home. Despite the challenges and hard work it took to make your marriage work, it would be a million times worse if he wasn’t around. 
Luke kneeled in front of you, his gentle eyes connecting with yours before he spoke. “This will probably sting a little,” he warned. He peeled back the towel, muttering a soft, “sorry,” as the fabric stuck to your skin slightly from the dried blood. When he started to pour peroxide on the cut, you hissed, grabbing his bicep with your uninjured hand.  
“There you go,” he soothed as the stinging subsided. Luke finished by wrapping the area in gauze lightly. Once the bandage was on, you pulled your arm to your chest and rubbed it.  
“Thanks.”
Luke nodded, but then there was nothing but silence between you.  
After a few seconds you opened your mouth to speak, but Luke beat you to it.
“This is all so new. My job- the traveling. But we’ll figure it out.”
You nodded, because you truly believed him. You always did figure things out.  
“I’m tired," you said, your eyes feeling heavy. “I don’t sleep well when you’re not home,” you admitted, a bit shamefully. You didn’t want Luke to think that you couldn’t function without him, and you knew it was possible he’d feel a little guilty that he wasn’t around much.
Luke nodded sympathetically. “Why don’t you go get ready for bed,” he suggested. He stood up and started gathering the bloody towel and peroxide from the floor. “I’m gonna go clean up the glass in the kitchen. I’ll be in in a minute, okay?”
You nodded as you stood up before turning and heading towards the bedroom. 
About ten minutes later, when you had gotten yourself settled into bed in one of Luke’s shirts and a pair of sweatpants, you heard him enter the room. You slowly opened your eyes and watched him as he peeled his shirt off and wiggled himself out of his pants. You knew you were supposed to be sleeping, but you couldn’t without Luke’s warmth. So when you finally felt his body shift the mattress and his arms wind around you, you exhaled a soft sigh of relief, you wanted to live in his arms for the rest of your life. You heard him chuckle softly in response, his legs playfully intertwining with yours.
He stayed quiet for a long time, and for a second you thought he might have already fallen asleep, until you felt his lips linger against the back of your shoulder, followed by a low whisper.
“You’re my favorite thing to come home to.”
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ronearoundblindly · 1 year ago
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No Promises (3)
Lloyd Hansen x rival assassin!Reader
I Left You Something On The Body (see previous or LH Masterlist)
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Summary: You and Lloyd take to leaving consolation prizes for whichever one of you 'loses.' It...escalates delightfully.
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Warnings for DARKFIC. Language; descriptions of sexual situations, toys, various paraphernalia. Smut-adjacent (masturbation). MINORS DNI. I have plenty else for you on my Light Masterlist, but this is not for you! WC 982
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And you do; you let Lloyd have several open contracts after the keycard incident.
Sometimes you wonder about the man providing the most fun you’ve had in years, but mostly, you relax in a noisy city high-rise with a spectacular view. A small vacation between assassinations. You drop off the network for a month or so, picking up a straight-forward job nearby, and then show up at the target’s house to find him already dead.
Pinched onto the body, overtop a blood-soaked button-down, are golden nipple clamps.
You snort in disbelief.
The sick bastard, he’s really wooing you now.
A thin chain between the clamps sports a tied tag.
To: The Cobalt Cunt
You let out a dreamy sigh, the little tingle in your mind of possibly fucking (with) him again vibrating to life. You even miss him in a weird way.
On the reverse of the tag, it reads, “not safe for lace.”
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It’s on obviously and more fun than you ever imagined. At some point, you can’t tell if you two are letting each other get places first on not. The money is, oddly, totally irrelevant, and your career takes on a renewed joy.
Lloyd claims a target. You show up, kill them, and drop off an intricately-packaged Gucci jock strap with “Eat Me” embroidered at the back of the waistband, right above his asshole.
For good measure—and to remind him what he’s missing—you add a spritz of your perfume to the cup.
That’s where you want to be nestled, it implies. That’s where you belong, right against his dick.
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Sadly, the next ‘surprise’ takes a while as you two are not after the same jobs. There’s plenty of work to go around till you find an oblong box wrapped in brown paper on the armchair ten feet from an enormous bloodstain.
 With an empty scotch glass and a crumb-covered plate beside it, you know Lloyd’s been trolling for your attention. His snacky, sweet-tooth is somewhat notorious.
Your inconspicuous, purposefully plain gift waits patiently, the soft whipped cream of a strawberry shortcake dripping down its serving stand.
There’s no rush though, and you make a little ritual of opening it to reveal a beautiful dildo with golden speckles throughout the silicone molding. It is absolutely from a cast of Lloyd; you’d know that curve anywhere.
If that’s as close as you can get? Fine by you…
The rest of him barely participated before anyway.
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Geneva.
Lloyd’s pissed and tired after the flight. Suzanne is the fucking worst and made him repeat the plan three times because her pea-brain is as sharp as a limp dick.
He dances down the plane steps, noticing a welcome party that is not his people. One sunglasses-clad, black-suited fellow walks up to Lloyd with an enormous gift basket.
It’s so goddamn pink Lloyd recoils and squints his eyes.
Good christ, it’s hideous. He loves it in a sick way.
Pink cellophane, fuzzy pink handcuffs, a sparkling fuchsia cock ring, rose gold anal beads with pesto-colored rope connecting them, and strawberry flavored lube.
Mood restored, Lloyd chuckles, turning on his heel to get back on the plane.
He’s going home. He has toys to play with.
He doesn’t bother to explain shit to Suzanne. One of these days, he’s just going to pop her for free.
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This one doesn’t coincide with a job at all, but that’s what makes it all the sweeter to you.
Delivered to the place you’re staying for the week is an adorable, yellow stuffed rabbit with a pull-cord. Across its tummy is 'sunshine' in cursive letters.
You honest-to-god squeal in delight as you listen to each of the five custom recordings programed in.
Lloyd tuts then says “should have sized up my ring, you cock-drunk whore,” a deep gasp and a squelch punctuates the end.
Oh boy. It’s Christmas in July. Happy you!
You fake your own shocked gasp at the second soundbite.
“Know you don’t taste like fucking strawberries,“ he grunts before bitterly adding, “but I’ll take one for the team and eat that pussy any day.”
Third: “Bet I was the best you ever had, even when I wasn’t awake, you poor thing. So needy…”
Fourth: “How hard did you come, Sunshine? Be honest.” He laughs like the cat who got the cream to end that one.
Finally, the last of the pulls is just the slapping noise of him jerking off and finishing with a deep moan.
Now, at least, you know what Lloyd sounds like when he comes.
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Utterly self-satisfied, Lloyd goes about his life of luxury.
He’ll be damned if he’s going to break and go to you. Fuck that. The thrill of this taco-and-hotdog game is worth it anyway.
He still works, and not every job revolves around you.
For one such fulfilled contract, he’s being paid in artwork and has the delivery men bring in the large framed canvas to uncover in his current villa’s sitting room.
The expectation is a well-known portrait.
It’s a painting alright, but it’s…very modern.
Lloyd crosses his arms over his chest and smothers a proud grin.
The torso and open legs of you stretch out facing the viewer, gold leaf embossed nipple clamps and their chains dangle over your stomach, and the blunt end of a golden dildo sits nestled in your cunt. There are brush strokes and paint visibly raised from the surface.
He wonders whether it was done from a photo or whether you sat there, bare, for some artist to reference for hours, maybe even days.
Lloyd had a spot in mind for his real payment, but this will do nicely. He’s quite pleased with the view. It shall go over the mantle in the bedroom, and he shall fuck whoever he wants—his fist included—while staring right at it.
The half dozen or so other people in the villa’s great room who can all see the painting don’t say a fucking word.
How the hell is he supposed to top this?
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A/N: Full disclosure, I'm pretty sure this is the funniest thing I'll ever write, and I'm okay with that. I can't stop laughing 🤣🤣🤣
[Next Part: A Blazer Full of Bullet Holes]
[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]
blue art deco divider by @/saradika-graphics--thank you for your beautiful work!
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livwritesstuff · 1 year ago
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i’ve been very quiet so srry - my week started with my annual performance review (which went well) and ended with an emergency surgery (also went well) so…a lot going on to say the least
this is a deleted scene from the first chapter of plant a seed
When Robin called, Steve and Eddie were in the phase of newborn parenthood where they froze every single time the phone rang (because said newborn was napping more often than not and when she was, there was a 50% chance minimum the phone would wake her up).
So when Robin called and the ringing of the phone broke the otherwise peaceful silence, Steve froze and he waited. When the baby didn't wake up, Steve exhaled a sigh of relief and answered the call.
"This is Steve."
"Hey Steve-o!"
Steve immediately recognized the voice as Robin's – of course he did, even if he hadn't heard it since she and Nancy left for a work trip in Japan a little over a month ago.
“Oh shit,” Steve said, because this means that Robin and Nancy are finally home, finally back in their Boston apartment fifteen minutes away from his and Eddie's in Cambridge instead of the opposite side of the entire world, “You’re home!”
“Yep,” Robin replied, popping the P, “That plane was a million degrees, I’m pretty sure. No more August flights if I have any say in it. Anyways – wanted to let you know we made it back unscathed. What’s new with you guys?”
“Uh…” Steve began, not totally sure where to start, because Robin didn't know about the baby he and Eddie had been placed with two weeks ago and she certainly didn't know that they're going to adopt her (because they'd landed on that decision that very day – about two hours ago, to be specific), “Well–”
“Hey, do you still have those placements?" Robin interrupted, "The kids who like to read the Goosebumps books?”
“Oh,” Steve blinked, “No. They went back with their mom a couple days after you left.”
“Damn. Been a while. Forgot this trip was longer than usual – wait, so are you between placements now, then? Hey, we should finally make that trip to P-Town!”
"Might need a raincheck on that," Steve said with a laugh, because at the moment a trip to the goddamn grocery store required at least a day's worth of planning, "We've got another placement right now – a newborn. We've had her for, uh, for just under two weeks, pretty sure."
“Shit, a newborn?" Robin repeated.
Steve faintly heard Nancy's voice, though he couldn't make out exactly what she was saying. He listened as Robin recounted to her what he'd just said, then started to laugh.
"Nancy just said that if she misses out on a chance to hold a new baby, she'll kill you," Robin told him, "Any idea when she might move on?”
Steve paused for a second. He and Eddie had decided earlier that they wouldn’t be telling anyone about the baby until the adoption was finalized, but…it’s Robin. 
He doesn’t think he’s ever kept a secret from Robin before, certainly not something this big and certainly not for very long.
He has to tell her.
“We’re, uh, we’re actually adopting her.”
Robin was silent.
Then –
“Holy shit – Steve.”
And then –
“I’m coming over right now. Immediately. Wait–” Robin stopped, “Damn, I can’t be a dick and come over unannounced anymore, can I? Because you guys have a baby. A baby. And she’s gonna be yours? What the fuck? Wait, let me start over.”
Robin paused long enough to take a deep breath.
“Steve Harrington – my best friend who’s finally fulfilling a lifelong dream of becoming a dad – when will you allow us to come and be formally introduced to our niece?”
Truth be told, Steve wouldn’t say no to a visit from Robin and Nancy that day (especially after the our niece comment), but their case worker had just started faxing over all the paperwork to get the ball rolling on the adoption process and Steve has a feeling that he might catch Eddie trying to fill that shit out as it came out of the machine so tonight they might be a little occupied.
"Tomorrow?" he suggested.
"Morning?" Robin added.
Steve laughed, "Sure. Tomorrow morning."
"Bright and early, dad. Holy fuck, I can't believe you're a dad."
"You can't?"
"No, I totally can."
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deeranger · 8 months ago
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Sam letting Dean suck on his breasts to calm him down when he is mad or angry is so real… It also makes perfect sense because in canon Dean misses Mary a lot and Sam is so much like their mother (save me Sam/Mary parallels save me). Dean definitely has memories of her, he probably sees her in Sam sometimes.
Oooh..... Oh. Mommy kink, anyone? 😏
"Yeah, that's it, just let me—" Dean babbles, cutting himself off with a moan when his lips close around Sam's nipple. His little brother has barely had the time to properly open his shirt, but Dean's already shoving his face in there, eager and so damn riled up that he's hyperventilating. It doesn't take many seconds before teeth graze the tender flesh either, any restraint and finesse forgotten long ago.
"Oww, s-slow down," Sam gasps, but there's a small smile tugging on his lip despite the pain. Dean whines in response, a high-pitched noise stuck in his throat as he suckles, tongue lapping greedily at the hardened nub.
"M'right here, De.... Not going anywhere," Sam adds, voice shaky, as Dean eagerly palms his other tit, strong fingers squeezing it like he'll never let go.
"Hmmm," Dean just mumbles, his hot mouth leaving smears of saliva to cool everywhere on the tanned skin. By now, he's so hard in his jeans that it looks downright painful, and Sam's no better off. There's no way either of them is going to last long. Every few seconds their hips involuntarily twitch, small stutters that they don't quite manage to conceal, but right now there's really no need to hide it. Not now, not anymore. They're too far gone for that.
"Oh, God...." Sam grunts when his big brother nips at him, only to let go of his nipple with a loud and vulgar pop. It's nothing short of pornographic, and as Dean stares up at him through dark lashes, the younger Winchester can't help a moan falling from his lips, raw and blatantly wanton. As he sits there on the edge of the motel bed, Dean looks so small between his legs, so.... Devoted. And the way he's leaning into Sam, just clinging to him like his life depends on it, it's making every fiber of him want to relieve the pressure building in his groin. But he can't. Oh, he can't.
"Please, can I just....?" Dean asks, and he sounds wrecked. Both his hands are now on Sam's tits, squeezing them together like they're actually big enough for it. Like Dean has done a million times with the bar skanks he'll pick up at night. Only, Sam's chest is firm and muscular, not at all as supple as the various C cups he usually gets his hands on. It's not the same. Oh, but it's Sam. And he's so warm and beautiful, endless planes of golden skin, smooth under his calloused fingertips. It's like he can even feel the heartbeat underneath it, just thrumming away in a strong jackrabbiting rhythm that perfectly matches his own. It's intoxicating. It's safe, it's home. And it's so much like her.
"Fuck..." Dean says, the word punching out of him in a breathless moan. As his fingers pinch and caress and squeeze, his eyes never leave Sam's face. God, he's beautiful. And he has Mary's eyes. Shit, he even has her smile.
By now there's a wet patch forming on the denim fabric of his jeans, and Dean can't help but grind himself against the side of the mattress. Sparks zap up his spine as he does, and a loud moan tumbles out of him.
"Oh, God, I n-need... I need to..." he whimpers, dark green eyes laser-focused on Sam's lips while he humps the edge of the bed.
"You can have whatever you want, De- just- take whatever you want," Sam babbles in return, hips twitching and mouth open as his brother squeezes his chest. The coil in Dean's groin tightens, the heat there flaring up in an instant by Sam's words. It's like a goddamn flip of a switch. And without hesitation, he's suddenly hauling himself off the floor and into Sam's lap knees digging into the bed on either side of him with a protesting squeal of the metal springs in the cheap mattress.
There's no more hesitation. No more second thoughts. There's simply no room for it anymore, and Dean's mouth crashes against Sam's in a wild frenzy of clacking teeth and prodding tongues. It's primal, and there's something so unique in the way Sam tastes, something that sets Dean's groin alight. He tastes like cinnamon and raspberries and coffee, like something long forgotten, like everything Dean ever missed... He tastes like friggin mother's milk.
A pitiful mewling sound spills from Dean's mouth, desperate and so, so hungry. He almost sounds like he's hurt, and he's pawing at Sam now, big hands roaming everywhere to squeeze and tug and pinch like he can't get close enough. He's almost there. Shit. He's almost there, he's so, so close but still just too far away to slip over the edge, that fire blazing in his groin and in his mind and everywhere, like he's going mad with it, like he's friggin dying from it, and his dick fucking hurts and—
"M-Mommy..." he whimpers into Sam's mouth, mind a whirl and body ablaze. He can feel Sam tense, feel the way he stiffens ever so slightly, insecure surprise making his large body go extra taut under him. But it's only for a second. Just a second, as scary and fleeting as a ghost. And then, Sam relaxes once more, delves deeper into the messy kiss with a throaty groan of his own. There's even a stuttering roll of his hips, eager and clumsy, and then they're suddenly grinding together, denim against denim. It's rough and the angle is weird, but it's everything Dean ever wanted. It's electrifying. And while they breathe each other's breath, tongues lapping and swirling and tangling, Sam whispers into his brother's mouth:
"It's okay, baby boy... I've got you."
The reaction is instant. Dean groans against Sam's lips, hips thrusting and grinding against his little brother's crotch, seeking release, touch, anything, just more, more more. The fire in his groin feels searing, like it's lapping at his spine, scalding tendrils shooting through his abdomen and spreading like wildfire. He's right at the edge, the point of no return rushing past him so fast that he's forgetting how to breathe.
"Please—" he manages to choke out, but it bleeds into a helpless moan before he can finish it. It seems that Sam knows exactly what he wants though, because suddenly a big hand drops to the bulge in Dean's pants, long fingers rubbing at him through the denim:
"Come on, baby... Let mommy take care of you," Sam whispers, low and throaty into Dean's mouth.
And that's all it takes.
With a whimper, Dean shoots hot and messy inside his jeans, hips jerking in cramp-like thrusts against Sam's hand. It's as clumsy as it is mindless, both of them writhing against each other. It's animalistic. The sounds they make easily rival the dirtiest porn flick, and Dean's mind is reeling with want and more and Mary and Sam, Sam, Sam. It's everything Dean ever wanted and everything he should never have. Oh, but it's beautiful. It's perfect. And he's finally home.
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