#god damn 4 and a half years | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

redwing4life · 1 year ago

Text

Home Cooked Meal

CHAPTER 4 | ASHES TO EMBERS

can be read as a stand alone :)

PAIRING: Firefighter!Neighbour!Bucky x Fem!Reader

WARNINGS: Smut (finally) - dirty talk, pet names, oral f and m receiving, fingering, tit play, praise kink, hand kink?, ball play, hair pulling, unprotected PinV sex, aftercare, reader and bucky have dinner, swearing, fluff, let me know if i missed anything!

SUMMARY: You surprise Bucky with a home cooked meal after his shift, and it’s the best damn thing he’s had in years. The pasta was pretty good too.

WORD COUNT: 10550 (ngl i rechecked this three times cuz i didn’t think i wrote this much but turns out i did in fact write over 10k words im sorry lmao)

PREVIOUS CHAPTER // NEXT CHAPTER

Call me when you get home x

Your text still sits on Bucky’s lock screen, read but not opened, as he gets changed out of his work clothes.

It’s fair to say that the message intrigued him when he first read it half an hour ago, just before he left the firehouse. His legs sped up your building stairwell faster than normal, desperate to find out why you’re awaiting his call.

Knowing you would have said so if you were in immediate danger, Bucky sifts through the multitude of possibilities that await him on the other side of the ring tone; none of which ease the butterflies in his stomach.

He walks to his kitchen, phone in hand, to get a glass of orange juice. Pulling up your contact page, he presses ‘call’ and grabs the carton of juice from the fridge door.

You answer after just one ring, eager to hear his voice.

“Hey, Barnes!” God, Bucky loves your voice.

“Doll.” His voice is soft, tone rising at the end with curiosity. “You asked me to call, what’s up?”

The firefighter swoons at the adorable giggle you let out, the sound distant from the mic as though you’ve tried to hide it. “I was worried you didn’t see my text.” You admit.

Bucky pictures you biting your lip anxiously, an accurate prediction for your current state.

“What are you doing right now?”

Glancing down at the yet-to-be-filled glass in front of him, Bucky leans a hand against the kitchen island. “Just about to get a drink, what are-“

“Don’t!” You cut in. “Don’t get a drink, I need you to come over.”

“What, now? What’s wrong?”

“Nothings wrong, James. Just come knock, okay? I’ll see you in a minute!”

And with that, the call cuts off with a dull beep; Bucky brings the phone down from his ear and stares at it in confusion. You’re being weird, never having hung up on him like that before.

Alpine meows from above the fridge, drawing her owner’s attention away from the phone, only to tilt her head at him.

Even Alps is confused.

Deciding to just do what you told, Bucky slips his phone into the pocket of his dark jeans, returns the orange juice to the fridge and sets off for the front door. He finds himself checking over his appearance in the entry way mirror, eyes scanning over his outfit before he smooths out his hair.

Although he won’t admit it, Bucky’s spent a lot more time in front of that mirror lately; checking his collar isn’t twisted, his hair isn’t too messy and there’s nothing stuck in his teeth. The need to look good, to look good for you, hasn’t gone unnoticed by his colleagues.

He considers using the spare key you gave him and letting himself into your apartment but shakes the thought away.

She asked you to knock, Bucky. Not break in.

With one final nod in the mirror, Bucky leaves his apartment, stepping into the hallway he’s spent so many mornings and nights in with you.

Old jazz music greets his ears when he approaches your door, the soft melody sneaking through the cracks of the door frame. Bucky smiles to himself at the thought of you dancing in your kitchen, heart warming when he notices your humming.

Knocking thrice, the firefighter steps back and nervously stuffs his hands into his pockets. You always make him nervous, those darn butterflies stirring in his stomach whenever he’s about to see you. And when he does see you. Actually, they’re there even when he imagines seeing you.

He takes a breath when he hears you shuffling up to the door, but nothing could prepare him for the sight when it swings open.

Rusty red fabric flows from your neckline to the middle of your thighs, small flowers dotted over the slightly orange colour. Two thin straps perched on your shoulders leave plenty of skin on show as your usual sun-pendant necklace sits between the v-neck of your dress. Which, by the way, perfectly presents the soft swell of your breasts.

It takes everything Bucky has to not drool at his breathtaking neighbour, but it takes even more to not dive on you and finally taste those pink lips.

Your skin is ablaze beneath his eyes and you revel in his reaction, the exact response you wanted when you pulled on the dress two hours ago.

“We’re matching.” You grin, taking a moment to enjoy Bucky’s red henley.

“It’s almost like we planned it.” A chuckle escapes him, eyes trailing up from your thighs to meet yours.

“Speaking of plans,” You reach out to pull Bucky closer, tugging his forearms until he pulls his hands out of his pockets, “I have a surprise for you.”

Is it letting me look at you in that dress all evening? Your neighbour thinks - hopes - as you lead him into your apartment.

Closing the door behind him, you take his hand in yours once more to guide him to your little kitchen/diner area. If you weren’t looking ahead, you’d see Bucky’s cheeks flushed pink at your touch. Seeing your hand encompassed with his own will never fail to drive him crazy.

When he eventually looks up from your joined hands, he’s stunned to a halt. You turn back to him when you feel him plant his feet and your features twist into a nervous expression.

“I- Doll, what is all this?” The firefighters eyes are wide at your ‘surprise’.

Your small dining table is set up for two; cream place mats lay beneath charcoal gray pasta dishes with wine glasses sitting at their corners. There’s even a little vase with pink and yellow tulips in between the two spaces.

“Well, remember that time when you told me you haven’t had a proper home cooked meal in years?” You watch Bucky closely as you speak, waiting for some sign of approval.

“You mean this morning?” He turns to you in wonder, thinking back to your conversation as he gave you a lift to the cafe. “I don’t know what to say, doll.”

You roll back on your heels, hands scrunching your dress at your sides. “Is it okay? I know it’s a little cheesy and it’s last minute but I thought it would be a nice surprise for you after working all day. I mean, it’s not exactly at your home but it’s pretty cl-“

Bucky takes two long strides towards you and brings his hands to cup your cheeks; your words die on your tongue when he looks down at you with tender eyes.

“It’s perfect, Y/n.” He smiles, stroking his thumb over your cheek bone. “You could feed me Alpine’s food and i’d still bow at your feet, sweets.”

Now you’re the one blushing. You heart skips when Bucky’s eyes drop to your lips with hunger in his gaze.

“Always so good to me, aren’t ya?” His words tempt a whimper from deep within you, a submissive whine held back by the last of your restraint.

“Well-“

The oven beeps, its sharp tone darting between your bodies and making you step back from Bucky’s hold.

“Uhh” Your mind is all over the place as the firefighter watches you with amusement, “I- I should, I mean- the pasta must be-“

“Go, doll.” Bucky shakes his head laughing quietly.

Your dress sways as you spin away to the stove, stirring various pots and tidying up the counters. Your neighbour watches you in awe, unashamedly enjoying the view; you just look so goddamn sexy in that cute little dress while you cook for him. He wishes he could come home to this every night.

“You need a hand with anything, doll?” Bucky’s voice sounds from behind you.

“Actually, yeah!” You glance over your shoulder. “Come here.”

If you keep bossing him about, Bucky’s gonna struggle not to tear that sweet little sundress right off you.

Settling in at your side, Bucky cocks his head. “What d’ya need?”

You scoop some of the creamy tomato sauce onto a spoon and bring it to Bucky’s lips. “Try this for me.”

With bated breath, you watch his full lips wrap around the end of the spoon, his eyes bearing into yours as he drags the sauce into his mouth.

Bucky has no business looking as dirty as he does in this moment; you watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows before his tongue juts out to catch a few missed drops. And just when you thought your panties would survive the sight, a moan ripples from his throat and you clench around nothing at the sound.

“Good?” You murmur, hoping he doesn’t notice when you cross your legs.

He notices.

“Delicious,” Bucky takes the spoon from your hand and stretches across you to place it back in the pan, his right hand brushing against the small of your back, “you did great, sweets.”

Fuck. Me.

You regather your composure and ask Bucky to get the wine from the fridge. He pours you both a glass, setting them back on the dining table gently before returning the bottle to its home.

“Hey, could you bring the bowls over, please?” You call over your shoulder.

You plate up the sauce coated pasta while Bucky places the dirty pans in the sink, both working around each other like a fine tuned machine.

Before you can do it yourself, Bucky is picking up the bowls and laying them on the place mats, winking at you as he does so. He pulls your chair out for you, nodding for you to join him.

“For you, Madame.” He jokes, allowing you to sit down while tucking you in.

You watch him round the table and take his own seat. “And they say chivalry is dead.”

Bucky grins at you. The orange glow of sunset shines through your windows, catching your features with grace. Your eyes shine beneath the light and Bucky can’t help but find you angelic.

“You’re beautiful, doll. I don’t know if I said that earlier but, god, you look stunning tonight.”

Dropping your head, you play with the hem of your dress shyly. Your hair falls into your face, forcing you to push it behind your ears, though Bucky wishes he was close enough to do it himself.

With rose tinted cheeks, you look up at Bucky through your lashes. “You say that to all your neighbours, Barnes?” You raise a brow with your teasing voice.

Bucky throws his head back and laughs heartily, a sound you’ve come to adore.

“Only the ones who cook for me.” He winks.

“Doesn’t Ms Scott bring you pies every couple weeks?”

“And I tell her she looks ravishing every time.”

You giggle and tell Bucky to dig in, though you could happily sit and talk all night. While you both stop every now and then for a forkful of food, conversation bounces between you as it always does.

Tonight isn’t much different to a typical evening with the firefighter next door; usually you share some snacks and beers, cozying up on the couch as you watch tv. It’s become ritual for you to send Bucky a video of you playing the piano each evening, his phone playing the video on loop as he sleeps. It’s strange, but the music creeps into his dreams and keeps them peaceful, keeps him away from that burning building.

It’s been a few weeks since the night he was sent home early. Both you and Bucky felt a shift that night; waking up in his arms left you craving more, though you’ve yet to tell him as much. You left him sleeping peacefully that morning when you left for work with only a couple hours of sleep under your belt.

Bucky hated waking up to find the other side of his bed empty, no longer feeling your heat. The note you left him eased the disappointment slightly, your neat handwriting promising to come back in your breaks. Neither of you have addressed how right it felt to sleep beside each other that night, despite spending all of your free time together with unspoken words hanging over you.

Instead, you dance around each other like two ghosts doomed to never touch. The bond between you is stronger than any you’ve ever had, the magnetic lure undeniable for you both.

Your glasses have been emptied and refilled twice now - dinner long since been finished - and you’re starting to feel the buzz; those butterflies in your stomach have turned into a swarm of confidence, your brain taking a backseat from its usual overthinking.

“You expect me to believe that you broke down the door before Sam could? The same guy who beat you at your physical a few weeks back?” You tease the brunette, a challenging brow raised at his rather unimpressed face.

“What are you trying to say there, doll?”

Bucky’s jaw clenches when you tilt your head slightly, eyes shining with amusement beneath the exposed hanging light bulbs.

“Nothing to worry your cute little head about.” You watch Bucky relax into his chair slightly as you reach for your glass with a smirk. “Just that I doubt Sam has any difficulty kicking a door down, not with the way he’s built.”

The scoff to end all scoffs ripples from your neighbours throat; his bright blue orbs glare into you and his features twist into a scowl. Oh if looks could kill…

Bucky’s tone is flat, “Didn’t know you were such an admirer of Wilson’s build, Y/n.”

The lack of a pet name sends your confidence wavering, but not enough to keep you from having a little fun.

“Well, you know,” You bring the glass to your lips, “he’s hardly difficult to miss.”

Watching the deep ruby liquid pass over your lips, Bucky fights to hide the fury that’s flooding his veins, forced to look away from your smug grin.

He knows, he knows, that you’re lying through your teeth, trying to get a rise out of his usually impenetrable facade, and yet he can’t help but feel jealous.

Bucky’s painfully aware that he has no right to feel so possessive, not when he lays no claim to you. But the twist of his stomach is proof that he doesn’t much care.

“Maybe I should just give you his number and you can cook him a meal next time.” Bucky grumbles.

“Oh, that’s alright, I already have his number.”

You’ve never seen Bucky’s head snap up as quickly as it just did, his gaze pinning you to your spot.

“You what?”

Gently, you place your glass back on the table. “Yeah, Steve gave him my number last week so he could get in touch.”

The fire in those blue eyes burns brighter with each word, his body so still that his chest is barely moving when he breathes. In fact, you’re not even sure if he is breathing. Hell, he’s not even sure if he’s breathing.

“Is that right?” Bucky’s gruff voice is laced with possessiveness, the low tone travelling straight to your panties till you swear you feel yourself throb. You wonder briefly if you have a jealousy kink and the sweet arousal dripping from your cunt only confirms your suspicions.

“Mhm.” You hum in response, “In fact, i’m going out for coffee with him next week.”

“Huh.”

Bucky’s chair screeches against the hardwood floor as he pushes himself back. You follow his movements with amused eyes when he stands up and grabs your plates before storming to the kitchen. You twist in your chair, watching him place the dishes in the sink and flick on the tap.

“James, what are you doing?” You ask.

“What does it look like i’m doing?” Oh he’s grumpy, grumpy.

Bucky’s shoulders are tense beneath his tight henley, his sleeves now rolled up as he starts scrubbing at the plates. It’s quiet while he concentrates on his work, only accompanied by the music still flowing from your speaker.

From the corner of his eye, the firefighter sees you rise from your chair, ears honed in on the sound of your feet pattering towards him.

It’s now hard for Bucky to focus on anything but your breath on his neck, goosebumps littered across his skin like a rash. You stand right behind him, tracing your fingers up from the small of his back; Bucky’s muscles tense momentarily before melting at your touch, just like always.

“Ask me why i’m seeing Sam next week.” You order, hands still roaming the taut fabric on Bucky’s back. The command makes him pause and clench his eyes shut. Why are you making him talk about this when it’s tearing him apart?

The brunette turns in your hold but you don’t release him, instead settling your hands on his waist.

“Why are you seeing him, doll?” Bucky sounds despondent, brows furrowed in confusion as he looks down at you.

“He asked me to teach his nephews to play the piano, Buck. I’m meeting him and the boys on Wednesday, Sarah too.”

A shocked ‘What’ tumbles from his lips as the information sinks in, his frown slowly falling away as he processes your words.

“Yeah…” You grin, though it’s more like a smirk, content with yourself proving he was jealous.

In a desperate attempt to save his ego, Bucky rolls his eyes playfully. “I knew you weren’t really attracted to that dumbass.”

You scoff and pat his chest lightly. “Sure you did, Barnes. Now scoot, you wash ‘em, i’ll dry ‘em.”

With his hands on his hips, he stays still as you nudge your way to his side, stretching to the window sill where your dish towels lay. Bucky’s never been in this position before, it’s always him who’s teasing you; this is new territory for him and it irks him that you riled him up so easily.

Once he shakes his head clear, the firefighter returns to face the sink and starts washing the dishes again. You wait patiently while he works, humming along to whichever song is playing.

“You like the old stuff, huh doll?” Bucky grins warmly at the slight sway of your hips, your radiance beaming like a lantern.

You giggle sheepishly and bite your lip, unknowingly sending Bucky spiralling. “I thought it was fitting for tonight, really leaning into the whole ‘housewife’ role.”

He raises a brow, “Does that make me your doting husband then, sweets?”

Realising what you said, your cheeks heat up instantly and your eyes widen. You attempt to backtrack but your words stumble over one another as though you’re a little school girl.

Bucky, however, is basking in the familiarity of control; your rosy cheeks never fail to bring a smile to his face, and boy is he beaming right now.

“I meant- It’s- You know what I meant, James.” You shoot daggers at him, though the idea of being married to your neighbour sends your heart into overdrive.

That swoon-worthy laugh greets your ears with haste, Bucky’s eyes crinkled at the corners as his chest reverberates with its force. It’s impossible to bite back the grin that’s fighting its way onto your lips.

Small tendrils of chestnut hair tumble from behind his ears, begging to be pushed back, but the buzz from the wine has dulled and you can’t find the confidence to do it, no matter how much Bucky’s eyes are pleading you to.

“You know, it’s sweet of you to teach the boys how to play.” He looks at you in adoration, the image of you spending time with Sam’s nephews triggering a warmth to spread in his chest.

A breathy laugh escapes you as your gaze falls to the kitchen counter. You blush at the compliment and slowly start drying the dishes again.

“Do you spend much time with them?” You ask with a brief glance his way.

Bucky shrugs, “Yeah, Sarah is always throwing barbecues for the squad. They’re good kids, and I bet they’ll love you!”

“Oh God, I hope so. I’ve never taught before and i’m scared they’ll hate me and i’ll destroy their dreams and-” You ramble away without noticing the frown tugging at your neighbours brows.

“Teach me.”

Huh?

“What?” You freeze.

“You said you’ve never taught before,” Bucky steps closer to you, his cologne swarming around you like a warm hug, “so practise on me. Teach me something.”

You almost laugh at his words, mind immediately jumping to the conclusion that he’s joking. But Bucky doesn’t move, his blue eyes study your own, body so still that you fail to conjure a laugh. He’s not joking.

Hesitation is written across your features, drawing a single shake of Bucky’s head. “Come on, sweets. Please? For me?” He pleads.

“Okay.”

It’s scary how quickly you succumb to Bucky’s wishes; you fear you’d do awful things if only he asked and you’d even do it with a smile. You’re so doomed.

With a triumphant grin, Bucky plucks the dish cloth and plate from your grasp and carefully places them on the sink’s edge, before taking your hand in his and guiding you to your piano.

Nerves prickling beneath your skin, you trail behind him and silently revel in his touch. It’s hard to not stare at his perfect body as you stumble around furniture, the sharp muscles of his shoulders rippling as he tugs you with him. Flicking off the speaker on the way, you fall onto the small piano stool beside Bucky, and with such little room, your left thigh is pressed up against his. The solid curve of his muscles prod into your flesh and yet despite the fluttering it causes in your stomach, you’re far more focused on his hands.

From the bulge of his toned biceps to the trail of prominent veins in his forearms, your eyes drag down Bucky’s arms till you pause at the sight of his large hands. They lay spread across the span of his thighs, his right pinky finger mere atoms away from your exposed skin where your dress has ridden up. You find yourself craving the sparks that alight with his touch, so you adjust your position to make sure your leg brushes against his hand.

It certainly hasn’t gone amiss to the firefighter that you’ve taken a liking to his hands. Sure, he’s caught you staring at them before, but the hunger in your gaze right now is greater than ever.

The corner of Bucky’s lip turns up into a smirk as he reaches for your hands once more, lifting them to rest on the ivory keys of your piano.

“Wanna hear you play me something before you give me a lesson.” He admits, his words more of a demand than a question.

When you fail to respond, still caught up in scanning the crevices of his calloused hands, Bucky nudges your shoulder.

You shake your head with a dazed frown, “Huh?”

A playful chuckle falls from his pink lips, “I said play me something, sweets, before you start teachin’ me.”

You giggle sheepishly, sighing an ‘Oh’ before you gather your thoughts. Bucky returns his hands to his lap - a movement you struggle to ignore - giving you free rein of the instrument.

Running through some songs you could teach him, you settle for one of your favourites, or more accurately, one of Bucky’s favourites. The cool surface of the keys is harsh beneath your fingertips, a stark contrast to the Bucky-induced-heat flushing through your veins, hands stretching into place as you prepare the opening chords.

Rhythmic tones swarm around the two of you as you begin playing, masterfully dancing across the keys like it’s a second language. Your graceful motions always bring Bucky to a halt as you entrap him in your art.

He recognises the song straight away, lips turning up at the sweet melody. You didn’t even have to ask to know what he wanted to hear, you just knew. Bucky’s head feels light at the sight before him. A knowing grin has settled on your soft lips, your body ever so lightly swaying to the music, clearly getting lost the sounds.

It’s impossible not to feel the adoring stare of your neighbour, no matter how hard you try to ignore it. Warmth is pooling in the depths of your heart where it feels like you’re bleeding out, your love for Bucky forcing out the blood till the only thing circulating through your veins is him. No longer able to cope with the feelings swarming within you, your fingers abruptly stop mid song before you turn to look up at the firefighter.

“Okay, your go.” You state, but when Bucky raises a bemused brow your way, you continue to instruct him. “Come on. You’re gonna do the left hand, I’ll do the right.”

“Yes Ma’am!” Bucky chimes with a mock salute, earning him a glare.

It takes a few tries to move his fingers into the correct positions, both because he’s apparently wholeheartedly incapable of doing what you say but also because you may or may not zone out every time the veins of his hands stick out as he moves. But it’s still entirely his fault though. Entirely. ‘Maybe like 98% his fault. That’s seems fair.’ You think.

“There you go!” You cheer when the firefighter successfully plays the right notes in tandem.

“Would you look at that, not so useless after all.” Bucky winks at you and you blush lightly.

Glancing at him hopefully, you ask him to play the first chord you taught him.

“Oh, umm-“ He stutters, fingers flailing about and pressing random keys in search of the right pattern.

“Here, let me…” You chuckle sweetly at how utterly lost he looks and move to help him.

Leaning forward, you drag Bucky’s fingers over the ridges of ivorite, slowly placing them on the correct keys. You feel his lust-filled eyes trained on your face while you work, though it’s getting harder and harder to focus under his stare.

A frown tugs at your brows when your mind goes blank as to where Bucky needs to put his left hand, his still-wandering gaze burning into you and spreading to your cunt faster than you care to admit.

Of course, Bucky notices your breath quickening, chest stumbling up and down with shaky pants. His proximity is intoxicating and the will to fight it is slowly slipping past you, fingers itching to trace up Bucky’s thick arms to his neck so you can finally pull his lips to yours.

Bucky reads every inch of your skin like he’s studying for an exam. From the clench of your jaw to your eyes fluttering shut, he knows that he’s winning this tussle for control.

“Bucky…” You breathe, the wavering sigh rolling from your tongue like a stray secret.

“Yes, doll?” Bucky smirks with glinting eyes and you bite back a whimper.

Opening your eyes, you keep them trained on where yours rest on his. “I can’t focus with you looking at me like that.”

Bucky knows exactly what you mean but he can’t help but toy with you. “Like what?” He cocks his head with faux innocence that fools no one.

You turn to look up at the firefighter, eyes meeting his half lidded ones, the blue of his eyes barely visible behind his lust-blown pupils but the blue you can see is so impossible dark that you wonder if they were ever light in the first place.

Taking a breath, you wet your lips so briefly that Bucky nearly misses it. Nearly. “Like you want to kiss me.” You say, barely above a whisper.

“Oh,” Bucky sighs, leaning in closer, “I want to do much more than that.”

Your body is alight with need. Craving his touch, a breach of the barrier between you, you practically whine your reply. “Then why are you just staring?”

“Well, I wanna remember you like this; sweet, angelic, so perfect in your little sundress.“

With the back of his hand, Bucky nudges the hem of your dress higher till his whole hand is spread against your thigh. You quash the aching desire to glance at where your bodies meet and lock your eyes on Bucky’s, whose lips are turned into a knowing smirk.

“Gotta savour it while I can.” He says as he pushes his palm further to your inner thigh, his pinky finger mere inches from your heat.

“Why?” You ask, heart racing.

It dawns on you that you may actually pass out when the firefighter leans in close to you, nose pushing your hair aside to expose the soft skin of your neck which now sits defenceless to his advances. The heat of his breath is electrifying, lips nearing your pulse point eagerly.

Bucky’s lips ghost over your skin as he explains, “Cause once I’ve had my way with you, you’re gonna be a hot fucking mess, sweets.”

A breathy moan tumbles from the depths of you chest at the crude insinuations of his words; your eyes flutter shut, an unintentional reaction that you’re grateful for as it hides the way your pupils roll to the back of your head.

Through the dark span of your eyelids, you picture exactly how Bucky will make you a hot fucking mess. Spread legs with his tongue delving through your folds, back arched as he pounds into your pussy with vigour, his hands guiding your hips back to meet his as he fucks you from behind. The images bear too much for you yet you can’t stop picturing the salacious scenes, not when your neighbour is pressing open-mouthed kisses to the side of your neck.

“James…” You sigh, voice carrying the weight of a thousand pleas.

“Yeah? Is that what you want?”

Nodding your head desperately, you whine, unable to form any words beneath his sinful tongue.

“Words, doll.” Bucky says, lips hovering over your ear. He’s struggling to hold back but can’t let himself touch you the way he wants to until he hears you spell it out for him.

Turning your head slowly, you peer at Bucky with half-lidded eyes and a slack-jaw. “I want you, James. Please.”

That’s all it takes to disintegrate the final remnants of the firefighter’s self-control before his full lips meet your own with a hunger that’s been brewing for months.

Bucky’s lips glide across yours, slotting between your own so easily it’s got you believing this is not your first kiss. It’s soft and sweet but so goddamn sensual that you can’t help but moan into his mouth, the now open gap giving him the perfect chance to slide his tongue inside.

You bring your hands up Bucky’s body and rest them on his neck, fingers tentatively feeding through the hair at the nape of his neck while you jostle for control of the kiss.

Forced to pull back for breath, you take a peek only to find those strikingly blue eyes already on yours.

“Fuck, doll,” Bucky whispers, “you don’t know how long I’ve been waitin’ for this.”

“Probably not as long as I have.” You scoff.

“Then let me make up for lost time.”

“Wait, what do y-“

Within moments, Bucky is lifting your legs over the bench and is knelt between them, his large hands teasing the hem of your dress as he keeps your thighs spread apart.

Your mouth is agape with surprise while you grab onto the piano behind you for stability, a mixture of nerves and anticipation coursing through your veins. And as if he can read your anxious thoughts, Bucky looks up at you with the most sincere expression across his soft features.

“Do you want me to stop?” He asks, despite the deep desire shining in his eyes. He wants you more than anything, but he needs to know you want him too.

It’s an easy answer and you’re shaking your head faster than you care to admit, but the memory of Bucky’s prior words flash through your mind and you still just as quick.

“No.”

Watching intently as he runs a hand from your ankle up to your knee, the firefighter rolls his bottom lip between his teeth when your breath hitches.

“Then promise me you’ll tell me if that changes?” Bucky asks.

You reach down and run your fingers through his chestnut locks, tucking the few loose strands behind his ear.

“I promise.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweets.”

A hearty laugh reverberates through you, but you’re quickly silenced by Bucky’s lips on your inner thigh, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling. He kisses his way up to your heat, slowly pushing your dress higher and higher till the only thing between you and his mouth is the crimson lace panties covering your mound.

A sound you can only describe as a growl ripples through the room and you glance down at your neighbour to find him practically drooling at the sight of you. But then his eyes are on yours, his hungry, half-lidded eyes, and he’s tracing a finger over your clothed slit. Your breathing becomes laboured at his touch, your body, your mind, all of you at his mercy.

“Bucky, please…”

“Ah ah ah-“ The firefighter tuts, “-since when do you call me Bucky?”

You frown, back arching slightly in search of some friction on your core, too aroused to process his words properly.

“Look at me, Y/n.”

The stern nature of his tone lures your eyes to his once more. “What?” You ask, confused.

“I haven’t spent months goin’ crazy listening to you use my name only to have you call me Bucky when I’m finally between your legs.”

The throb of your pussy spurs you on and you tilt your head teasingly. “Touch me, James.” You say, and he obeys.

Bucky glides his hands up to your hips and drags your panties lower and lower, his lips chasing the lace till there’s no where left to kiss but your slick folds.

He hovers over your heat with bated breath before forcing himself to close his eyes and ask if you’re still okay with this.

“More than okay, James.” You answer truthfully.

“Good, cause I’m fucking starvin’.”

You feel his mouth on your pussy before you’ve even processed his words, tongue delving between your folds like he really is starving and you didn’t just feed him the best dinner he’s had in years. Though something tells him that title is about to be beaten the second you cum all over his face.

Your mouth curves into an ‘o’, the most pornographic of moans escaping you at the sinful sounds of Bucky’s mouth on your cunt. Drowning in increasingly intense waves of pleasure, your senses are dialled up to the max; with every flick of his tongue and suck on your clit, you find yourself falling deeper in your arousal. It becomes impossible to listen to anything Bucky’s telling you.

“Y’taste so sweet, doll.”

“Doing so good for me, aren’t ya? My good girl.”

“Let me hear you, doll, need to hear how good you feel.”

Whether it’s praises or orders, there’s no chance in hell of you understanding a word that falls from his lips, though Bucky doesn’t mind. The clench of your soft thighs around his head tells him all he needs to know - that even if your heads not fulling comprehending him, your body is. And the sheer amount of slick glistening across your cunt is enough for him to know that you’re ready for more.

The sensation of Bucky’s finger tracing along your pussy lips sends your eyes rolling to the back of your head and your hips lifting off the stool.

“James- oh fuck-“

Words die on your tongue when Bucky eases a finger inside you. White hot pleasure builds at your core, burning the last remnants of your self control, its embers coaxing a near-scream out of you.

“Fuck, that’s it, sweets. That’s- shit you’re so tight, pussy’s squeezing me and it’s just one finger.”

You mewl and squirm beneath him.

“How you gonna handle two of ‘em, doll?”

Bucky’s mesmerised at the sight of his finger gliding in and out of you, drenched in your sweet juices, too beautiful of a sight for him to give up by eating you out. But when you groan at the suggestion of two fingers, he drags his gaze upwards and is greeted with a view that’s evening better.

You, draped against the piano, head tilted back and brows drawn together while uneven sighs tumble from your swollen lips. God, you look heavenly, Bucky thinks. He doesn’t realise he’s said it out loud, but it makes little difference seeing as you’re rather preoccupied with the thought of Bucky fucking another finger inside you.

“James?” You call, reaching down to cover your left hand around the one at your sex, the other tugging on his hair.

“Yeah? Are you alright? Do you want me to stop?” He panics, thinking you’ve grabbed his hand to stop him.

Instead, you look him in the eye and say “Are you gunna fuck another finger inside of me or what?”

An awe-inspired grin spreads across Bucky’s face at your question. He keeps his blue orbs on yours while he presses a kiss to your clit and pushes himself higher till he’s inches from your face.

He rests a hand against the piano, caging you in and says, “Anything for my girl.” before a second digit joins his first.

The stretch knocks the wind out of your chest but Bucky hardly gives you any time to adjust, his fingers pumping in and out of you even faster than before. His palm slaps against your bundle of nerves with every thrust, the force riding to your chest where your tits bounce in rhythm.

“So damn beautiful…” The firefighter says.

You look up at him through your lashes and pull his lips to yours, tasting yourself on his tongue. With clashing teeth, the wet slapping sounds only feeds into the moment and Bucky’s suddenly very aware of the tightness in his jeans.

With each passing second, the cord in your stomach is getting so close to snapping that your mouth isn’t even moving against Bucky’s anymore.

“Fuck, James, I’m- I-“

“Shh, I know.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “You gonna cum all over my fingers, doll? Gonna let me see you fall apart?”

You nod feverishly.

“Good girl, now let go for me.”

That’s all it takes for the damn to break loose and the fiercest orgasm of your life to rack through your body. It reaches every part of you, all the cracks and crevices you never thought could be touched, yet here you are, feeling every inch of yourself set on fire.

“That’s it, doll, that’s it.” Bucky comforts you while you lay victim to the aftershocks of his work, slowing the thrust of his fingers till your breathing evens and he moves to gently circling your sensitive clit.

“Holy shit…” You sigh, a satisfied and totally fucked-out grin playing across your lips.

Noticing how your hazy your eyes still are, Bucky smiles to himself while pressing loving kisses on your forehead.

“You did real good for me, sweetheart.” He listens to you hum beneath him as he moves to kiss your temple. “Y’look so pretty when you cum, you know that? Even prettier than I imagined.”

You twist in your seat to face your neighbour. “You’ve imagined this too?”

“Every night, doll.”

“Huh…”

Though Bucky’s eyes remain fixed on yours, it’s obvious that his mind has slipped away; he’s now clouded by memories of his x-rated dreams, ones that have ended with him pumping his embarrassingly hard length into his fist one too many times, and his cock twitches in his ever-tightening pants. You notice the movement at his crotch and, emboldened by his confession and the best orgasm you’ve ever had, you decide to take back some control.

“What have you pictured doing to me, James?” Your tone is so sweet, so innocent, that it takes a moment for your words to register in his brain. But when it does, boy, does a fresh wave of blood rush to his cock.

“You sure you wanna know? Cuz it ain’t all sweet and innocent.” He warns.

You say nothing and let your actions do all the talking; you slide a hand down to meet his left, the one still nestled between your sticky thighs, and tug it away from your cunt. With your eyes locked on his, you raise Bucky’s cum coated fingers to your mouth, slowly wrapping your lips around them and sucking your sweetness away. Making sure to give the firefighter a show, you swirl your tongue around his fingers before taking them as deep as you can, a knowing look in your eyes when you notice Bucky clenching his jaw.

After releasing his fingers from your swollen red lips, you press a kiss to the palm of his hand. “Tell me.”

What you can only describe as a growl rises from the back of Bucky’s throat and before you know it, you’re being carried to your bedroom, legs bound tightly around his waist while your arms wrap loosely around his neck.

He sits down on the edge of the bed; hands resting on your hips and edging lower to your ass, his fingers grip the supple flesh to keep you in place.

His force on your hips is pushing you down on his ample bulge, sparking a flash of pleasure straight up your spine that escapes you with a moan. Bucky chuckles softly with a sinful grin as you tilt your head back at the feeling.

“You wanna know what I’ve imagined us doing, doll?” The firefighter grabs your chin to bring your attention back to him. He runs the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, tugging on it and letting it bounce back into place.

“I’ve pictured us just like this.” He drops his hand to your neck, tracing the curve of your collar bone till it meets the strap of your sundress. “You, naked and beautiful as ever, riding my cock like I know you can.”

You gasp lightly when he tugs your strap till it’s tumbling off your shoulder.

“And you’re telling me just how full you are, how stretched your little pussy is around me, choking my cock like a damn vice.”

Bucky’s filthy words send your hips into motion without warning; you grind your bare cunt over his crotch, the tent in his pants settling between your slick folds till his shaft is enveloped with your warmth.

“Does that sound good, doll? To have my cock buried inside you when you bounce on it? Fuck, I bet your cunt is dripping for me again,”

“It never stopped, James.” You whimper, your sensitive clit sending jolts up your frame as Bucky guides your hips over his.

“That’s right, you’re never gonna use anything else to cum ever again. You got me now, doll. I’m all you need. Me, my cock, I’m gonna ruin everyone else for you.”

You don’t even notice that Bucky’s hands are on the zip at your back, slowly pulling it down till the fabric are your chest goes slack, and with the straps already draped over your shoulders, the flowing material cascades around you, tumbling to your hips and leaving you defenseless to Bucky’s insatiable blue eyes.

“Fuck me, sweets, you’re- god- you’re perfect.” He leans in and kisses your collarbone. “So,” kiss, “So,” kiss, “perfect.”

Your eyes flutter shut, lost in the feeling of his touch, and Bucky smirks when he sees you. He teases a hand up your soft skin till it sits just beneath your tit, daring to reach up and play with you in the ways he’s always dreamt of.

“Is this okay?” He asks, earning an even more passionate grind of your hips as you push your chest closer to his open mouth.

He chuckles, “Needy, aren’t ya, sweets?”

You whine.

“Hmm, lucky for you, this is exactly what I imagined doing to you, what I’ve dreamt of for months…”

His lips wrap around your hardened nipple with haste, the warmth of his mouth a welcome sensation. He sucks at the sensitive nub, this tongue reaching out to soothe you afterwards. You throw your head back and moan loudly.

The sound of bucky loudly licking and sucking on your tits is driving you crazy, to the point where your hips are stuttering over his, practically drowning in the feeling till you have no control over your movements.

“God, I love your tits. Wanna act out every dream I’ve ever had of you. Fucking your tits, your throat, your cunt, anywhere you’ll let me, doll, please. I’ve needed you for so long.”

You blush at the word love, surpressing the hope that is stirring at the possibility that your tits aren’t the only thing he loves. Has he really wanted this as long as me? You wonder, picturing everything he just revealed he’s been wanting.

“M’So fuckin’ hard for you sweetheart, I know you can feel me. Dick’s throbbing, doll, it’s s’hard it hurts.”

You pull at his hair so he’s looking up at you again and capture his lips in yours.

“I wanna see you, Bucky…”

He groans and reaches for the hem of his shirt which he waists no time in tearing off. Your chest rises and falls heavier than before, eyes raking his physique just like you had that night he was leaving the shower at his place.

You trail a finger down his abs till it brushes the button of his jeans teasingly.

“All of you, James.” You look pointedly at his crotch. “May I?” You ask and when he nods, you climb off his lap and sink between his legs on the floor, you dress tumbling to the ground immediately.

Bucky’s abs tense as you work to undo the button, your hands tiny in comparison to his body. Next, you work the zipper up and over the bulge of his cock, the teeth desperate to come apart after being so constricted for so long. The two sides of denim snap away from the tent of his boxers, perfectly presenting where the firefighter so badly needs your touch.

He helps you kick off his jeans till the only thing between you is his boxers. You trace a finger up and down his shaft through the cotton, enjoying the sticky patch of pre cum leaking through the top.

“Have you ever imagined me sucking your cock, James?” You ask with half lidded eyes before kissing his covered shaft. “Cause I have.”

Bucky whimpers - whimpers - at your words, his hips snapping up to your face uncontrollably.

You begin to drag down his boxers, trailing kisses down down down, your lips greeting his tip when his cock flicks up against them before your eyes even get chance to glance at him.

Your eyes flutter shut at the salty taste on your lips, revelling in the breathy moans from your neighbour.

“Fuck- pl-please honey, I need your- argh- mouth around me!”

You make eye contact with him from your place on the floor and ask if he’s sure.

“More than anything.”

And with that, you take his thick length into your mouth, lips sealing around his angry pink cock head briefly when your trace your tongue over his slit, before gliding lower down his cock.

You take as much of him as you can, but you need time to warm up having never taken a cock as large as his before.

“You’re so big, baby.” You say as you pull off his shaft with a pop, “Biggest I’ve ever had in my mouth.”

A frustrated groan arises from the firefighter and you feel his hand on the back of your head, gently pushing you to his dick once more.

“Suck my cock, doll, just like we’ve both imagined, nice and deep, please.”

You take the base of his cock in your hands and guide his tip back to your lips.

“Atta girl,” Bucky encourages as you take him deeper and deeper.

He feels you relaxing your throat to take more of him and his balls clench at the feeling.

“Argh fuck, fuck, fuck. Good girl, oh my god, yes!”

His praises and curses cheer you on and you manage as much of him as you can, only an inch or so remaining that’s simply too thick to fit in your mouth. Lord knows how he’ll fit in your pussy, but you’re sure he’ll figure it out.

You bob your head on his length over and over till you’re in desperate need of air. You let your hands work your spit and his precum up and down his hard cock while you catch your breath and watch his beautiful face contort into one of extreme pleasure.

Your chest fills with pride at Bucky’s facial expressions; making him feel good is somehow more rewarding than anything you’ve done in your life and you find yourself content at the thought of spending the rest of your days pleasing him.

Bucky is oblivious to the gratified smile toying your lips and wholly unprepared for your next movement.

“Oh god- oh fuck, doll-” He groans, his breathing staggered and eyes clenched shut when you take his balls in your mouth, the skin sloppily wet from your work on his cock, and now enjoying the warmth of your mouth.

“Oh honey, do that again, felt so go- argh!” He’s interrupted by you tending to his sack once more, your tongue swirling around them and lightly sucking.

You moan around his pretty, swollen balls, the vibrations drawing a sigh of pleasure from your neighbour. The trimmed hair at the base of Bucky’s member is tickling your nose while you fight to taste every part of him.

With a final sharp suck, you release his balls with a small plop, plant a wet kiss on each and flatten you tongue to lick a bold stripe up his length. The tip of your muscle presses into the vein on the underside of his dick and Bucky thrusts upward, his hips bucking as he desperately searches for more.

As you ready yourself to glide his cock down your throat once more, you feel Bucky’s hand on your cheek, pulling you off him.

“What’s wrong? Did I do something?” You ask with a concerned frown, nervous that you’ve done something wrong to have Bucky stopping you. You wrap your hand around his forearm, the one outstretched to hold your hair, while the other remains enclosed around his cock.

“Nothin’ bad, sweets, it’s just that- fuck-“

You absentmindedly stroke your thumb over his girth, a motion you intend to be comforting but in reality, it just makes him throb even harder in your hands.

“-I’m not gonna last much longer if you keep using your pretty mouth like that.”

“And that’s a problem because…?”

He laughs lightly and tucks your hair behind your ear. “Cause as hot as you’d look swallowing my load, I’d much rather cum inside that sweet pussy for our first time.”

You roll your bottom lip between your teeth before pecking a doting kiss to his forearm and letting Bucky pull you to your feet. His eyes follow yours till he’s looking up at you from his seated position, his hands falling to your hips with an awestruck face.

“What the hell did I do to deserve you?” His voice is barely above a whisper. You blush crimson.

“Get on the bed, doll.” He orders. “Lay on your back.”

You do as he says and once you’ve settled, he crawls on top of you. It’s quiet for a moment as Bucky stares lovingly down at you, burning the image into his memory to remind him he has everything he needs.

“I should have found the guts to do this months ago…” You murmur, pushing the fallen tendrils of chestnut hair behind his ear. He looks so goddamn perfect; the golden glow filtering through your window catching every feature you’ve spent so long dreaming about, and now he’s here, really here, and you can’t help but stroke his cheek with revere.

“We have now, doll. That’s enough for me.” Bucky whispers. “Are you comfortable?”

You nod, truthfully, both in terms of your position but also for what’s coming. But then his elbows bend out and he’s lowering himself onto you.

“How about now?”

There’s a gleam in his eye and a playful smirk on his lips as he watches your chest heave, your body taking more of his weight now.

“No!” You giggle.

“No? Is this better?” Bucky teases, briefly laying his whole weight over you until you paw at his shoulders to push him off.

“James! You’re squishing me!”

The melody of your carefree laughter has Bucky melting and he pushes himself up onto his hands once more. His lip is tucked between his teeth, enjoying the view as he becomes increasingly aware of his cock now just one slip away from your pussy lips.

Quickly coming to your own awareness of Bucky’s rock hard length pressing into you, you sober up.

“Darling?” You tug on his bottom lip with the pad of your thumb.

Bucky’s brows pinch closer slightly.

“I need you inside me.”

His soft lips are crashing against yours within moments, his hand fighting between the nonexistent space between your bare bodies to grasp his cock and guide his tip to your bundle of nerves.

The sudden taste of how good Bucky can make you feel forces a sharp breath from you. It’s so much yet not enough, all at the same time.

“Tell me if you need me to stop, okay? Let me take care of you how you deserve.”

After a meek nod with your hands finding refuge in Bucky’s soft locks, he trails his cock head down your pink folds till it catches on the dip of your entrance.

Bucky tempts a whimper from you as he slides inside of you, your walls stretching to accommodate his larger than average member.

“Fuck, doll, you’re so tight for me.” The firefighter moans, resisting the urge to snap his hips and bottom out completely.

You’ve yet to make a sound, the sting in your pussy not yet dissipating, and when you glance down at where your bodies meet, you realise you’re barely taking half of him.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Bucky’s reassuring voice is ghosting over your ear, “you’re taking me so well, sweets. You need me to go slower?”

You clench your eyes shut briefly, “No, keep going, you’re just so…”

“So what?”

Bucky watches a deep red creep up your neck before returning his gaze to your eyes, that now dance across the room avoiding him.

A gentle grasp on your chin draws you to face the breathtaking man above you and you clench around his dick.

“What happened to the little minx who was practically beggin’ me to fuck her, huh? Don’t get all shy on me now, dollface. I’m so what?”

His words have you spilling yours without second thought. “You’re so fucking thick, James, cock’s splittin’ me in half.”

He groans and snaps his hips fully into yours, making you scream out, “Jamie!!!”

His scalp burns when you pull on his hair harder than before, your moans filling the room like a broken record. Bucky should be focused on the furrow of your brow, your laboured breaths, the way your cunt is choking him, anything about how perfect this feels, but all he can focus on is how with one thrust, you called him ‘Jamie’. And you didn’t just say it, you screamed it.

“Shit, honey, say it again.”

“Ja-Jamie…” You whine and feel Bucky draw his hips back before pounding into you once more.

“Again.” Your neighbour growls.

“Oh my god, fuck- I”

“Again.”

It takes everything you have to open your eyes and look at him. “Fuck me, Jamie.”

“That’s my girl.”

Bucky drives his length into you till his tip is hitting your cervix, the pleasure wrapping around your throat and squeezing the air out of you. You fight to breathe as Bucky drills into you, over and over, softly grunting with every thrust.

“Never felt anything as good as your cunt before, doll. Wanna spend the rest of my life buried inside you.”

You pull his lips to yours and, back arching from the mattress, dive your tongue into his mouth with vigour. He lets you explore his mouth while fucking you deep and fast, the headboard of your bed slamming against the wall and probably driving your neighbour crazy. Oh wait, he is your neighbour, and it is driving him crazy, but in the best way imaginable.

“So goddamn tight, sweets, y’pussy was made for me,” He swallows your whimpers happily, “don’t you think? You feel how good i’m filling you up, honey? Sliding in an’ out so easy, you’re so fucking wet for my dick.”

“Harder, Jamie.”

Goddamn.

“Keep calling me that and I’ll do whatever you want.”

You lose yourself in his thrusts; the sting has long turned into the most pleasure you’ve ever felt, and that’s saying something after the orgasm he lulled from you only a few minutes ago.

“Fuckin’ me s-so good, Jamie.”

“Ah- just like that, baby.”

“I’m getting close, James, need you to go faster.”

Your pleas send Bucky’s cock pulsing and he does exactly as you wish. He fucks you faster, fighting off the desperate urge to cum inside your sweet cunt.

“Jamie…” You sigh.

He grins up at you from his place at your tits, his tongue reaching out to tease your nipples. You push his head down till he takes your sensitive bud in his mouth, sucking and swirling his tongue over it while he gropes its twin.

The tight coil in your stomach is twisting to its limit and you find yourself dangerously close to cumming around Bucky’s hard, thick length.

“I’m so- oh fuck- i’m so close, James.”

He lifts his head and eyes you with lust blown pupils.

“Are you gonna cum for me, doll? God, I can feel you clenching around me, you wanna cream all over my cock? Huh?” He smirks at your pornographic moans. “Bet I’ll look so good covered in your cum, sweets, maybe I’ll let you clean me up, put that mouth to good use.”

“I’m gonna cum, i’m gonna cum,” You chant several times breathlessly.

“Let go for me, sweet girl, make a mess o’my cock. Cum, doll.”

Your body shudders as your hips grind up into Bucky’s, your walls tightening before he feels you gush around him. Practically screaming in pleasure, you bite down on Bucky’s shoulder to quiet yourself, though the pain travels straight to his member, still fucking into you with force.

“Fuck, James, you’re so perfect, never came so hard in my life- shit-“

He’s groaning into your ear, his balls slamming against you and filling the room with salacious wet slaps.

“You’re so wet and- fuck- I can’t- I can’t hold back much longer.”

You tug on the hair at the nape of his neck and lick up the side of his throat, tongue catching the salty beads of sweat in its path. Reaching his earlobe, you suck on it lightly and whisper into his ear.

“Want you to cum inside me, Jamie. Fill me up, please, I need your cum.”

“Argh, fuck!!” Your words send Bucky over the edge and his hips stutter while he finally lets go.

“Oh god, yes!” Bucky grunts. “Take my cum, doll, fuckin’ take it.”

Your tongue seeks his neck once more, pressing open mouthed kisses as his cock shoots streams of white seed into you, the spurts seemingly never ending.

“Fillin’ my cunt so much, Jamie- fuck- you feel so good!”

As his cock softens, his thrusts slow to a more bearable pace, both of you so sensitive from your orgasms. Catching your breath takes a minute or two, but in the meantime, you coax satisfied sighs from your firefighter by running your hands up and down his back; the light sheen of sweat greets your fingertips as you touch him tenderly.

With no words being shared, you focus solely on Bucky’s breathing, the rise and fall of his back beneath your hands and the weight of his body on yours. It should be uncomfortable, but you’ve never felt so at home in a place, let alone with a person, in your life.

“That was…” Bucky murmurs into your neck.

You finish his sentence, “Pretty damn good.” Laughter ripples through the muscles of his back.

“Yeah,” He agrees and pulls back slightly to look at you, “you feeling okay?”

“If by okay you mean ‘completely and utterly fucked out’ then yeah, I’m great.”

You grin cheekily before pushing his hair behind his ear yet again, an act you find yourself praying that you’ll get to do for the rest of your life.

“How are you feeling?” You ask sincerely.

Those blue orbs flick between your own, laced with an emotion you hope to be love. “Like I want to be with you like this forever.” Bucky admits. “That and completely and utterly fucked out.”

You laugh heartily, bringing a beaming smile to Bucky’s swollen red lips.

“Let me clean you up, doll.” He offers before pushing himself off you, much to your dismay. He disappears to your bathroom for a minute before returning with a damp cloth in hand.

“Can you spread your legs for me, sweets?”

He bites a chuckle at how quickly you obey him and gets to work, wiping away your shared cum from your pussy and goosebump-ridden thighs. The towel is warm and soft on your skin, lulling you to sleep, though you fight to keep your eyes on your neighbour.

“You’re so beautiful, James.” You say, reaching to place your hand on his that sits beside you hip, where he’s leaning his weight.

He smiles sheepishly and focuses on the job at hand. Once you’re clean, Bucky carries you to the bathroom so you can do your business, waiting patiently outside after putting his boxers back on and grabbing his henley for you to wear.

When you step out of the bathroom, Bucky’s holding his he let out in front of you. “You looked a bit cold so I thought you might want a shirt?”

You smile, “Your shirt?”

“Yeah…” He rubs the back of his neck, muscles flexing at the movement, “You don’t have to, I just thou-“

He stops talking when you pull the henley from his grasp and tug it over your head. It swallows you whole and the sleeves tumble past your hands, but Bucky thinks it’s perfect. You’re perfect.

Grabbing his hand, you pull him back to your room and back into bed, tugging the sheets over you both where you nestle into his chest.

“You’re staying, right?” You ask with the most puppy-dog eyes you can muster.

“Of course, doll.”

Smiling to yourself, you curl up against the firefighter. “Woulda cooked you a meal months ago if I knew that’s all it took for you to finally fuck me.”

NEXT CHAPTER

a/n: filth. pure filth. so sorry that it took me a lifetime to post this - life got lifey and it took me ages to get this right. it’s my second time writing any sort of smut so i hope it was good for y’all. thanks for all the support, it means the world to me. love you guys, red ❤️

comment if you’d like to be added to the ashes to embers taglist 🧡

taglist: @armystay89 @rabbitrabbit12321 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @harrystylesandthegoobs @zannemes @noonespecial90 @m3ntally-unstable @blackbirdwitch22 @wintrsoldrluvr @pingpongfingfong @belleofthebooks @larienjenova @chaosbarelycontained @mostlymarvelgirl @trustworthy-jellyfish @ozwriterchick @nervousnerdwitch @suz7days @bethexo07 @ace-27749 @bellabarnes1378 @angelbabyyy99 @selella @itvy5601 @noonespecial90 @differenttyphoonwerewolf @ordelixx @krispybearbouquet @matchat3a @cl7ire @sunglasses-in-the-bentley @julvrs @anghstybean @eah-marvel-trolls @pono-pura-vida @touchstarvedforbuckybarnes

3K notes · View notes

robbysreaders · 26 days ago

Note

Sorry I don’t make the rules, we need more ex x baby daddy!Jack!

Especially their wedding, breeding kink Jack, more babies, the whole thing.

Hehe pls & thanks

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader word count: 3.6k notes: part 4 of ex!reader and babydaddy!jack way hornier than the rest of writing but tbh like .5 chili peppers haha and thank you for this req in my inbox!!!! i love these two and i'm working my way through some ideas that have been shared with me but i just started a new job so they will probably be over the next few weeks!

Something unlocks after you get engaged.

It’s not dramatic, not fireworks. Just this quiet, grounded certainty that settles between you. This is it. This is real. There’s a ring on your finger, a boy in the other room who looks like both of you, and Jack—Jack, who once felt like an impossible choice, now feels like home.

And you continue to see a side of him you’re not entirely used to.

He's still Jack—still grumbles about budget cuts and leaves coffee mugs in strange places—but he’s also… attentive. Almost absurdly so. Sweet in a way that feels like he’s been saving it all up. And maybe a little unhinged in the best, horniest way. He touches you constantly. Always finds a way to press a kiss to your temple, your shoulder, your stomach. Like he still can’t believe he gets to.

“I locked you down,” he mutters one morning, arms snug around your waist as you brush your teeth. “You, Beau, and a damn ring. The trifecta.”

“You make it sound like a hostage situation,” you laugh, spitting into the sink.

Jack grins against your neck. “Maybe I should squirrel you away to the courthouse before you change your mind.”

“Oh, we were dangerously close to that, don’t kid yourself,” you say, rinsing. “But I wanted the view.”

And the view was worth it.

Lake Como in late May. A small villa perched on a hillside, all warm stone and blooming vines. The ceremony was intimate—friends, family, a very small and slightly chaotic PTMC contingent somehow made the trip. Robby cried, and Dana pretended not to. Your sister wrangled Beau through the flower-petal aisle like she’d been training for it her whole life.

You danced under string lights. Said “I do” to a man who still sometimes forgets to fold towels correctly but looks at you like you hung the stars.

And somehow—shockingly—you agreed to let your sister take Beau back with her, so you and Jack could have a true honeymoon.

Just you. Just him.

The first night, you’re on the balcony in a linen robe and nothing else, wine glass in hand, the lake glowing below you.

Jack comes up behind you—barefoot, shirtless, lazy smile on his face—and wraps his arms around your waist like he can’t help himself.

“I love this,” you murmur. “I love you. I want to stay here forever.”

“I know,” he says, kissing that spot just beneath your ear. Then, after a beat, “But… is it just me, or does it feel like missing a limb without Beau? …no pun intended.”

You laugh and spin in his arms, wrapping your hands around his neck. “God, I love you. This is why I married you. You’re in my brain.”

“I’m just saying,” he grins, brushing your hair back. “Maybe we wouldn’t miss him so much if you were already carrying another little Abbot with you.”

You raise a brow. “Wow. Wasting no time, huh?”

“I’ve been waiting six years Mrs. Abbot. You can’t be surprised.”

“Careful,” you say, teasing, “you sound like you get off to me being barefoot and pregnant.”

Jack hums, low and amused. “I mean… if the shoe fits.”

You groan, half-exasperated, half turned on. “God, you’re such a menace.”

“An insatiable menace,” he says, sliding his hands beneath your robe. “Who happens to be very good at making you come. Efficient, even. Fill you so good we’d get twins. Two for one.”

“Okay, Doctor Abbot,” you laugh, swatting at his chest. “Did you hit your head or is this just post-wedding delirium?”

He grumbles into your neck.

You swat his chest. “You know, for a doctor, you know nothing about conception.”

“I know the basics,” he says, hand smoothing over your hip, “and that I’m pretty damn good at it.”

“God, you are so full of yourself. Should’ve never married a jock.”

He smirks. “Did someone say cock?” His hips roll against yours, slow and deliberate, pressing a point.

You groan, laughing into his mouth as he kisses you. “You’re ridiculous. And I thought you’d go for the “and you’ll be so full of me’ route”

“What can I say, I’m maturing,” he mumbles, deepening the kiss, his hands roaming now. “You’re lucky you married me. Any other man would’ve passed out from post-wedding exhaustion.”

“Instead I got the energizer bunny in scrubs.”

He scoops you up with ease—one arm under your thighs, the other around your back—and carries you inside like it’s your first night all over again. He drops you onto the bed gently, then follows, kissing a path down your stomach.

“Jack,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair.

“I’m just doing a thorough exam,” he says into your skin. “You’ve under my care, it would be negligent not to check on you after such a major life event like getting married.”

“You’re annoying,” you say, breath hitching.

“You love it.”

You do.

You love all of it. The warmth, the ease, the hunger in him that never faded, just changed shape over time. You let him take his time—relearn your body like it’s the first time all over again. You lose yourself in him, in the soft press of lips to skin, the whispered confessions that slip out only when his guard is down.

Laughing, gasping, kissing like it’s the only language you know. After, you lay tangled together, sweat-damp and boneless.

He traces circles on your back, eyes half-lidded. “Seriously. Twins.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“I’m just saying, it’s efficient.”

“Beau is six and I’m still tired.”

Jack chuckles. “Fine. No pressure. Just practice. Lots of practice.”

You roll over, facing him. “You happy?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “More than I knew I could be.”

The room is quiet. Outside, the lake glimmers in moonlight.

“I was scared, you know,” you whisper.

Jack glances down at you. “When?”

“All of it. Letting you back in. Saying yes. I kept thinking, what if we just mess it up again?”

He brushes a hand along your jaw. “We probably will. Sometimes. But I’m not going anywhere. And I won’t let you carry the weight alone.”

Your eyes sting. “That’s what scared me before. Feeling like I was alone in it.”

“I know,” he says softly. “I felt it too. But I didn’t know how to fix it then. I was still trying to outrun things.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m tired of running.”

You press a kiss to his chest. “So no running. No hiding.”

“No hiding,” he repeats.

There’s a long silence, filled only by the soft hum of the night and your breathing slowing in sync.

Then Jack says, so quietly you almost miss it: “I want a big life with you.”

You look up. “You already have one.”

He smiles. “I know. But I want more of it. All the messy, beautiful pieces. Soccer games and parent-teacher conferences. Slow Sundays. Another baby. or two. or ten. Just—more.”

Your throat tightens. “God, you’re such a sap now.”

“Shut up,” he mutters, pulling you in closer.

You grin into his skin. “Don’t worry. I’m into it.”

And he’s into you—clearly—because within minutes, he’s proving again just how committed he is to “practice.”

That night, you fall asleep in his arms, lulled by the gentle lapping of water against the shore and the quiet certainty that this time, you didn’t choose wrong.

His arm is slung heavy around your waist, one leg wedged between yours. His hand is resting possessively on your hip, thumb tucked just under the curve of your stomach like it belongs there. You don’t move. You just lay there, soaking in the stillness.

The lake outside is calm. There’s birdsong, a faint breeze, and nothing else.

You sigh into the silence.

“Mmm,” Jack mumbles, tightening his grip. “Alive?”

“Barely.”

“You wore me out,” he says, voice hoarse and self-satisfied.

“You begged for it.”

“I did,” he agrees. Then, after a beat: “I’d do it again.”

You smile, pressing your nose to his chest. “We’ve officially entered the honeymoon stage.”

“We skipped it the first time. I’m cashing in.”

You shift slightly, pressing your cold toes to his shin. He flinches.

“Jesus.”

“Sorry,” you murmur. “Poor circulation. Still your wife though.”

“Unfortunately.”

You laugh, then kiss his shoulder. “What time is it?”

“No idea. But I think I’ve achieved full body paralysis.”

“Same.”

There’s a long, quiet pause. Then Jack says, “We should go swimming.”

You blink. “Right now?”

“Yeah. Why not? Lake’s right there. We’re in Italy. No Beau to referee. Might be our last chance before life crashes back in.”

“Very romantic. Also, I don’t even know where I packed my swimsuit.”

“Who said anything about swimsuits?”

You arch a brow. “You want to skinny-dip? In the daytime?”

He shrugs, rolling onto his back. “I’m just saying, we’re legally married. What are they gonna do, arrest us for being in love?”

“Jack.”

“Live a little, Mrs. Abbot.”

You stare at him. “You’re serious.”

“I’m proposing an impulsive memory. Don’t make me swim alone like some pervert.”

You groan dramatically, grabbing a sheet as you roll out of bed. “Fine. But if I get arrested in a foreign country for public indecency, you better bail me out.”

He grins. “Knew you couldn’t resist me.”

You wrap yourself in the linen sheet toga-style and pad barefoot out onto the balcony. The stairs down to the private dock are warm beneath your feet, sun already high and bright.

Jack follows behind, also barely dressed, with two towels slung over his shoulder and that cocky post-wedding glow.

The water is cool but not cold. Crisp. Clean. You wade in first, shrieking at the initial shock until Jack yanks you forward and pulls you under with him.

When you surface, sputtering, hair slicked back and gasping from laughter, he’s looking at you like he can’t believe this is his life.

“You’re unreal,” he says, reverent.

You splash water in his face. “I married you, didn’t I?”

“Best scam I’ve ever pulled.”

You drift closer, legs brushing. His hand cups the back of your neck. You kiss, slow and deep and lazy, and when he pulls back, you can see the smile in his eyes.

The lake stretches out behind him. A postcard come to life.

You stay in the lake until your fingers are pruned and your stomach’s growling. Breakfast is pastries you picked up from a little corner bakery, still flakey and warm. Jack makes espresso in the tiny kitchen, whistling off-key. It’s stupidly domestic. And perfect.

You sit on the floor of the villa, legs tangled, plates on your laps. He steals a bite of your sfogliatella without asking.

“Do you think we should call Beau today?” you ask, chewing.

Jack nods, swallowing his own bite. “Yeah. Just to check in. Not now though. He’ll be with your sister at the zoo or the pool or learning how to disassemble small electronics, depending on her mood.”

You laugh. “She does run a very strange babysitting operation.”

“She’s a miracle worker. Honestly, I’m still shocked she agreed to take him.”

“She told me every married couple deserves three uninterrupted days after the ‘I do.’ Then handed me a jumbo box of condoms and said not to come home pregnant unless it was intentional.”

Jack chokes on his coffee. “Jesus Christ.”

You shrug, smug. “Just saying—her words, not mine.”

He leans back against the couch, eyeing you. “And is it?”

You glance at him.

“Intentional.”

The air shifts.

You don’t answer right away. Just push your plate aside and crawl into his lap. He adjusts instantly, arms wrapping around you, palms dragging up your thighs.

“I think… I’m not not open to it,” you say slowly. “Before, it felt impossible. Everything felt so fragile. But now? I look at you and Beau, and it’s like—yeah. I want more of this. More of us.”

He swallows, throat bobbing. “You’re sure?”

You smile. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever been sure about.”

His mouth finds yours, urgent now, full of promise. You kiss like it’s a decision, a vow, a whole damn future.

And when he finally pulls back, he’s flushed and breathless.

“I love you so much it’s physically uncomfortable.”

You laugh against his jaw. “Sucks to be you, I guess.”

He grins. “Yeah. Tragic.”

That afternoon, you nap in the sun. The villa has a hammock strung between two cypress trees and Jack insists on sharing it, even though he’s too long and your legs keep tangling and one of you always ends up with an elbow in the ribs.

“I hope Beau’s having a good day,” you murmur, eyes closed, head on his chest.

Jack’s hand is tracing idle circles on your bare arm. “I’m sure he is. You think he’ll remember the wedding?”

“Some pieces,” you say. “The dancing. The cake. Robby giving him ten euros to yell ‘just kiss already!’ before we even got to the vows.”

“God,” he sigh. “What a circus.”

You hum in agreement.

Then, “Do you think we’re doing okay? With him? With this?”

Jack shifts beneath you. “Honestly? I think we’re doing great. Not perfect. But real. He’s kind. Confident. Feels safe. That’s what matters.”

You nod slowly. “I used to worry so much about what we were showing him, you know? The split. The mess.”

“He saw love,” Jack says simply. “Even when it was hard. Especially then.”

You press your face to his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him—sun, sweat, skin.

“I’m glad we waited to do this right,” you whisper. “I don’t think I could’ve survived a version of us where we never figured it out.”

Jack’s voice is thick. “Me either.”

That night, you dress up.

No real reason. Just a silky dress you’ve been saving, heels a little higher than you usually wear. Jack puts on real pants—well, linen slacks—and a button-down that’s already half undone by the time he finishes wrestling with the cuffs.

He sees you and stops short.

“Jesus.”

“Too much?”

“Not enough.”

Dinner is just a short walk into the village—twinkly lights and hand-pulled pasta and a carafe of wine that disappears too quickly. You talk about everything and nothing. The neighbors at home. Future holidays. How much more you can fit in your suitcase without paying extra baggage fees.

“You’re going to check my carry-on and judge me, aren’t you?” you accuse.

“Only because you brought six pairs of shoes and wore the same ones every day.”

“They’re options, Jack.”

He leans over the table, resting his chin on his hand. “God, I love you.”

You stop. Just for a second. Let it wash over you.

“I love you too.”

Later, you walk back slow. His hand finds yours. Your shoulders brush.

Back at the villa, Jack peels the dress off you like he’s unwrapping a gift. Kisses every inch of bare skin he uncovers. You let him take his time.

You make love slow. No rush. No hunger. Just reverence. It feels different this time—heavier, softer, but still electric.

You don’t remember falling asleep—just the weight of Jack’s body against yours, the slow press of his kisses, the steady rhythm of your breath returning to normal in the quiet afterglow.

What wakes you is the light. It spills through the shutters, golden and soft, casting lazy stripes across the sheets.

Jack’s already awake, propped up on one elbow, watching you like you’re some kind of sunrise. His hair’s a mess, lips kiss-bitten, and he has the nerve to look smug about it.

“Morning, Mrs. Abbot,” he says, voice rough with sleep.

“God,” you groan, burying your face in the pillow. “You’re going to say that all the time, aren’t you?”

“Yup,” he grins. “Until it’s on your driver’s license.”

You roll onto your back, stretch slowly. His eyes follow the movement like he’s hungry again.

“You’re staring,” you say.

“You’re glowing.”

“I’m sweating.”

“Still counts.”

You nudge him with your foot. He catches it, presses a kiss to your ankle, and suddenly you feel a whole lot warmer.

“You hungry?” he asks.

“Starving.”

“I’ll make breakfast.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You brought me to Italy just to feed me scrambled eggs?”

Jack swings his legs off the bed and stands—naked, unabashed. “I’m a man of many talents. But fine. Pancakes?”

“In Italy?”

He shrugs. “International pancakes.”

You laugh as he heads toward the kitchen, grabbing a pair of boxers on the way. He whistles while he moves, some Sinatra song you vaguely recognize, and your heart tugs in your chest like it still can’t quite believe this is real.

You pull on one of his shirts and pad barefoot after him. The villa is quiet, the lake just barely visible through the open patio doors, glittering in the morning sun.

Jack’s already got flour out. There’s a pan warming on the stove. You wrap your arms around him from behind, rest your cheek between his shoulder blades.

“Don’t burn them.”

“You wound me.”

“I’ve seen you try to flip a pancake. You get too cocky.”

“That’s because you heckle me,” he says, flipping the first one with unnecessary flair. “Watch and learn, Mrs. Abbot.”

You roll your eyes but sit at the table, watching him with something dangerously close to adoration. There’s something ridiculous about how seriously he takes this—like he’s proving something. Like if he makes these pancakes just right, he’ll have earned it all over again.

He sets a plate in front of you with a flourish. “Bon appétit.”

You take a bite, eyes widening. “Okay. Okay, maybe you have improved.”

Jack smirks, sitting across from you, fork already in hand. “I’ve been practicing.”

“For this moment?”

“For this life.”

The words hit you low and deep, like a drum. You look at him—really look—and see it there: the steadiness. The certainty. He’s still Jack, but he’s… more. Softer around the edges. Not smaller, just less armored.

You reach for his hand across the table.

“I still can’t believe we’re here.”

“Me neither.”

“I don’t think I let myself imagine it,” you admit. “Not after everything.”

Jack’s expression sobers. He sets his fork down. “Can I tell you something?”

You nod.

“That night. The one when you said you needed space. I thought… I thought that was it. I thought I’d ruined my life beyond fixing.”

You squeeze his fingers.

“I let it happen,” he continues quietly. “I was so afraid of screwing it up that I stood back and watched it fall apart. It’s like—if I didn’t fight for it, I couldn’t be blamed for losing it.”

Your throat tightens. “Jack…”

He shakes his head. “But I realized it wasn’t fair. To you. Or to Beau. Or to myself, honestly. But I didn’t know how to be better then. I didn’t even know what better looked like.”

“You do now,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he says. “Because of you.”

There’s a silence that stretches, heavy but full. Then you stand, walk around the table, and sink into his lap. He holds you like he’s anchoring himself.

“You did all the hard work, I just pushed you to do it. We’re allowed to be happy now,” you murmur into his neck.

Jack’s arms tighten. “Yeah. I don’t think I ever thanked you”

“I can think of a few ways to start showing your gratefulness”

The rest of the day unfolds like a dream.

You spend the afternoon wandering through the nearby village—stone streets, small shops, gelato for lunch. Jack insists on carrying your bag. You make fun of his touristy camera strap, and he makes fun of your obsession with ceramic bowls.

You take a million photos together, and he looks so happy—so open—that you save one immediately as your phone background.

When you get back, you read on the balcony while he naps on the couch, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes like a romance novel hero. You don’t even wake him when he starts to snore.

By evening, you’re tangled again in bed, warm skin against warm skin, and Jack is tracing his name on your thigh with his fingertip.

“You know what I was thinking?” he says, voice low.

“Mm?”

“That I want to take you everywhere. That we should do a honeymoon part two, with Beau. Paris. Or Morocco. Or Tokyo. Somewhere Beau can try weird candy and yell at me in public without getting in trouble.”

You laugh. “He already does that.”

“True. But we could do it under the guise of cultural education.”

You turn to face him. “You really want to travel?”

“I want to do anything that keeps us feeling like this,” he says. “Like we’re not just surviving.”

You study him. The honesty. The hope.

“Then let’s make it a plan,” you say. “Once a year. Somewhere new.”

Jack’s smile softens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright. Deal. Annual Abbot Adventures.”

“Trademark pending.”

“You, me, a six-year-old with a suitcase full of Legos. What could go wrong?”

You laugh, leaning in to kiss him. “Everything.”

“Exactly,” he grins. “Perfect family vacation.”

Later, after you’ve both showered, after he’s poured you a glass of wine and rubbed your feet and claimed it was “medically necessary to assess swelling from travel,” you’re curled together in bed with the windows open to the night air.

Jack’s arm is around you, fingers resting on your stomach again. Always that same spot. Like he’s waiting. Or willing.

You place your hand over his.

“You really want another?” you ask, voice soft.

“I want whatever you want,” he says.

You don’t respond right away, “You’d be a great girl dad.”

He snorts. “God help me if she’s anything like you.”

“Smart, stubborn, charming?”

“Dangerous,” he says. “too smart, perfect.”

You smile. “You’re already soft. You’d fold the second she looked at you.”

“Don’t tell Beau.”

You laugh, and the sound is easy. Real. Everything feels easy tonight.

And it hits you again—like it’s the first time.

You’re married. To him.

#jack abbot #jack abbott #jack abbot x reader #jack abbott x reader #the pitt drabble #the pitt imagine #dr. abbot #dr. abbot x reader #dr. abbott #dr. jack abbot #dr. jack abbott #dr. jack abbot x reader #dr. jack abbot x you #p attempts to start writing #ex!reader and babydaddy!jack

566 notes · View notes

cressidagrey · 2 months ago

Text

Daylight

Pairing: Lando Norris x Emilie Abadie (Original Character)

Welcome to a short side story, featuring Emilie and Lando, set in the White Horse Universe. There are specific scenes copy and pasted from White Horse, so it’s easier to follow along timeline wise.

Summary:

Emilie Abadie hadn’t planned on caring about Formula 1. Until she saw a boy with curly hair win the Miami GP in 2024.

Warnings and Notes:

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, toxic families

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Emilie Abadie hadn’t planned on caring about Formula 1.

In fact, she actively avoided caring about it— Mostly because of her best friend.

Belle, with her soft green eyes and gentle heart, who had already survived too many years of being invisible in a family that only seemed to remember she existed when it was convenient.

Belle, who was one of the best people Emilie had ever met, who had been born into a family that cared about podiums and trophies, about DRS and pit stops… and not about their daughter, their sister.

Even Max Verstappen hadn’t changed Emilie’s dislike for everything Formula 1.

Granted, of course, Emilie had googled him when Belle had first mentioned him to her.

There had been some amusement somewhere in the back of her head that Belle had found a guy to date who had 2 World Championship titles and 4 dozen wins to his name, while Belle’s brother was still on his 5th career win after Austria 2022.

Emilie didn’t care about Max’s wins. Or his podiums. Or whatever he did for a living. She’d seen enough of Belle’s face when she talked about him to know he was good—really, properly good—and that was enough.

But then came that Sunday in May, and Twitter exploded.

Emilie wasn’t even trying to pay attention. She was lounging on her balcony with an espresso, mindlessly scrolling between Vogue articles and TikToks of people organising their fridges.

And then—suddenly—orange hats, all-caps screaming, and multiple photos of a grinning man half-drenched in champagne.

“HE FINALLY DID IT.”

“LANDO. FREAKING. NORRIS.”

Someone had posted a clip of him standing on the top step of the podium, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, trying to keep it together while the crowd roared. And God help her, Emilie had clicked it.

He wasn’t even her type.

Too boyish.

Too chaotic.

Probably smelled like Monster Energy and nerves.

But he’d smiled like it meant something. Like it had taken years. Like he couldn’t quite believe the universe had finally let him have this moment.

And something in Emilie’s chest—usually locked up tight behind snark and cashmere—shifted.

She frowned.

Closed the app.

Opened it again.

Googled him.

Lando Norris. 25. British. McLaren driver. Five seasons. No wins—until now.

She even found a quote: “It’s about damn time.”

And still, Emilie was deeply annoyed to find herself staring at photos of this Lando person and wondering what his laugh sounded like in real life.

And that was exactly when she opened her texts and messaged Belle.

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Isabelle Leclerc

Emilie: Okay so… Question

Isabelle: That’s always a dangerous start.

Emilie: Who is this Lando person And why is everyone crying because he won something

Isabelle: Oh my God. You really don’t know anything about F1, do you?

Emilie: Absolutely not. I know Max drives fast, and you’re too pretty to be emotionally stable, that’s it.

Isabelle: Valid.

Emilie: But seriously. My entire timeline is full of sweaty orange hats and people screaming “HE FINALLY DID IT.” What did he do? Did he climb a mountain? Invent a vaccine?

Isabelle: He won his first Formula 1 Grand Prix. He’s been in F1 for five years. Always came close. Never quite made it.Everyone’s been waiting for this.He’s a good guy. Deserved it.

Emilie: Huh. He’s the guy with the curly hair, right?

Isabelle: Yes.

Emilie: And the jawbones?

Isabelle: Yes.

Emilie: And the voice that’s suspiciously hot for someone named Lando?

Isabelle: …Why do you care?

Emilie: I don’t!!

Isabelle: You do. You’ve never asked me about a single driver. Not once. And now you’re googling him like a concerned historian.

Emilie: I’m just… doing research. You know. investigating the cultural phenomenon

Isabelle: Uh-huh. Is this cultural phenomenon wearing a papaya-colored race suit and has curly hair?

Emilie: Fine. He’s cute. He looked happy. The bar is so low.

Isabelle: He is cute. And he should be happy. He’s a good guy.

Emilie: You sound like you’re trying to sell me a family dog.

Isabelle: He’s very sweet! Loyal! Thoughtful! Max calls him chaotic sunshine. I call him emotionally transparent. You’d like him.

Emilie: So a golden retriever.

Isabelle: With slightly better hair.

Emilie: Does he bite?

Isabelle: Only when provoked. Or when Max makes a joke about his height.

Emilie: Hmm.

Isabelle: Oh no.

Emilie: What?

Isabelle: You’re thinking about him.

Emilie: Absolutely not.

Emilie: This is slander.

Isabelle: This is me knowing you better than you know yourself. And I’m telling you: he’s a good one. A little chaotic. But real.

Emilie: He smiled like…like he waited years for this. I noticed that. I hate that I noticed that.

Belle: Yeah. That’s why people cried. It wasn’t just about the win—it was about him. He needed it. And he earned it.

Emilie: …Okay maybe I get the hats now.

Isabelle: Give it three days. You’ll be watching fan edits on TikTok and pretending it’s research. I have been there.

***

Emilie tossed her phone down onto her table, flopping back into her chair with a groan.

God, what was wrong with her?

She never did this. Never caught herself noticing smiles. Never cared about people’s stories.

She’d always been good at getting the guy.

Usually, she saw a man she liked, decided she liked him, and that was it.

If she wanted him, she got him.

Easy.

The harder part—the impossible part—was getting them to stay.

Not that she ever admitted that out loud.

They got infatuated with the packaging—pretty blonde, sharp tongue, quick wit—but none of them wanted to know what was underneath. Or if they did, they ran.

So she never gave them the chance.

Emilie knew what she was. What she had been taught to be: polished, pretty, disposable.

Raised by grandparents who valued appearances more than affection, she’d learned early that emotions were a liability. Her family was a cold, glittering mess of old money and colder expectations.

Emotionally unavailable parents who vacationed in the Alps more than they parented. Her grandparents had raised her—fierce, stylish people who taught her how to dress, how to argue, how to build walls no man could climb.

Emilie knew how to play the part—how to be charming, captivating, just unattainable enough to keep her pride intact when everything inevitably crumbled.

Old money. Cold manners.

And Belle—sweet, gentle Belle—hadn’t been raised in a world much kinder.

Emilie still hated Belle’s family for that. For making her believe she had to earn love, that she had to be perfect to deserve being seen. Even now, even after Belle had found Max—the only man who seemed to see her fully and without condition—Emilie’s chest still burned with protective rage whenever she thought about it.

She’d watched Belle spend her whole life being overlooked. Forgotten. Ignored by people who were supposed to love her. And now she had Max, who looked at her like she was the whole damn world.

She was happy for Belle. Truly. Because Belle deserved good things—finally. Especially after growing up in a family that prioritized podiums over people.

And Emilie, for all her sass and designer boots, had never liked the Leclercs. Not really.

Belle was happy now. Radiantly, irrevocably happy. And Max—grumpy, blunt Max—loved her like it was the only thing that had ever made sense.

Maybe that’s why Emilie couldn’t look away from a stranger’s victory lap on Twitter.

Maybe, deep down, she still believed there were people worth betting on.

Even if she didn’t believe it for herself.

God help me, she thought grimly, dragging a hand over her face.

She was absolutely going to end up watching fan edits.

In three days. Tops.

Maybe two.

Lando Norris had looked like someone who didn’t think the world would ever give him a win.

And for some reason… she couldn’t stop thinking about that.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Max and I are getting married tomorrow. City hall. Just something small. Just for us. Will you come?

Emilie: EXCUSE ME???? TOMORROW??? CITY HALL??? SMALL???

Isabelle: Yes. No fuss. Just us. That’s all I want.

Emilie: Oh my GOD. You are not getting married like you’re renewing a driver’s license. You need flowers. A cake. A moment, Belle.

Isabelle: I don’t need any of that. I just want him. That’s it.

Emilie: Yes, yes, eternal love, devotion, blah blah blah. BUT. You are still getting married. You will wear a dress. You will hold a bouquet. You will eat something that tastes like joy and sugar and victory.

Isabelle: I’m not even sure what I’m wearing yet 😅 We haven’t thought that far ahead.

Emilie: THAT IS WHY YOU HAVE ME. Do you still have the white dress we got a few weeks ago? The one that made you look like a romantic novel with legs?

Isabelle: ...Yes.

Emilie: Good. Wear that. It’s perfect. Simple. Elegant. You. I’ll take care of the rest.

Isabelle: Em—no pressure, really. Please. I don’t want a production.

Emilie: This won’t be a production. It’ll be a love letter. With flowers. And maybe a three-layer cake.

Isabelle: Emilie 😭 You really don’t have to—

Emilie: Belle. You’ve planned everyone else’s birthdays, surprises, parties, and holidays since you were like what, twelve?! Let someone do it for you this once. Let me.

Isabelle: ...Okay. But just a little. No spark machines. No confetti cannons.

Emilie: Deal. But I am bringing champagne. And I will cry.

Isabelle: I wouldn’t want it any other way. 💛

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: You have a camera, right?

Lando: …yes?? What kind of question is that?

Max: Like, a real one. Not your phone.

Lando: Yes, Max, I own a camera. Why??

Max: I need you to document something.

Lando: What kind of something?

Max: Just be at Monaco City Hall tomorrow. 10:30. Bring your camera. Wear a suit. Preferably not orange.

Lando: MAX.

Max: Yes?

Lando: ARE YOU GETTING MARRIED TOMORROW???

Max: Yes.

Lando: YOU’RE JUST DROPPING THAT ON ME AT MIDNIGHT???

Max: It’s 11:43.

Lando: Oh, my mistake. PLENTY OF TIME TO PROCESS THE FACT YOU’RE SECRETLY GETTING MARRIED.

Max: Not secretly. Just quietly.

Lando: Max.

Max: What.

Lando: I’M HONORED BUT ALSO PANICKING. Do you want, like, pictures or VIBES?? Do I need a tripod?? Am I the witness?? Do I bring champagne?? WHAT’S MY ROLE HERE.

Max: Your role is “friend with a camera who knows how to shut up.”

Lando: I can be that.

Wait—can I still cry a little?

Max: Only if it’s behind the camera.

Lando: Deal. Lando:I don’t even know what shoes to wear for a Verstappen emergency elopement

Max: Don’t overthink it. You’re just the photographer.

Lando: You’re getting married in Monaco city hall and I’m the photographer?? What the hell kind of fairy tale speedrun is this?

Max: The efficient kind.

Lando: Who else is gonna come?

Max: Just us. People we trust.

***

Emilie Abadie had been awake since three in the morning. .

Not because she was nervous. She wasn’t the one getting married.

It was Belle’s wedding. And that meant it had to be perfect.

Because Belle would never ask for perfect. Belle would shrug and say “just something quiet, just us” with that soft look in her eyes like she didn’t dare hope for more. But Emilie had spent the last seven years learning the difference between what Belle asked for and what she deserved.

And today, she deserved everything.

And perfection, as it turned out, required bribing a florist with a bottle of Dom Pérignon, whispering at a baker’s front door like a criminal, and coordinating a last-minute restaurant buyout with a maître d’ who still remembered Belle and Max’s first date like it had happened yesterday.

It was still early. The sun hadn’t quite cleared the rooftops of Monaco. But Emilie was already in motion—dressed, phone in hand, espresso in the other, a determined woman on a mission.

The florist had said it couldn’t be done. Snowdrops weren’t in season. They’d laughed—laughed—when Emilie asked.

Laughed. Emilie still remembered when Belle had told her about her favourite flowers. Fragile, quiet, perfect. Blooming in the cold, when nothing else did. Just like Belle.

Emilie Abadie didn’t take no for an answer.

She made five calls.

Then ten.

Then offered double the price.

Then triple.

Someone from a specialty hothouse near Nice came through. A courier had arrived an hour ago, carrying a chilled box like it held diplomatic secrets.

Now, the bouquet sat in a vase on Emilie’s kitchen counter. Fragile white snowdrops, soft eucalyptus, and one or two sprigs of pale forget-me-nots.

Because Emilie was dramatic, and because Belle deserved to be remembered in every way that mattered.

The cake was next.

Not a tiered monstrosity. Just something beautiful. Elegant. White chocolate and raspberry with buttercream. The baker—an angel Emilie had gone to culinary school with for exactly three weeks—had rolled her eyes at the timeline and then agreed with a huff. “Only because it’s for Belle.”

Of course it was.

Emilie knew how much Belle had given. To her family. To her brothers. To Ferrari. To everyone except herself.

She’d watched Belle quietly shrink herself for years—make room for Lorenzo, for Charles, for Arthur, for Charles’ career, for the Leclerc family myth.

Belle never asked for much. Never expected anything back.

So today, Emilie would give her everything.

The final piece fell into place just after sunrise: lunch at the restaurant where Max had taken Belle on their first date. The cozy one tucked behind the port with the ivy-covered terrace and the little hand-painted plates. Emilie had called the manager at 6:15 a.m.

“I need the whole place,” she’d said. “15 people. Three bottles of Perrier-Jouët Belle Époque. No fuss. No press. Max and Belle Verstappen.”

The Manager had paused and looked at Emilie:. “Ah,” he’d said, eyes twinkling. “For the couple who ordered the wine, then forgot to drink it because they were too busy falling in love?”

By 6:00, the venue was booked. The menu was set. The staff had already started laying out fresh linen.

Emilie checked the list one more time—flowers, cake, lunch, Max’s boutonnière, Belle’s shoes.

Everything was ready.

Emilie slipped her phone into her bag, gave the bouquet one last fond glance, and smiled to herself.

Because today—finally—was about Belle. Not Charles. Not their mother. Not a team or a trophy or anyone else’s spotlight.

Today was hers.

And Emilie Abadie would make sure not a single petal was out of place.

***

Emilie Abadie arrived with the force of a hurricane compressed into five feet and a few inches of blonde ambition and French fire.

She stood in the doorway like she’d conquered nations before breakfast, her icy blue eyes narrowing the moment they landed on him.

Lando’s stomach immediately did that stupid swoopy thing it did when he just knew he was fucked.

She was Belle’s best friend. He had known that in an offhand way, had seen her make appearances on Belle’s Instagram and in stories Belle told…but Lando had never met her.

“Why,” she said, voice crisp and imperious, “are half of you not wearing ties?”

Lando glanced around as if he might be able to blend into the cabinetry.

Too late.

“You,” Emilie snapped, pointing at him with all the grace and threat of a commander selecting someone for sacrifice.

“Me?” Lando squeaked.

She stalked toward him like a missile in heels. “You call that a tie? What is that knot? A shoelace? A cry for help?”

Lando glanced down at the pale blue mess under his collar. It did, in fact, look like it had lost a bar fight. “Technically… yes?”

Emilie sighed. Dramatically. Award-winningly. “Come here.”

He obeyed, despite every instinct screaming to flee. Blushing furiously, Lando stepped toward her like a man accepting his fate.

“You’re kind of scary,” he muttered.

“I’m not scary,” she replied, already undoing his tie with practiced hands, “I’m just French and disappointed.”

He stood still, heart hammering far too fast, hyper-aware of how close she was, of the way she reached up to fix the tie like she’d done it a hundred times. She smelled like roses and battle plans. Her fingers brushed his throat, adjusting the collar with delicate but precise movements, and Lando very seriously considered the possibility that this was what dying felt like.

“Can I breathe yet?” he whispered.

“When I say you can,” she said sweetly, tilting his chin. “Fashion is pain. Suffer with dignity.”

“I’m… terrified of her,” Lando muttered under his breath once she turned her attention elsewhere.

Max, still leaning casually against the counter, didn’t even blink. “You should be.”

And Lando was, but also… he was hopelessly in love with her.

Or at least something very inconvenient and fluttery that made it hard to breathe when she was near.

She was absolutely stunning in her sharply tailored outfit and meticulous energy, her blonde hair swept up, and her eyes laser-focused on whipping the room into shape. She’d turned wedding planning into a military campaign—and somehow made it look elegant.

But even as she herded grown men into order with eyebrow raises and verbal artillery, Lando couldn’t stop watching Max.

Because Max—who had never seemed interested in fanfare or spectacle—was getting married today. And he looked… happy. Genuinely, deeply happy in a way that made Lando’s chest go warm.

And Belle—sweet, gentle, quietly brave Belle—was the reason.

He couldn’t be happier for them.

Even if Charles was definitely going to kill him.

Lando had been trying not to think about that bit—the Charles-is-going-to-strangle-him-when-he-finds-out bit. Because once the truth came out, once Charles realized his little sister had married Max, and Lando had known, there was going to be hell to pay.

But he couldn’t bring himself to feel too guilty about it. Not when Max looked like that. Not when Belle had finally been seen the way she deserved.

The chaos in the room only paused when Emilie cornered Tom, who was valiantly attempting to pass off a cravat as formalwear.

“This is Monaco, not Pemberley,” Emilie said, already pulling a tie from her tote like Mary Poppins preparing for war.

Even Jos wasn’t immune. When Emilie raised her brows at him with military precision, he actually reached for the tie GP handed him—without protest.

“I like her,” Jos muttered, half to himself.

Yeah, Lando thought, hopeless and dazed. Me too.

Daniel’s cartoon tie didn’t stand a chance. Neither did his excuses.

“I have a lighter in my purse,” Emilie said, entirely too calmly.

And just like that, Daniel disappeared to change.

Only Oscar and GP escaped with their dignity intact. Emilie gave them a nod that could’ve launched ships.

Then Max—cool, unbothered Max—lifted his chin with the smugness of a man who had already tied his tie correctly.

“It’s crooked,” Emilie said, pulling him forward to fix it anyway.

Max didn’t even argue. Just let her do it, then shot her a crooked grin.

“You’ll do,” Emilie declared.

“You’re marrying my best friend,” she added. “You’re lucky I didn’t make you wear the floral pocket square.”

Lando snorted. Max only grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”

And then the world stopped moving.

Because the bedroom door opened.

Belle stepped out.

And everything else just… dropped away.

Lando forgot about his camera. Forgot about his tie. Forgot about the fact he was probably about to die by Leclerc rage.

Because Belle was breathtaking.

She looked like she belonged in one of those old black-and-white movies—ethereal and quiet, in a dress that shimmered like water, snowdrops tucked gently into her dark curls. Her eyes swept the room until they found Max.

And Max—his friend, the fiercest driver he’d ever known—just stood there like the ground had been ripped out from under him.

“Hi,” Belle said softly.

Max walked toward her like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. And when he told her she looked like a dream he’d never let himself have, Lando had to turn away, just for a second.

His chest hurt in a good way.

Maybe love didn’t have to be loud or dramatic or perfect. Maybe it could just be this. A quiet kitchen. A white dress. A soft “Hi.” The kind of thing that made a man forget how to breathe.

Daniel sniffled. Oscar told him to shut up.

And Lando—caught somewhere between awe and a slight panic over Charles Leclerc’s eventual reaction—just smiled.

Because one of his best friend had everything he’d ever wanted.

And Lando? Lando might be crushing on the tiny French hurricane currently terrorizing everyone with her sense of style.

But he had hope.

***

The wedding luncheon was held at a small, sun-washed restaurant tucked into one of Monaco’s corners.

It was perfect, of course. Belle perfect.

The place where Belle and Max had had their first date. Where they had fallen in love and forgotten to drink the bottle of wine they had ordered it.

Emilie sat at one of the long wooden tables, a glass of champagne in hand, watching Belle laugh over something Max whispered in her ear, her cheeks pink and glowing.

And for the first time in a long time, Emilie felt something unspool in her chest—something fragile and aching.

Belle was happy.

Finally.

After years of being treated like an afterthought by people who should have fought for her, she was loved by someone who saw her. It made Emilie both stupidly emotional and faintly murderous when she thought about the people who hadn't.

Her fingers curled loosely around the stem of her glass.

She didn't cry at weddings. That was not her brand.

But if she were going to cry, it would’ve been for this.

Someone bumped her elbow, breaking the spell.

She looked up—and into the bright, apologetic face of Lando Norris.

"Sorry! Sorry," he said immediately, holding up his hands like a man under arrest. "Didn’t mean to—uh, interrupt. Or spill anything. Or—"

He was wearing a navy blue suit, rumpled already, tie askew again even after her earlier threats. His curls were fighting a losing battle against whatever product he’d tried to tame them with. There was a crookedness to him—a kind of chaotic, restless energy buzzing just under his skin.

He looked like a golden retriever trying desperately not to knock over a priceless vase.

Emilie raised an eyebrow. Cool. Appraising.

She knew boys like him. Bright smiles. Quick laughs. Attention spans like sparklers: burning hot, burning out.

He should’ve been easy to dismiss.

So why wasn’t she?

"You’re safe," she said dryly, tipping her glass toward him. "For now."

Lando's grin widened, lopsided and a little breathless. "Good. I was warned you might have a taser."

Emilie allowed herself a small, sharp smile. "Only for men who deserve it."

His eyes—bright greenish blue, annoyingly nice eyes—crinkled at the corners. He shifted from foot to foot like he didn’t know whether to stay or retreat. She could practically see the gears turning in his brain, second-guessing everything.

Cute, she thought reluctantly. In that maddening, boyish way.

And real.

There was something startlingly unguarded about him. No polished script, no careful charm. Just... all messy heart.

"Can I—uh, sit?" he asked, nodding toward the empty chair beside her.

Emilie could have said no. Should have, maybe.

Instead, she tilted her head and said, "If you must."

He practically collapsed into the chair with relief, bumping the table and nearly knocking over a bread basket in the process. Emilie caught it one-handed, setting it upright with a sigh that was more amused than exasperated.

"Smooth," she said.

"I try," Lando said, flashing another grin. "But usually it goes like this."

They fell into an awkward, oddly endearing silence. The lunch buzzed around them: clinking glasses, bursts of laughter, Belle’s voice lifting and carrying across the room like music.

Lando fiddled with the edge of the napkin, sneaking glances at her when he thought she wasn’t looking.

Emilie noticed.

She noticed everything.

And it made her want to fold herself back into the armor she wore with men. The one that said: you can look, but you will never touch anything real.

But he wasn’t looking at her like she was an acquisition to win or a prize to brag about.

He was looking at her like she was a puzzle he was trying—hopelessly—to figure out.

She sipped her champagne. Let him squirm a little longer. Then, finally:

"So," Emilie said, tilting her head just enough to make him sweat, "are you going to make conversation, or are you just planning to stare at me and hope it counts?"

Lando blinked, then laughed—a quick, surprised sound that made something warm spark low in her chest.

"I was thinking... both?" he said, scratching the back of his neck. "You’re kind of intimidating."

"Good," Emilie said, leaning back in her chair with a smirk. "I work hard at it."

He shook his head, still smiling, eyes glinting with something that might have been mischief-or admiration.

Probably both.

And Emilie—who got whatever guy she wanted but never trusted any of them to stay—felt the faintest, most treacherous flicker of curiosity.

Maybe Belle wasn’t the only one who deserved good things.

Maybe.

But not yet.

For now, she just raised an eyebrow, tore a piece of bread in half, and said, "You’ve got five minutes to impress me, Norris. Don’t waste it."

Lando leaned forward like a man accepting a dare.

"Oh," he said, grinning wide and unrepentant. "I’m definitely going to waste it."

And to her absolute horror—

Emilie found herself smiling.

Real and warm and helpless against it.

Maybe chaotic sunshine wasn’t the worst thing to let into her life after all.

Emilie watched him over the rim of her glass, amused in the way one might watch a golden retriever attempt calculus. She was prepared for the usual: some half-flirty line, some brag, something easy to roll her eyes at and dismiss.

Instead, Lando immediately, and spectacularly, fumbled it.

“So, uh,” he began, sitting up straighter like he was about to give a business presentation, “I have a driver's license.”

Emilie blinked. “I should hope so,” she said dryly, “given your profession.”

“Yeah, but like,” Lando forged on, waving a hand vaguely, “I passed my first test. No minors. No majors. Totally clean sheet. Instructor said I was ‘shockingly competent.’” He smiled at her like this was an accomplishment that should win him a Nobel Prize.

Emilie couldn’t help it: she laughed.

A small one, sharp and unexpected, escaping before she could stop it.

Lando lit up like a Christmas tree. Actually lit up.

Encouraged, he kept going, words tumbling out like he couldn’t stop them if he tried.

“And—and I can cook a bit. Like, real cooking. Not just the ‘put something in the microwave and pray’ thing.”

“What’s your specialty?” Emilie asked, playing along, one eyebrow lifted.

He considered this with deep, theatrical seriousness.

“Pasta,” he said finally. “But, like, real pasta. I once made fresh tagliatelle for a girl I liked.”

Emilie smirked. “And did she survive?”

“She did,” Lando said solemnly. “She even asked for seconds. Probably because I didn’t tell her I dropped half the dough on the floor and had to start over.”

Emilie shook her head, sipping her champagne to hide the curve of her mouth.

God, he was awful at this. And somehow—somehow—it was working.

Not because he was slick.

But because he wasn’t.

He was throwing everything out there, a whole messy human open on the table, with no polish, no angles, no agenda except: please like me.

And it was dangerously, horribly endearing.

Emilie, who had been courted by men with yachts and family names older than democracy, who had been wooed with Cartier and poetry and private jets, found herself genuinely, terrifyingly charmed by a boy who thought shockingly competent driving was an acceptable conversation starter.

“You’ve got two minutes left,” she said lightly.

Lando gasped in mock horror. “Pressure’s on.”

He drummed his fingers on the table, thinking.

Then he leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was telling her a state secret."Okay. Here's the real selling point: I'm friends with Max, and you know what that means?"

She gave him a look that said choose your next words very carefully.

"It means," Lando said solemnly, "I have survived approximately fourteen near-death experiences involving go-karts, jet skis, and very questionable Red Bull stunts. So I'm basically immortal."

Emilie snorted into her glass.

"And," Lando added, beaming now, "I'm very good at getting bloodstains out of clothes. Just in case."

"You expect me to believe you're domestically capable," she said, eyeing him skeptically.

"I can use a washing machine," he said proudly. "Mostly."

"Terrifying."

Lando grinned wider, basking in the fact she hadn't told him to go away yet. His foot accidentally bumped hers under the table, and he yelped, jerking back like he'd been electrocuted.

"Sorry! Sorry—" he spluttered, flailing slightly. "Didn’t mean—"

"Relax," Emilie said, amused despite herself. "I don't bite."

She paused.

"Unless provoked," she added sweetly, echoing Belle’s earlier words.

Lando looked half in love already.

The realization hit Emilie like a cold glass of water poured down her back.

No.

No, no, no.

This wasn’t how it went. She flirted. She played. She walked away before anyone got the chance to look at her like that.

But Lando didn’t seem to be strategizing, didn’t seem to be measuring her up like some glossy prize. He just looked... happy. A little awestruck. A little proud of himself for surviving her.

It was stupid. And messy. And probably a terrible idea.

But when Belle caught her eye across the room and gave her a tiny, knowing smile—the same smile Belle had worn when Max had first reached for her hand like it was instinct—

Emilie thought, maybe, just maybe, she could let herself enjoy this. For today. For a minute.

For herself.

She set her champagne down and looked at Lando, who was still watching her like she might vanish if he blinked.

"Alright, Norris," Emilie said, sitting back with a mock-sigh. "You've survived the first round."

Lando brightened so much it was almost dangerous.

"And what’s round two?" he asked eagerly.

Emilie smirked.

"You’ll find out," she said, standing up, brushing invisible crumbs off her sleek dress. She leaned down, just enough to whisper near his ear:

"If you're lucky."

And when she sauntered off to steal a slice of cake before the toddlers got to it, she didn’t even have to look back to know Lando was grinning like he’d just won the Miami Grand Prix again.

***

It started innocently enough.

At least, that's what Lando told himself.

It was late, he was jetlagged, and he was lying in bed with one arm slung over his face, phone glowing much too brightly against the dark hotel room ceiling. He should’ve been asleep.

Instead, he was... scrolling.

Specifically, scrolling through Emilie Abadie’s Instagram.

In his defense, she’d posted a new story earlier that day—something about a bookstore in Paris—and he’d swiped up without thinking, curious. From there, well... it was a slippery slope.

He clicked on her profile. Scrolled a little. Then a little more. And a little more. Until suddenly he wasn’t just seeing today's cute coffee shop photo; he was deep in 2019 territory, where the grid looked different—less polished, more chaotic.

And there it was.

The Bikini Picture.

Emilie, standing on a beach somewhere impossibly blue, wearing sunglasses, a tiny black bikini, and a smirk that could have started wars. Hair loose, skin sun-kissed, hand holding some drink with a tiny paper umbrella in it.

She looked effortless. Untouchable. Dangerous.

Lando, because he had the survival instincts of a drunk moth around a flame, stared at it for too long.

And then, as if his thumb had a mind of its own—

He liked it.

The screen flashed red.

Hearted.

The panic hit instantly.

"NO—NO, NO, NO—" he yelped, scrambling like he'd just touched a live wire. He frantically unliked it—smashed the heart again until it turned back to grey—but it was too late.

He knew how Instagram worked.

She got the notification.

He sat there, paralyzed, mortified, vibrating with shame.

He had liked a bikini photo from five years ago.

He was that guy.

The type of guy who accidentally cyberstalked someone so hard he time-traveled.

Lando buried his face in his pillow and groaned loud enough to scare himself.

At some point, he gave up and texted Oscar.

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Oscar Piastri

Lando: Mate. I just liked a 2019 bikini pic on Emilie’s Instagram. Kill me.

Oscar: 😂😂😂

Lando: I’m actually dying. This is fatal. I’ve died.

Oscar: How did you even GET to 2019??

Lando: I was just looking!! And then scrolling!! And then it happened!! I didn’t MEAN TO.

Oscar: Famous last words.

Lando: I hate you.

Lando: I'm gonna throw myself into the sea.

Oscar: Before you do, serious question. You like her, don’t you?

***

Later, when Lando had the courage to crawl out from under his metaphorical rock, he found himself sitting in Oscar’s hotel room, tossing a mini water bottle up and down, trying not to look like he wanted to crawl into the mini fridge and hide.

Oscar just sat on the bed, arms folded, regarding him with the amused patience of someone who had absolutely seen this coming.

“So,” Oscar said, grinning slightly. “Emilie, huh?”

Lando groaned. “It’s not like that.”

Oscar raised a brow.

Lando dropped the water bottle onto the floor with a thunk. “Okay. Fine. Maybe it’s a little like that.”

Oscar didn’t say anything, just nodded sagely, like he was some ancient wisdom god instead of a 23-year-old who still ate cereal for dinner sometimes.

“She’s just…” Lando floundered for words, pushing a hand through his hair. “She’s scary. And beautiful. And scary.”

“You said scary twice.”

“It felt necessary.”

Oscar snorted. “Sounds like you’ve got it bad, mate.”

Lando slumped. “I don’t even know if she likes me. She could crush me like a bug if she wanted.”

“Would you be mad about it?” Oscar asked.

Lando considered it. “…No.”

Oscar laughed, then sobered slightly, watching him.

“You ever just know?” Lando asked suddenly, voice quieter. “That someone’s different? Like—you’re still kind of terrified, but you don’t want to run away?”

Oscar leaned back against the headboard, thinking for a second.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “With Lily, I knew.”

Lando glanced at him, genuinely curious.

“I mean, it wasn’t like lightning bolts or fireworks or anything,” Oscar said, shrugging. “It was quieter. Like... I realized I was happier when she was around. And when she wasn’t, it felt like something was missing. She made life easier. Not harder. You know?”

Lando nodded slowly.

“People talk about love like it’s supposed to be this huge, dramatic thing,” Oscar continued. “But honestly? The real thing’s just... peace. Trust. Someone you want to tell stupid jokes to at 2 a.m.”

Lando swallowed.

He thought about Emilie.

The way she made fun of him mercilessly, but smiled when she thought he wasn’t looking.

The way she laughed—not a polite, reserved laugh, but a real, from-the-gut laugh—when he told the world’s dumbest jokes.

The way he felt when she was near. Like maybe he could stop trying to be impressive and just... be.

Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be easy.

Maybe it was just supposed to be real.

“You think I’ve got a chance?” Lando asked, half-joking, half-serious.

Oscar smiled.

“You’ve already got one,” he said. “You’re just too scared to believe it.”

Lando sat back, heart thudding a little too fast, a little too hopeful.

Maybe he’d make an idiot of himself.

Maybe Emilie would laugh him off.

Maybe she’d crush him like a bug.

But maybe—maybe—he’d survive it.

And maybe, just maybe, it would be worth it.

***

Instagram Direct Messages: Lando Norris & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: So.

Emilie: I noticed you liked a little throwback.

Emilie: From 2019, no less. Deep cuts. Impressive research skills.

Emilie: You know, you could’ve just asked me to dinner. Would’ve been less creepy than liking my bikini photos at 2 a.m.

Emilie: (But I guess this way was more entertaining.)

Emilie: You still can ask, by the way. If you’re brave enough.

Lando: Would you maybe want to have dinner with me? Without bikinis. I mean you can wear one if you want but not like a requirement— This is going badly.

Emilie: I’m free Thursday. Pick somewhere good.

Emilie: And try not to like any more photos from my past while you’re planning it.

Emilie: Or do. It’s cute. In a tragic way.

Lando: Bold of you to assume I won’t.

Emilie: Bold of you to assume I’ll say yes if you like the duck-face selfie from 2017.

Lando: Challenge accepted.

Emilie: Challenge lost.

***

Text Messages: Max Fewtrell & Lando Norris

Max Fewtrell: BRO. You saw it, right?? Charles fully crashed his soul mid-interview??

Lando: Unfortunately, yes. It was like watching someone remember they left the oven on... and also their sister.

Max Fewtrell: Iconic. Karun was like “her birthday, right?” And Charles just downloaded a full panic attack.

Max Fewtrell: I screamed. Like—out loud. In public.

Lando Norris: It was kind of beautiful tbh. Like watching karma arrive with a mic and a production crew.

Max Fewtrell: Is his sister okay though? Do we know? Does she have a burner Twitter? I feel like she would.

Lando Norris: She’s fine. Emilie’s with her.

Max Fewtrell: Who’s Emilie?

Lando Norris: ... She's Belle’s best friend. Sharp. Dangerous. Possibly psychic. Says terrifyingly accurate things about my emotional state and then walks away in heels

Lando: She’s terrifying. Also brilliant. And she’s like…scarily beautiful.

Max Fewtrell: You have a crush on her, don’t you.

Lando: …I didn’t say that.

Max Fewtrell: YOU ABSOLUTELY DO OH MY GOD YOU DO This is the best gossip of the day and Charles had a meltdown on live TV

Lando: Shut up Also can we go back to Charles??

Max Fewtrell: No Because now I want to know why you know where Belle is And how you know Emilie’s with her And why you’re being so weirdly calm

Lando: …because I went to the wedding?

Max Fewtrell: THE WHAT

Lando: ...

Max Fewtrell: LAN THE WEDDING

Lando: Yeah. Belle and Max Verstappen. They got married. I was invited. Very small. City Hall. No media. Emilie picked the flowers

Max Fewtrell: MAX. VERSTAPPEN?!

Lando: Yes

Max Fewtrell: YOU MEAN TO TELL ME CHARLES IS HAVING A BREAKDOWN ABOUT FORGETTING HIS SISTER’S BIRTHDAY AND DOESN’T EVEN KNOW SHE’S MARRIED TO HIS RIVAL???

Lando: Correct

Max Fewtrell: I need to lie down. And then I need popcorn And possibly therapy But also more of this

Lando: Same. Group chat is chaos Do not ask to be added It’s war in there

Max Fewtrell: This is better than Drive to Survive You’ve been sitting on this gossip for HOW LONG?

Lando: Long enough to know I value my life And Max Verstappen would kill me if I leaked it before they were ready

Max Fewtrell: Fair

Lando: You think Charles is spiraling now… Wait until he finds out Max is family now

Max Fewtrell: My god. This is better than Netflix.

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Lando Norris

Lando Norris

hey is belle okay?

Emilie: She will be. She’s hurting, but she’s strong. And she has Max. That helps. (And me, obviously. I threaten people on her behalf.)

Lando: yeah i’d be more scared of you tbh Lando: but good Lando: she doesn’t deserve to feel that way Lando: no one does

Emilie: this is very rude. I was not prepared for sincerity. Please warn me next time

Lando: sorry next time i’ll open with a meme but i meant it

Emilie: I know. That’s why I’m weirdly touched. Ugh. Gross. I hate this. Emotions are banned after 10pm.

Lando: it’s 9:58

Emilie: you’re on thin ice, Norris.

Lando: wouldn’t be the first time but thanks for telling me and tell her i said… i don’t know that i’m rooting for her and that she deserves better brothers and maybe a pony idk what people say in these situations

Emilie: you’re doing fine she’ll appreciate it and so do I

Emilie: you’re a good guy, Lando.

Lando: 😳 wow ok i’m printing this and framing it

Emilie: Don’t push it. ***

The restaurant buzzed softly around them—quiet conversations, clinking silverware, candlelight glinting off glasses. It was the kind of cozy, tucked-away Monaco spot that felt private even when it was packed, the kind of place that made Lando loosen his shoulders for the first time in days.

Or, at least, it should have.

But honestly, Lando was too busy trying not to screw this up to relax.

Sitting across from Emilie Abadie—in a dim corner booth, with a bottle of wine between them and a shared plate of something fried—was more nerve-wracking than qualifying on a wet track.

She was devastating.

Not just in the obvious way, with her wild blonde hair and sharp mouth and the way she sipped wine like she was judging the entire country of France—but in the way she looked at him. Like she was trying to decide if he was worth the effort of knowing.

And God help him, he wanted to be worth it.

He was halfway through trying to come up with something clever when he saw her expression shift. Just a flicker—something hard and tight slipping across her face.

Lando followed her gaze.

Across the restaurant, standing up too fast, was Charles Leclerc.

And he was coming right for them.

"Uh," Lando said, sitting up a little straighter. "Is that...?"

"Unfortunately," Emilie said under her breath, setting her wineglass down with a soft clink.

Charles didn’t even hesitate. Just stormed across the room, panic practically pouring off him. He stopped at their table, ignoring Lando completely, and zeroed in on Emilie.

"Emilie," Charles said, voice tight, "we need to talk. About Belle."

Emilie didn’t even blink.

"I’m having dinner," she said coolly. "Sit down or leave."

Charles didn’t sit. He stood there, vibrating with panic and guilt and about four too many emotions for the room they were in.

“She posted a horse,” Charles burst out, voice climbing. “A horse! She never said anything! She’s still not answering me. You’ve seen her. You know. Why won’t you just—just tell me what’s going on?!”

Lando, still frozen in his seat, watched Emilie set her napkin down. Slowly. Precisely. Like she was a surgeon preparing for a very delicate operation.

Her smile disappeared.

And then—God help him—she destroyed Charles.

"You think you're owed answers now?" she asked, voice so sharp Lando actually felt it across the table. "After months of ignoring every warning sign? After standing in the same garage with her and looking through her like she wasn’t even real?"

Charles flinched.

Emilie leaned in slightly, not loud, but lethal.

"You want to know why she’s not answering you? Because you only want her when it’s convenient. When it fits your schedule. When it doesn’t mess up the perfect story you tell yourself about your family."

Lando sat back, eyes wide, utterly mesmerized.

He had seen Emilie be sharp before—sarcastic, teasing, merciless with Daniel’s cartoon ties—but this was something else.

This was fierce.

This was loyalty turned into a weapon.

And it was, without a doubt, the moment he realized he was completely screwed.

Because he wasn’t falling for her because she was pretty (although, let’s be honest, that wasn’t exactly hurting). He was falling because of this.

Because of the way she fought.

Because of the way she protected the people she loved like it was breathing.

Because he could see, in every word she threw like knives, how much Belle meant to her.

He had never wanted anything more in his life than to be someone Emilie Abadie fought for like that.

Charles opened his mouth, desperate, and Emilie cut him down again.

"You forgot her birthday," she said, each word a bullet. "And you think a few panicked phone calls are enough to fix that?"

Lando couldn’t even feel sorry for Charles at that point. Not really.

He was too busy being completely, absolutely undone.

"You don't love Belle the way you should," Emilie said, voice low and devastating. "You love the idea of her. The safe, quiet little sister who never asks for anything. Who never demands too much. Who lets you shine without ever threatening your light."

And there it was—the fatal blow.

Charles stood there like he had been hollowed out.

Good, Lando thought savagely.

He didn’t deserve her.

He didn’t deserve Belle’s softness—or Emilie’s fury on her behalf.

Emilie, calm as anything now, lifted her glass again like she hadn’t just torn him to pieces.

"Now," she said, "go back to your table. Apologize to Alexandra. And maybe—if you’re lucky—figure out how to be someone your sister actually wants to let back in."

Charles didn’t even argue.

He just turned and walked away, a shell of himself.

The moment he was gone, the restaurant buzzed back to life like nothing had happened.

And Lando just sat there, staring at Emilie like she’d hung the moon.

Because this was what undid him, completely and without mercy:

Not the beauty. Not the sharp tongue. Not even the way she teased him into laughing at himself.

It was this.

It was the way she loved.

Fierce. Loyal. Uncompromising.

It was the way she stood her ground, sword drawn, in defense of someone who needed it.

It was the way she made it absolutely clear that you didn’t get to hurt people she loved without consequences.

God, he was in trouble.

Emilie caught him staring and arched an eyebrow, setting her wineglass down with practiced grace. "What?"

Lando blinked, scrambled for something to say, something that didn’t sound like I might be in love with you.

"That was," he said, voice a little hoarse, "the most badass thing I’ve ever seen."

A faint, real smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "He needed to hear it."

"He did," Lando agreed. Then, quieter, "And Belle’s lucky to have you."

Something flickered across Emilie’s face at that—something small and vulnerable and quickly hidden.

She picked up her glass again, studying him over the rim. "Careful, Norris. Say too many nice things and I might start thinking you mean them."

"I do," he said simply.

And this time, she didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t mock him.

She just held his gaze, steady and assessing, like she was weighing whether he was telling the truth.

Whatever she saw must have satisfied her, because after a long beat, she said lightly, "Good."

She took a sip of her wine. Then, smiling like she hadn't just broken and remade his entire world in under five minutes, she leaned in closer.

"Now," Emilie said, "where were we before the drama?"

Lando couldn’t even remember.

All he could think about was how wildly, desperately he wanted to kiss her.

***

Emilie sat back in her chair, wine glass light between her fingers, and tried to act like her heart wasn’t pounding against her ribs.

Like Lando’s words hadn’t just cracked something wide open inside her.

Belle’s lucky to have you. I mean it.

She didn’t know what she had expected—maybe some teasing, maybe a joke to defuse the moment—but not that.

Not sincerity.

Not him.

She should’ve brushed it off. Should’ve quipped something scathing and easy, should’ve knocked the moment off balance before it could land. But she hadn’t.

Because something about the way Lando looked at her—steady, certain, real—had made her hesitate.

Careful, Abadie, she warned herself. You know better.

Boys said things they didn’t mean. Boys fell in love with ideas, not people. Boys liked her because she was shiny and sharp, not because they saw her.

And yet... Lando hadn’t looked at her like she was shiny.

He’d looked at her like she was something solid.

Like he saw the messy, brutal, fiercely protective parts of her—and didn’t want to flinch away.

It was terrifying.

It was worse than terrifying.

It was hope.

"Now," Emilie said, forcing her voice back into familiar, teasing steadiness as she leaned across the table, "where were we before the drama?"

Lando blinked at her, like he needed a second to remember where he was. It made something traitorous and warm flicker in her chest.

"Uh," he said, a little breathless, "I think I was telling you about the time I accidentally set a microwave on fire?"

Emilie let out a real, surprised laugh. "You did what?"

He grinned—wide and messy and self-deprecating—and just like that, the intensity between them loosened into something lighter. Still charged. Still humming just under the surface. But lighter.

"I was fifteen, okay," Lando said, leaning in, elbows on the table. "And I thought you could microwave foil. Spoiler alert: you cannot."

"Oh my God," Emilie said, actually laughing now. "You’re lucky you didn’t set the whole house on fire."

"Almost did," Lando said proudly. "My mum nearly murdered me."

He told the story with his whole body—hands flying, eyes bright—and Emilie listened, smiling in spite of herself, feeling the last shards of her ice defenses start to melt.

He’s dangerous, she thought distantly. And not for the reasons you’re used to.

He was dangerous because he wasn’t pretending.

Because he didn’t want her to be less. Or smaller. Or easier to love.

He wanted this version of her—the messy, complicated, fierce version—and it felt so new and so scary she almost didn’t know how to hold it.

Halfway through his story about the microwave (and the resulting three-day grounding), Emilie caught herself staring.

Caught herself wondering what it would be like to lean across the table and kiss him.

Idiot, she thought, draining the last of her wine to kill the impulse.

But even as she set the glass down, her hand brushed against his—just lightly, just by accident—and Lando froze.

The air between them tightened again. Not heavy. Not sharp. But electric.

His hand stayed where it was.

Waiting.

Not grabbing. Not pushing. Just waiting.

An invitation.

An if you want to.

Emilie’s chest squeezed so tight she could barely breathe.

She wasn’t used to boys who waited.

She wasn’t used to being wanted without being hunted.

Slowly—so slowly she barely let herself think about it—she turned her palm up and let her fingers brush his.

His hand closed gently over hers, warm and callused and careful.

And Emilie, against every rule she had ever made for herself, didn’t pull away.

***

The night air was cooler than the restaurant had been, crisp against Emilie’s skin as they stepped out into the narrow Monaco street.

The world felt smaller out here—quieter, sleepier. The kind of night you could almost believe was magic.

Their hands brushed once, then again. And then—without speaking—Lando laced his fingers through hers.

Just like that.

No fuss. No dramatics. No careful maneuvering.

Like he’d been waiting for permission, and now that he had it, he wasn’t letting go.

Emilie let herself be pulled along, hand in his, heart hammering an unfamiliar rhythm against her ribs.

It was terrifying.

It was wonderful.

Neither of them said much as they walked. The occasional motorbike buzzed by; laughter floated out of the bars they passed. But between them—just a quiet hum of something new.

When they reached a corner where the street narrowed and the light hit just right, Lando slowed.

Emilie slowed too, their joined hands swinging slightly between them.

Lando glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

She caught the look—shy and reckless all at once—and her heart gave a traitorous thud.

"You’re quiet," he said, voice soft, like he was afraid to scare her off.

"Maybe I’m enjoying the peace," Emilie said lightly.

He smiled at that. Real and crooked. The kind of smile that made her want to hand over every sharp piece of herself without a second thought.

"You were incredible tonight," he said, after a moment.

Emilie huffed a laugh, looking away. "I was brutal."

"You were brilliant," Lando corrected. "You were exactly what Belle needed."

The words were so unexpected, so easy and true, that Emilie almost stumbled.

God, stop, she told herself. Stop falling faster.

But it was already too late.

When she looked back at him, Lando was still watching her with that same maddening, open expression. Like he liked her exactly as she was. All fire. All teeth. All soft, bruised, careful heart underneath.

They stopped under a streetlamp without meaning to.

It pooled gold light around them, softening the edges of everything. Making the world feel like it had shrunk to just this. Just them.

Lando’s hand tightened slightly around hers.

"Emilie," he said, and the way he said it—half a question, half a prayer—made something inside her crack open.

She should have said something sharp. She should have laughed it off.

Instead, she just lifted her chin and looked at him.

"Are you going to kiss me, Norris," she asked, voice deceptively cool, "or are you going to keep holding my hand like we’re on a third-grade field trip?"

Lando made a small, strangled noise that might have been a laugh—or a whimper—and then he was stepping closer, so close she could feel the heat of him.

"I’m working up to it," he muttered.

"You’re slow," Emilie said.

"You’re terrifying," Lando shot back, grinning.

And then—finally, finally—he kissed her.

It wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t smooth or practiced.

It was messy and a little desperate and so real it nearly brought Emilie to her knees.

Lando kissed like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to. Like he wanted to be sure she knew she could push him away at any second—and like he was praying she wouldn’t.

And Emilie—fierce, guarded Emilie—kissed him back with all the reckless, terrifying hope she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying for years.

It was a soft, stumbling collision of mouths and laughter and fingers tightening on jackets—and it was, without a doubt, the most dangerous, precious thing Emilie had ever let herself have.

When they finally pulled apart, Lando rested his forehead lightly against hers, still holding her hand.

"You scare the shit out of me," he whispered, grinning.

"Good," Emilie whispered back.

But when he kissed her again—this time slower, sweeter—she let herself believe, for just one dangerous, dazzling second, that maybe she didn't have to be scary forever.

That maybe someone had finally seen her.

And wanted her anyway.

***

Text Messages: Max Fewtrell & Lando Norris

Lando: Bro. BRO. I’m going to throw up.

Max: ok congrats on what?? nervous breakdown? race win? what are we celebrating

Lando: i kissed her

Max: who

Lando: her

Max: MATE WHO

Lando: EMILIE

Max: WAIT wait wait wait BACK UP u kissed her??? WHAT DO YOU MEAN "I KISSED HER"???

Lando: we had dinner and i didn’t die and then she LET ME HOLD HER HAND and THEN SHE LET ME KISS HER

Max: mate i need a minute

since WHEN were you even going on dates with her??? this is like finding out ur mate moved to another country and got married without telling u what do u mean you just had dinner casually WHEN WAS THIS PLANNED

Lando: it just happened kind of after i liked her 2019 bikini pic at 2am

Max: what the fuck

Max: YOU DID WHAT

Max: YOU DUMB IDIOT LEGEND

Lando: she slid into my dms after told me i could just ask her out next time instead of stalking her like a creep

Max: i’m crying i’m so proud u’re still an idiot but like a victorious idiot

Lando: i’m literally shaking bro like i kissed her and she kissed me BACK

Max: wtf and she didn’t mace you or slap you??? mate she might actually like you

Lando: i think she might

Lando: i’m gonna marry her

Max: ok buddy let’s aim for a second date first

Lando: i’m so fucked

Max: in the best way

732 notes · View notes

minswriting · 5 months ago

Text

Different Kinds of Treats - Roommate Spencer Reid x Reader

About: Spencer bakes brownies and walks in on reader masturbating and ends up maturbating to the thought of her. Later on, they end up fucking.

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, mentions of addiction but nothing in detail, season 4 Spencer, porn without plot, Spencer bakes to relieve stress, roommate Spencer, masturbation (f & m), walking in on someone masturbating, protected sex (reader on birth control), no condoms, p in v, desperate and needy sex, whiny reader and whiny spencer, creampies. not proofread because I am sick and have a cold. we are raw dogging life man

Word Count: 2.3k

Baking was one of Spencer’s favorite things to do. It began about a year and a half ago when Spencer had decided to get clean. Any time he felt a craving, he’d look up a recipe. Any time he felt the biggest urge, he’d bake something. And slowly, that baking turned into a genuine passion for him where it was his favorite way to decompress after a long case.

And he adored how you were always so excited whenever he baked something.

You moved in about a year ago. Amidst Spencer’s withdrawals, he also felt as though his apartment was too lonely, too cold and that he needed someone to fill the space. That way, whenever he came home from a hard and long case, he could at least not be completely alone. He had posted an ad in the local newspaper and you were the first to respond. You were both the same age, you had a lovely career here in DC, he had Penelope do an extensive background check on you and you were completely clean. It all worked out, honestly. It also helped that you were very pretty but Spencer never allowed himself to admit that out loud.

The apartment was filled with a nice chocolatey aroma as Spencer had just finished baking brownies. He had gotten back from a long case last night and needed to decompress as he finally had a day off. It was a Saturday so he knew you didn’t have to work. Spencer waited for the brownies to cool before cutting a piece for you. He grabbed one for himself as well and made his way to your bedroom. He figured you were napping as it was two in the afternoon and you were still in bed. So what greater way to be woken up than by having brownies in your face?

When Spencer made his way to your bedroom, he gently and carefully opened the door, making sure not to drop the brownies. He had expected to be met with your sleeping form, slow breathing with your lips parted. Instead, he was met with your legs spread open with your fingers buried inside of you. Though he did get one part right. Your lips were indeed parted. Both pairs actually.

Spencer’s eyes widened at the sight. He stood there in shock, holding the brownies. The sight of you fucking yourself with your fingers made all the blood from Spencer’s head rush to his groin. You hadn’t even realized Spencer opened your door, too caught up in your own pleasure.

Your eyes opened and as you saw Spencer, you gasped out his name, “Spencer,” while trying to cover yourself up. Spencer gasped and quickly turned around.

“I-I’m so sorry,” He choked out as he was about to walk away before realizing he needed to close your door. He grabbed the door knob, closing your door with a slam as he rushed to his bedroom and slamming the door behind him. He still had the brownies in his hand. He placed them on top of his dresser before letting out an embarrassed groan. He hadn’t meant to walk in on you masturbating. His IQ of 167 was slashed as his brain was full of just images of you.

All he could think about was how your pussy was glistening, your fingers covered in your juices. Your chest had been moving up and down from the pleasure. The way you let out the tiniest whimpers. God, Spencer was aching. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this. But he just couldn’t help himself.

“Damn it,” Spencer said to himself in frustration. “Your head is turning into a damn potato,” he said all while looking down at his cock as it strained in his pants.

He quickly undid his pants, standing in front of his dresser. He tugged his pants and boxers down, revealing his hard cock. Precum was already on the tip, showing just how much the whole scene turned him on. He didn’t bother teasing himself, feeling far too desperate to prolong the experience. He gripped his cock with his left hand, stroking himself hard and fast.

“O-oh fuck,” He moaned, unable to help the noise from escaping his lips as he thought about you. It really shouldn’t have affected him this much. Masturbation was a normal part of the human body and therefore, you were more than allowed to give yourself release. And yet, Spencer couldn’t help but wish it were him that could make you feel so good.

He thought about how you would taste. How it would feel to bury his head between your thighs and feel you cum on his tongue. Or how your walls would feel clenching on his fingers. And don’t even get him started on how you would feel on his cock. He wanted to fuck you so badly, to make you cum from his cock would literally be a dream.

Spencer whimpered, thumbing the tip of his cock as he stroked himself. His other hand gripped the edge of his dresser, eyes pinched shut as he thought about how much he wanted you and all the ways he would have you. He wanted to make you feel so good. And with a choked moan of your name, Spencer came in his hand so hard. He was grateful that he was holding onto the dresser as he most definitely would’ve fallen from how intense his orgasm was.

When he came down from his high, Spencer took a deep breath, opening his eyes as he looked down at himself. His cum had landed on the dresser, himself, and his hand. He felt guilty at getting off at you. You were his roommate, one of his closest friends. And yet, he couldn’t deny how hot you were.

Later in the day, after Spencer had cleaned up and spent some time alone in his room, he went out to the living room to sit on the couch and read a book. At least he tried to read it. It was hard when his mind was still so consumed with you.

You had finally emerged from your room, dressed in a simple day dress as you walked into the living room. Spencer tried to keep his gaze on his book, turning the page as he did so, acting as though walking in on you hadn’t affected him as much as it did. That was until you stood in front of him, looking down at him. “Did it turn you on?” You asked suddenly, confronting the awkward moment from earlier.

“Did what?” Spencer replied, keeping his voice neutral as he tried to keep his gaze on his book.

“Walking in on me.” You said, grabbing the book out of Spencer’s hands and tossing it to the side. “Did it turn you on?”

Spencer frowned before looking at you and as he did, all he could think about was how beautiful you looked lying on your pillows with your fingers deep inside of you. He felt his cock hardening in his pants again. “I-“ Spencer interrupted himself to swallow, unsure of what to say.

“Because I heard you,” You exclaimed, tilting your head. You moved to take a seat on Spencer’s lap, straddling his legs. “Moaning as you got yourself off. Did you like watching me finger myself?”

Spencer didn’t know what to say or how to react. You were there, on his lap, asking him a question. His brain had completely turned into mush. He quite literally couldn’t think. Instead, he just leaned up and captured your lips with his. You responded immediately, kissing him with hunger and need.

Neither of you were gentle or slow with it. The moment your lips met, clothes came off quickly after. You had unbuttoned Spencer’s shirt, throwing it somewhere in the living room while Spencer had lifted your dress, tossing it behind him. The inherent need to just feel one another was driving both of you. You only lifted yourself off of Spencer’s lap to take his pants and boxers off only to move back onto his lap.

Spencer put his hands onto your breasts, massaging the flesh as he leaned in to kiss your neck. The soft noise you made when his lips touched your skin was quite literally his reason to live in this moment. Your hands were in his hair, entangling your fingers with his curls. Spencer sucked on your pulse point, causing you to gasp.

“Need to feel you,” You breathed out, moving Spencer’s head with your hands as you leaned in to kiss him again. You could feel his cock pressing against your thigh, just waiting to slip inside of you. You didn’t care much for the foreplay at the moment as all you wanted was his cock.

“W-what about a condom?” Spencer murmured, pulling away from the kiss to look at you with his beautiful brown eyes. “A-and are you sure you’re ready?”

You licked your lips, nodding your head. “I’m on the pill. And I think earlier shows that I don’t need to prepare anymore.” You let out a small giggle, causing Spencer to let out a tiny giggle as well.

“If you’re sure,” Spencer said softly, moving a hand to caress your cheek. “I-I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” You reassured, giving Spencer a soft smile. The way he worried made your heart swell. Your hands were still in his hair. “I promise.”

Spencer kissed your lips once more, this time more softly. The reality of the situation was unspoken feelings that neither of you had ever been willing to admit. Not even right now, as you sit on his lap. But those feelings could be addressed another time.

You took one of your hands and moved in between the two of you, grabbing Spencer’s cock. You gave it an experimental tug, causing Spencer to gasp against your lips. He pulled away from the kiss to look up at you, moving his hands to your hips. You guided his cock to your entrance, slowly easing yourself onto his length. You both let out moans, basking in the pleasure. When you sat completely on his length, you stayed still for just a moment, adjusting to his size.

“You’re so wet,” Spencer breathed out, lips parted and eyes hooded with lust. His breathing was a bit heavier than before, showing just how much this was affecting him.

“You’re so big,” you replied, keeping yourself still. You relished in being filled. The fact that you had been dreaming about this for so long and now it was finally happening dawned on you. And after a few moments, you began to move.

To say it was heavenly was an understatement. Spencer had never felt this good before and the fact that it was with you was making things ten times better. He didn’t shy away from making noises, letting out whimpers as you slowly bounced on his cock. His fingers dug into your hips, holding onto you tightly. “Oh my god,” he moaned, throwing his head back in pleasure.

Your hands rested on Spencer’s shoulders, stabilizing yourself as you watched Spencer’s reaction. Your own moans filling your ears along with his. “You feel so good,” you moaned. The way his cock moved inside of you was so much better than you could’ve ever imagined. Your pace quickened, causing you both to whine in pleasure.

“Y-you’re so tight,” Spencer stuttered, licking his lips as he looked at you. His chocolatey eyes were blown out, his skin flushed from the heat of the situation, his hair was messy from your fingers. God, he looked so sinful. He moved one of his hands to your left tit, massaging the flesh with his palm.

“S-Spencer,” you whimpered, closing your eyes as you rode his cock.

Spencer let out his own whimper, hearing his name leave your lips as you got off on his cock was going to be ingrained in him forever. “Fuck,” he moaned.

The both of you were needy, grabbing onto one another and kissing each other while you moved your hips. Spencer started meeting your movements with his own thrusts, causing you both to moan louder. The way his cock started hitting your g-spot dead on made you grasp at Spencer to stabilize yourself. “Oh my-oh fuck,” you whined, leaning forward to rest your forehead against his.

“I’m so close,” he moaned, fucking into you. The pace was hard and quick, showing the desperation between the two of you.

“M-me too,” you stuttered as the two of you looked at one another.

It didn’t take long until you were cumming. Your thighs were shaking, you were whining Spencer’s name in a mantra. He fucked you through your orgasm before cumming inside of you with a shout of your name. He stopped moving as he came, holding you still as he filled you up with his cum. The two of you were breathing heavily, basking in the post-orgasmic air.

And when you both came down from it, Spencer pulled out of you, causing his cum to drip onto his lap and onto the cushion of the couch. But neither of you cared at that moment. Silence overcame the two of you as the room was filled with the sounds of your breathing.

After about a few minutes of silence, you spoke, “So,” you said breathily. “What about those brownies?”

Spencer was unable to help the laugh that escaped him as he caressed your cheek. “I guess we can have some brownies.”

Brownies were always delicious after having a mind blowing orgasm.

#criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds smut #criminals minds x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x you #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds reactions #spencer criminal minds

641 notes · View notes

musingsofheaven · 1 month ago

Text

GREW UP PRETTY. p1

summary: She’s your mother’s best friend. Apparently she's always around, and everywhere. She shouldn’t be here. Not this late, not this drunk, not in the silk nightgown her ex-husband use to fuck her with.

pairings: milf!tashi duncan x family friend!reader

warnings: 17.7k words. mature themes. graphic cunnilingus (f/f). spit-heavy oral sex. oral fixation. clothed face grinding/humping. age gap. power imbalance. dubcon-adjacent tone. d/s undertones. overstimulation. cheating mentioned (not between the main characters). read responsibly.

notes: this was supposed to be one big 31k word fic but i got overwhelmed and shy so i’m posting it in two parts… :( here’s part one!! i know…. i know this is still long but… 🥺 i’ve been staring at this fic for like forever with my face in my hands because I am rethinking what I am doing. thank you so much for reading… i’m so grateful and shy and sparkly about it… part two is coming soon i pinky swear!!! thank you for being here ily forever ok ok ok < 3

You weren’t looking for it. Swear to god. You weren’t doom scrolling for drama or stalking her name in search bars or anything pathetic like that. You were just… on your phone like a normal human being. That’s it. You are laying half-splayed across your bed like a damn baby, one leg cocked over a pillow you should’ve replaced a long time ago. The screen brightness is so bright that it can burn your eyes. Reruns are flickering on the background television, but it’s on mute. Bra strap slipping down your shoulder. Brain activity hovers somewhere between static and sludge.

It was a nothing night. You hadn’t eaten since 4 p.m. Your tongue felt like it had fuzz on it. You were sure you could still taste the food your mom poured earlier. And maybe that’s why you didn’t move; you just lay there like a lazy animal in the low light, refreshing the same three apps in a loop, thumbs twitching over notifications that weren’t even for you. No texts. No calls.

Until you saw it.

It’s a big white font with a black background. It’s so sleek and serious. That little blue checkmark is like a cherry on top of a shit sundae, meaning it’s credible.

TASHI DUNCAN AND ART DONALDSON, HUSBAND OF 14 YEARS, OFFICIALLY DIVORCED, SOURCE CONFIRMS.

You froze.

It’s not dramatically frozen. Not gasp and clutch your necklace frozen. Just slow and still. The kind of still where your eyes read it once, then twice, then again, but your brain didn’t catch up until the fourth loop. It’s more like a shock.

Because yeah. Okay. People had been speculating. You weren’t blind. You’d seen the posts from other people. The shade. The way her ring stopped showing up in press shots. The way her tone changes, and there’s an edge in her voice when she says his name in interviews. How she looked at the court sometimes was like it was the only thing she still had left. You noticed.

But still. Divorce.

The word just sat there. Heavy. Echoing. Like it was trying to rearrange your memory. You stared at the headline until the letters blurred. Until they stopped looking like real words and started feeling static. Tashi Duncan. Divorced. You blinked once. Twice. Let it settle in your chest like it had the right to live there.

And maybe that’s what hit the hardest. It’s not a surprise because, deep down, you weren’t. Not really. You’d heard things. Seen things. Her name is trending for the wrong reasons. Her interviews were getting shorter and meaner, and she was clipped at the edges like she was bleeding patience in private. You’d noticed the ring vanish from her finger. Noticed how she smiled with her mouth but never her eyes anymore. You saw everything when it came to her.

You always had because you’d always been there.

Ever since you were little, you have been around whenever your mom was quiet in the background of wine nights, club fundraisers, and tennis galas that smelled like perfume and ambition. You’d trail after her like a shadow with a juice box while she laughed at something Tashi said, all effortless posture and that sharp, dry smile that made adults lean in. And then there was Lily… tiny, pink, squirmy Lily, who Tashi brought around for the first time when you were seven. Your brain clicked instantly into older-sister mode even though no one asked. You didn’t care. Lily was a baby, and she was hers, and you watched her like she might float away. You were good at that. At watching. You always watched Tashi.

She was your mom’s friend, sure. But she was also… Tashi. The Tashi. Women with posture like a weapon and a voice that could make grown men straighten up. She’d ruffle your hair like a joke, glance over your swing at one backyard match, and go, “Better, but your follow-through’s lazy,” and walk off before you could even be embarrassed. She wasn’t like the other women. She wasn’t soft. She didn’t coo. She didn’t coddle. She saw you, said things that made your stomach flip, then looked away like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t cling to them for weeks.

So, yeah. When the headline said “confirmed,” your gut didn’t twist from shock- it twisted from something worse. Something like inevitability. Fourteen years. A kid. A house full of trophies and a history stretched longer than your adult life. But you knew. You fucking knew it. No PR phrase could patch over the truth. Not “mutual decision.” Not a “joint statement.” Not even “good co-parenting.” It wasn’t mutual. You could read between the lines.

You sat there in bed, barely breathing, phone screen lighting up your face like a goddamn omen. One leg is thrown over a pillow, and your other foot is half-hanging off the edge of the mattress, cold and cramping. You hadn’t moved in maybe an hour, but your brain still felt like it hadn’t caught up with your body. Like you were still suspended between sleep and that blinking headline on your screen.

The article was still open. It was a clickbait article with all caps, clean font, and no-nonsense layout- the design that makes bad news feel worse. It had been waiting in draft form for someone to hit publish. You hadn’t even realized how tight you were holding your phone until your thumb cramped.

And that’s when it rang.

You didn’t move. Just stared at the screen like it had betrayed you. One name. No contact photo. No cute nicknames or emoji. Just her- Tashi Duncan. Plain and centered and suddenly taking up the entire world.

Which was weird. Because she didn’t call you. Not really.

You’d gotten calls from her before, yes, but they were always in the morning for one reason: your mother. Or Lily. Or both. Sometimes it was “Is she home?” Sometimes, it was, “Hey, are you free for a few hours?” Tashi was always running around, juggling matches, coaching, or flying out last minute for the press. You got used to hearing from her at 9 a.m. on a Saturday, voice brisk and polite and too awake. Sometimes, she’d ask if you could swing by and watch Lily. Sometimes, she just wanted to double-check that your mom hadn’t forgotten brunch plans. You were the in-between. The helper. The kid who never said no.

But this was different.

It was 12:41 a.m. on a Thursday.

And Tashi Duncan was calling you.

And that made no fucking sense.

You didn’t touch the screen. Just sat there blinking, your heart thudding way too loud for how still everything was. Reruns are still murmuring in the background. The taste of sleep still stuck to the back of your throat. And that damn article still glowing beneath her name like it was taunting you.

Because you knew her. Not well, but long. Long enough, you think. You were seven when Lily was born and have been around ever since. Your mom and Tashi met at Stanford when everything felt sharp, fast, and impossible. They bonded over late-night cram sessions, early morning practices, and the shared mess of being too bright, too ambitious, and alone in rooms full of men. But then your mom got pregnant. Dropped out. Moved back. Never quite circled back to the dreams she once had. Tashi didn’t say much about it. Just stuck around. Sent baby clothes. Stayed in touch. Their friendship got quieter, but it never broke.

Which meant Tashi was always around. And so were you.

Your mom would bring you along, and Tashi would ruffle your hair, ask about school, or pass you a cupcake when you thought no one was watching. When she had Lily, you were already old enough to babysit. Old enough to know where the emergency numbers were, how to heat milk, and how not to let a toddler fall off the couch. Tashi trusted you. Your mom did, too. You’d spent entire weekends in her guest room, with Lily snoring in a crib next to you and a baby monitor buzzing like static on the dresser.

You knew her.

Not like a second mom. But close.

Close enough that this late-night call, this out-of-nowhere ring against the backdrop of a fresh divorce headline, felt like a door creaking open. You didn’t know what the fuck it was about- but it felt big. Heavy.

You let it ring once. Twice.

Then, breath shallow, fingers stiff, you hit accept.

And you didn’t know what she would say when you picked up.

But your chest was already tight. And you already knew it wasn’t going to be about Lily.

And it sure as hell wasn’t about your mom.

You don’t say anything at first. Just press the phone to your ear and wait, heartbeat tripping into something nervous and twitchy, like it knows more than your brain’s willing to admit. There’s a pause- not dead air, not silence, just that heavy sort of in-between sound you only hear when someone dials before fully deciding if they should. That held my breath. That weight. That question mark. You think about saying something. You almost do. Her name’s right there, soft in your throat like a dare, but you don’t push it out yet. You just… wait. Wait like the pause might stretch long enough to cancel itself. If you stay still enough, maybe she’ll hang up, and you won’t have to hear whatever this is.

And then, “Hey.”

Low. Casual. It’s way too casual, as if you didn’t just catch her in the middle of unraveling like this was normal. Like this was fine. You blink up at your ceiling and squint at the shadows there, your thumb rubbing the curve of your phone without realizing it, your other hand fisted in the sheets like that might ground you somehow. Your throat is dry, and your pulse feels like a misplaced metronome.

“…Hey.”

Another pause. Tighter now. Shorter. But heavy, like it’s hanging off the edge of something that could tip either way.

“She around?”

She doesn’t say who. She doesn’t need to. You know exactly who she’s asking about. There’s only one she Tashi has ever called to check in on. The same woman who once tried to mail her homemade ginger drink when she had strep throat. The same woman who’d leave Tashi voicemails that were basically wine-fueled TED talks. The same woman currently passed out in the bedroom down the hall, dead asleep with a headache and half a bottle of chardonnay in her system and absolutely no idea that her old friend just dropped a divorce headline like a live grenade across your phone screen. She’s the one who still uses scented lotion like it’s 2003, who has a favorite wine glass and a vendetta against oat milk, who keeps old voicemails from Tashi saved on her phone and doesn’t even realize you know that.

You shift onto your side, pillow warm beneath your cheek, voice soft but steady. “She’s knocked out.”

There’s a sound on the other end. Barely there. Just breath, maybe. Or the quiet exhale of someone leaning on something, the kitchen sink, a doorframe she hasn’t moved from since she hung up on the last reporter call. Something solid. Something that holds her up when her knees won’t. You can almost picture her in the half-dark, staring down at her own feet like they might give her an answer, like she’s still waiting for someone to come home and tell her this wasn’t real.

“She had a headache,” you murmur. “Long day.”

Tashi hums. Not in agreement, not in dismissal-just a noise that lives in the middle. “Yeah,” she says, quieter now. “Mine too.”

You glance at your phone, still propped on the blanket beside you. The article’s still open. The headline is bold. Obnoxious. Weirdly clinical for something so personal. You want to ask her about it. You really do. Want to crack a joke, maybe. Make it normal. Make her laugh. Or perhaps say nothing and let her know you read it. You’re not pretending this is just a check-in when you see her. But you don’t. She called to ask about your mom because she didn’t bring it up.

Except… maybe she didn’t.

“She asleep-asleep?” she asks, voice low, smooth, but with an edge now. “Or could I still come by for a second?”

You blink at the ceiling. Your tongue presses flat to the roof of your mouth. “It’s past midnight.”

“I know.”

Her voice doesn’t waver. But it doesn’t settle, either. It’s still too even, too precise. Like she’s rehearsing each word, measuring how much she’s letting you hear. There’s something behind something raw, something cracked- but she’s holding it close like she’s afraid of spilling more than she means to if she lets one more word slip.

You sit up a little, back against the headboard now, the pillow falling to your lap. “Did something happen?”

“No,” she says too fast. Too tight. Then quieter, more real-“Not really. I just… I was thinking I might ask her to drink.”

A beat. Two. Three. You let the silence hang just long enough to wrap around you like static. Your fingertips twitch against the sheet.

“You wanna get wine-drunk with my mom?” you ask, half-laughing, but not like it’s funny, just like it’s surreal. This version of your life you hadn’t fully considered until now is making the floor tilt under your feet.

She breathes out. Short. Half amusement, half surprise. “Maybe.”

You settle deeper into the pillows, the weight of this whole conversation finally sinking in. “She’s really out, Tash.”

“Yeah.” There’s a rustle. Something clinks. You picture her standing in the kitchen, barefoot, in some old hoodie that doesn’t belong to her anymore. “I figured. I don’t know. I wasn’t really planning. I just…”

She trails off. You can hear her breathing. That’s all.

You wait again.

“I just didn’t wanna drink alone.”

It’s quiet. Honest. It lands in your chest like a rock. Not dramatic, not needy-just simple. It’s sad, in that sharp, quiet way, that you only hear from people who’ve been holding it together too long. You chew the inside of your cheek.

“…You could drink with me,” you offer. Easy. Light. Like it’s nothing. Like your heart didn’t skip when you said it.

A pause.

“What?”

You smile a little. “If it’s just about not being alone. I’m awake.”

Another long silence. But this one doesn’t feel awkward. It feels loaded. Like she’s thinking. Like she’s standing in the middle of her kitchen staring at the wall, trying to figure out what you said that means. Trying to decide if this is pathetic or fucked or maybe just the most human thing she’s done all week. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what scares her most.

“Are you sure?” she asks eventually, her voice thinner now, like she’s asking for something bigger than you think.

You glance at the clock. 12:59 a.m. “Yeah.”

There’s a breath on the other end. Deep. Real. The kind of breath people only take when they’re finally exhaling something they didn’t know they were holding in.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll be there in ten.”

You don’t say anything at first. Let the silence stretch between you, quiet and strange, like the kind that only happens when someone doesn’t hang up or want to. Your room’s still dark, lit only by the lazy flicker of some rerun still muttering to no one. The kind of show that’s supposed to make silence feel less heavy. But it doesn’t help much now. The phone’s still warm against your cheek. She hasn’t said anything since “ten minutes” and hasn’t asked if you’re still there, but she knows. You both know. And that’s the strangest part: the silence, but how easy it is to stay in it.

There’s sound on her end- soft things, background things, the kind of things you only notice when you’re trying not to breathe too loud. Movement. A door creaked open, the low drag of something across the wood. A drawer sliding shut. The faint clink of something glass hitting the glass, or maybe keys dropped into a bowl. You can’t tell. It’s domestic and messy and real. It feels too personal, somehow, hearing all that while lying in bed like this. Like you’re eavesdropping on a life you’re not supposed to be part of. Like you stumbled into a crack in the wall and didn’t look away fast enough, if you say anything now, you’ll break whatever strange thread is holding this together.

You clear your throat. Barely. “Do you want me to hang up?”

There’s a beat as if she’s considering it not seriously but enough to pretend she has a choice. And then her voice comes, low and even, laced with something unreadable: “That’s up to you.”

You exhale softly and carefully as if your breath might push too hard against the moment and knock it over. She didn’t say yes, and you didn’t say no, either. You fidget with the hem of your tank top, your thumb sliding under the fabric, the phone still pressed close. “It just feels weird.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s past midnight. You’re driving over. We’re still on the phone. It’s like…” You trail off, staring at the ceiling like it might finish your thought. “Never mind.”

She makes a slight sound, quite a laugh, but not quite a sigh. Just something breathed through her nose, soft and tired. “It’s only weird if you make it weird.”

You blink. Try not to read into it. Try not to let your mind spin-off in too many directions. But it’s Tashi. And she called you. And it’s not nothing.

Then she sighs, quieter this time. “I don’t even know what I’m wearing.”

You blink again. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t change,” she says, like it’s something to be ashamed of. “Still in that nightgown.”

You swallow slowly like the word is stuck somewhere in your throat. “What kind of nightgown are we talking about?”

There’s another pause, the kind that stretches like fabric pulled too tight. The kind that sounds like she’s not looking at anything thinking. Then, quieter, “Silk. Green. The one Art gave me.”

And just like that, your brain pulls it forward. The memory. You were younger- iway younger. Staying over for some reason, you barely remember now. Your mom was out of town. Their house felt too clean. Too still. You remember her sitting by the window, wine glass in hand, the city lights bouncing off that same green silk silk. You remember thinking she didn’t look like anyone’s mom. Didn’t look like someone who had to tell people what to do. She looked like a painting. Like someone expensive and complicated.

Your voice is softer now. “You’re still wearing it?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” she says. “I just… I don’t know. It’s soft. I like it.”

Another pause. Then sharper: “God, I should probably throw on something else.”

You hesitate, heart skipping. “You don’t have to.”

“Well, I’m not showing up to your porch in lingerie.”

You laugh, but it’s quiet. “It’s not lingerie.”

“It’s silk.”

You bite your lip. “Bring a coat.”

“I was going to.”

“I know. Just… it’s cold tonight.”

She doesn’t answer right away. And when she does, her voice is soft. Almost fond. “You’re sweet.”

You shift under the blanket. Your heart’s doing something it shouldn’t be doing. “I’m not.”

She hums again. The kind that doesn’t argue but also doesn’t agree.

Then the sound of her front door, the way it clicks shut behind her, the breath she lets out, her footsteps on the porch, the soft beep of her car unlocking, her keys jingling, muted like she’s trying not to wake the world.

And still, neither of you hangs up.

You put the phone down on your nightstand, a soft clack muffled in the quiet room, the screen’s glow painting your ceiling like an old movie. Your fingers drift to the mess on your floor- clothes half-tossed, notebooks stacked like they might topple any second. Without thinking, you start picking things up, folding a shirt that’s been wrinkled for days, nudging a pile of papers into some order. The rustle sounds loud, alive, and impossible to ignore.

From the other end, her voice cuts in, smooth but teasing: “Hey, what’s that noise? You cleaning?”

You freeze, fingers halfway through folding a T-shirt. You laugh softly, trying to sound casual like it’s nothing. “No. Definitely not.”

She hums, amused. “Mhm, sure.”

You sigh, shoving the shirt aside. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m tidying a little.”

Her laugh is soft, knowing. “A little?”

You shake your head, voice light but defensive. “I’m not cleaning. I don’t need to clean.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, voice thick with a smile you can’t see. “Because what, you think I’m coming over? No reason to make your room look nice?”

You hesitate, shirt still bunched in your hands, the fabric soft and warm from your palms. Her voice lingers in the air, half-teasing, half-knowing, like she’s watching you even through the quiet hum of your speaker. You don’t answer right away. The silence breathes.

“I’m not cleaning,” you say, finally, sharper than you meant it. Defensive. A little too fast. “Why would I be cleaning?”

The clock on your nightstand reads 1:12 a.m. It’s the time when everything feels too honest, the walls go soft, and your skin feels a little too aware of itself.

Tashi hums. You can hear the clink of her glass-ice against crystal, that rich little sound that tells you she’s poured herself more. Settling in. Comfortable. Like this is normal. She does this when her best friend’s daughter can’t sleep and texts her at midnight, asking if she still wants that drink.

“Mm. No reason,” she says. “Just sounded like you were getting ready for something.”

You roll your eyes. She can’t see you, but it still feels like a tell. You toss the shirt aside and land crooked on the half-folded bed like a half-lie.

“I’m not,” you say again. “It’s just… the floor was a mess.”

Which is true. But that mess didn’t bother you earlier. It didn’t bother you at dinner or when your mom said goodnight and disappeared upstairs at half past ten with that familiar yawn and a reminder to lock up. Twenty minutes ago, it didn’t bother you when you were still lying in your sleep shirt, scrolling through your camera roll with that low buzz in your stomach.

But then Tashi said yes.

You told yourself that she was just being polite wasn't a big deal. It wasn’t weird, but now, as you shift a tangled hoodie off your chair and tuck it into the laundry basket, you can feel how aware you are of the space. Of the way, the lamp glows with the vague scent of your lotion still clinging to your wrists.

It’s not for her. You’re not fixing your room because your mom’s friend, who’s been in your life since you were eleven and always smelled like expensive perfume and wine-dark lipstick, said she’d come by for a nightcap.

You’re just… tidying.

“Uh-huh,” she murmurs, with that soft, crooked smile you can hear more than see. “So this isn’t you trying to make things look nice before I come over.”

You lie back against your pillows, your heart thudding stupidly and slowly. The fan clicks softly overhead. You can feel your skin, the bare curve of your thighs under the hem of your shorts, and the heat in your cheeks that isn’t from the blanket.

“I didn’t ask you to come over,” you mutter.

“No,” she says sweetly. “You just asked if I wanted to drink with you. Since your mom’s already asleep.”

And it sounded harmless at the time. But now it’s 1:15 in the morning, and your room smells like clean sheets, and the idea of Tashi Duncan in your doorway feels less like a hypothetical and more like a pulse beneath your skin.

“I’m not cleaning,” you say again, more firm this time. If you say it with enough conviction, it’ll be true. “I’m not… prepping or whatever. It’s not that serious.”

There’s a pause, and you can hear her sip. Another ice clink. The sound of her lips parting just slightly before she lets the drink settle on her tongue. She doesn’t answer, but you can feel her disbelief stretching through the silence. Warm. Heavy. Like her eyes would be if she were standing just inside the doorway.

You sit up straighter, your legs folding beneath you and your blanket slipping to your hips. “I’m not trying to make it look nice before you come over,” you add, your voice lower now. More careful. It won’t feel like a lie if you say it slowly enough.

Still, the room is too quiet. Still, you feel that twitch in your chest, right beneath your collarbone-guilt or anticipation, you can’t tell. Your phone is hot against your ear. You imagine how she’s sitting: one leg tucked under the other, glass in hand, that look she gets when she’s humoring you when she knows more than she lets on.

You run a hand through your hair, catching slightly on a tangle near the back. Your fingers pause there for a second, hooked in the knot like they’re stuck on something else entirely. You untangle it without thinking, nails grazing your scalp, the motion slow and absentminded, like if you’re gentle enough, it won’t pull. Perhaps tonight, nothing has to be drawn. “Do you… still have the key?” you ask, as casually as you can manage. “The one my mom gave you for emergencies.” You toss it out like it’s just a detail. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you’re not already picturing her standing on your porch, hand hovering near the lock.

A pause stretches out on the line. Not long, not suspicious- just long enough to make you wonder if the question landed too soft. If maybe the air between you swallowed it. If she’s pretending not to hear it. But then-

“I do,” she says. Her voice is steady and straightforward, as if this isn’t a question with history inside it. “Your mom never asked for it back,” she says.

You nod automatically, even though she can’t see you. You glance toward the door without meaning to. “Right,” you say, but it sounds far away in your mouth. Your gaze lingers in the hallway like you’re already expecting movement. Like the air’s already shifted around her ghost.

There’s another pause- thicker this time, not uncomfortable but full. You can hear the engine hum gently behind her, maybe the soft tick of her turn signal. And then her voice again, softened like worn cotton: “Do you want me to use it?”

The question is careful. Not shy, not uncertain, but balanced-weighted with something she’s trying not to push too hard. You let out a breath you didn’t even realize you’d been holding, chest loosening around the ribs in a way that makes you dizzy. It’s not relief. Not really. But it’s not dread either. Just something fluttery and uncertain. Something suspended between maybe and yes.

You chew the inside of your cheek, eyes skimming your room without seeing it. The mess is still there, still obnoxious. Piles of clothes clean, some not. A pair of jeans draped over your chair like a corpse. You hadn’t even touched your vanity. Your mirror is still smudged with fingerprints, moisturizer thumbprints, and maybe a little dust. You pull the blanket tighter around your waist like that’ll cover more than just your legs. Like that’ll somehow shield you from being seen too much. You feel suddenly thirteen again, like she caught you playing dress-up in her heels, and she didn’t say anything; she just smiled.

“…Yeah,” you say finally, the word landing soft and full. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

Your voice slips out smaller than you thought it would. Not shy. Not timid. But raw in that way things are when you don’t bother to hide them. Like you’re done pretending it’s just a friendly drop-in. Like you’re letting her hear the truth hanging around the edges. That kind of openness that only leaks out after midnight, when the house is quiet, and your skin feels like it doesn’t quite belong to you.

“But,” you add, your voice flickering a little brighter, trying to steady itself. “Just- can you let me know when you’re already at the door? Like, say it. On the phone.”

You don’t know why you say that. Or you do. You just don’t want to admit it. You want a warning. You want time. You want to hear her voice in your ear when she’s standing on the other side. Not a knock. Not a surprise. Just her voice, letting you know I’m here. Get me.

There’s a pause again. A beat of silence thick enough to feel in your throat. And then you hear it. No words yet, just the shape of a smile curling behind the line.

“You want me to announce myself?”

You roll your eyes toward the ceiling, exhaling through a grin you try to smother. “Yes, Tashi. Just don’t sneak in. I’ll come down.”

And she laughs.

God- it’s so quiet. But it hits you like a wave. That breathy, honest kind of laugh she never gives to cameras. The kind that sneaks out sideways when she’s caught a little off guard. You hear it, and your stomach flips. It’s like warmth under your ribs, like someone lit a candle in your chest, burning slowly.

“Alright,” she murmurs, and there’s something close to fondness in it. Something that makes your throat feel tight. “I’ll announce myself.”

You close your eyes, just for a second. The line hums between you. Not silent. Not full of words. Just alive. And you sit there, curled into the quiet, heart knocking once against your ribs as it knows like it heard something in her voice that your brain hasn’t caught up with yet.

You didn’t hear anything.

Not the low rumble of her car easing up the curb, not the gravel crunching under tires, not even the click of the gate- if she’d even bothered to close it behind her. Nothing. No cue. No build-up. No warning. Just the television murmuring some rerun in the background of your room, the volume turned too low to follow the plot but too high to feel like silence. That soft, useless kind of noise you’d left on without thinking, the kind that fills a space but doesn’t keep you company.

And her. Still on the phone. Still breathing on the other end. She’s always had that quiet, steady presence, even when not saying anything. You’d almost forgotten she was still there, still driving, still on her way-until she wasn’t.

You’re in bed. On your side, one arm curled under your pillow, the other holding the phone too close to your face. Your tank top’s wrinkled from how you’d been rolling around, pressing your knees together and not doing anything else. Just waiting. Without saying that’s what you were doing.

And then, like she’d dropped the match right into the middle of it, “I’m here.”

Two words. Soft, maybe even gentle. But they slice clean through the room like they’d been waiting for the silence to land in.

You freeze.

Because of something about how she says it low and a little too close to the mic, her voice never really sounds unless she’s in a smaller space.

And then your whole body’s moving.

You’re already halfway up before your brain gives permission. You don’t stop to think. You don’t ask if she meant it literally. You know she did. Your body knows it before your mouth can shape a reaction. You’re out of bed in a blur, your sockless feet thudding down the hallway, the phone still clutched in your hand like it might explain something if someone saw you like this. It could justify how you’re dressed, how fast your heart’s beating, or that you’re not even trying to play it cool.

And you don’t hear the key at first.

You’re already on the stairs, halfway down, adrenaline rushing so loud in your ears you could’ve sworn you were alone in the moment you had time. You still had a beat before she’d be right there before you.

But then it happens.

That slow, practiced turn of the lock. The deadbolt gives in like it’s always been hers to open. Then, the door shifted against its frame with the softest kind of surrender. The way only people you trust too much come through.

And then her voice again, this time not from your phone.

Not filtered through distance or speaker static or the safety of conversation. Real. In your house. From the hall.

“I figured you didn’t hear me.”

Like she’s always had a key. Like this wasn’t a big deal. Like you weren’t already standing in the middle of the stairs, barefoot, heartbeat in your mouth, wearing the kind of tank top you never meant for her to see you in like this.

She doesn’t even look up at first. Just kicks the door shut behind her with the heel of one boot, her coat still half-buttoned, hair a little windblown, like maybe she’d been driving with the window cracked. One hand was still wrapped around her phone. She’s not wearing makeup. Or perhaps she wiped it off in the car. Her lips look clean and soft. Tired, maybe.

You don’t say anything. Can’t. You just stand there on the stairs, still halfway between levels, your shoulder pressed to the banister like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. You haven’t hung up. Neither has she. Her voice still hums through the line clutched in your hand, an echo or a memory that hasn’t caught up yet.

She looks at you.

And for a second second, there’s something raw in her face. Some flicker she doesn’t cover fast enough. Not softness, exactly. Not relief. Just something that sees you.

“Hi,” she says, and it’s quieter in person than it ever was on the phone.

You’re not sure if you answer or even breathe.

She walks toward the stairs, slowly, like she’s giving you a second to move, to meet her halfway, to stop her if this was all a mistake. But you don’t. You stay exactly where you are. And so does she when she gets to the bottom step. Looking up at you.

Neither of you is high enough to have the advantage. Not really. You’re still in your tank top. She’s still in her coat. The heat hasn’t even settled into her clothes yet. She looks out of place here, standing in your hallway, close enough that you can smell her perfume. The same one you always recognize but never name.

Her fingers twitch like maybe she wants to say something to them. Maybe reach out.

But she doesn’t.

And then soft, measured, like she’s testing the weight of it:

“Were you going to come down?”

You swallow, but your throat’s too dry to make a sound of it. Just a blink. A breath. A half-step forward that doesn’t register until you feel the wood under your foot instead of the carpet. Like your body moving on instinct and the rest of you lagging.

She doesn’t move. She doesn’t have to. She’s already in the middle of the hallway, with the door softly shut behind her. Her hand is still half-curled around her phone like it’s the only thing tethering her to the version of this where she’s not breaking a line.

You say, “Yeah.” And it’s the smallest thing. Practically a whisper. But she hears it because, of course, she does. She always hears you when you don’t mean to be heard.

Her mouth twitches at the corner, not quite a smile. More like she’s relieved you spoke at all.

“You were still on the line,” she says, holding up the phone like proof. “Didn’t wanna scare you.”

“You didn’t.”

A lie. Or something close. You’re still trying to catch up to your heartbeat, still figuring out what part of you bolted for the stairs without a plan. But you don’t walk it back. You don’t explain. You just make it down the last two steps and stop short in front of her, close enough that the heat trapped inside her coat is starting to bleed into the air between you.

She looks at you for a second longer. Not just a glance- she looks. Like she’s cataloging the tank top, the way your hair’s a mess from your pillow, the grip you haven’t loosened on your phone. Her eyes fall to it, then back up, slower this time. Like she’s making a decision she already made ten minutes ago but wants to make it again right here.

You ask quietly, “So you used the key to come in?”

She doesn’t blink.

“I didn’t want to wait.”

You stare at her, and something in your chest shifts- just slightly, just enough to feel. You don’t say anything, but you don’t have to. The silence does it for you, humming heavily between your bodies like something just shy of a yes.

Your phone’s still in your hand. Still warm from the call. You glance down at it, the screen lighting up uselessly beneath your fingers, still clinging to the line. Still holding her voice like it hasn’t already moved past the speakers and into your hallway.

You press the red circle. End it like it matters. Like she’s not standing right here.

The screen goes black, and the phone’s weight suddenly feels stupid in your hand. You’d been holding it out of habit, not purpose. Without thinking, you set it on the edge of the stair rail and hear it make the softest clack against the wood. Her eyes follow the sound, then flick back to you.

“Kitchen?” you offer, voice low.

She doesn’t answer. She follows.

You move first, not looking to see if she’s right behind you, but knowing. You can feel her presence tugging at your back like static, like tension. The kind that builds slowly gets into your blood and makes your fingers clumsy when you open the fridge just to do something.

Light spills out in a dull glow, too cold against your flushed skin. You lean your hip into the counter and stare blankly at the shelves like you’re looking for something you already know you won’t find. Maybe pretending you don’t see what you’re looking for feels safer than naming it out loud.

She doesn’t say anything. She’s in the doorway, watching you like it’s not the kitchen she came here for.

Not really. Not tonight.

You pretend not to notice. Open a cabinet too loudly. Let the glass knock against the counter like you’re thinking about something else- like you’re still playing it cool, even though nothing about your heartbeat is. You feel her eyes on you, heavier than the quiet, steady in a way that makes your neck warm.

Then she speaks softly like she’s easing the question out of herself.

“What do you and your mom drink… when you go out together?”

You blink.

It’s not what you expected. Not quite. You look over your shoulder, and she’s still there crossed, mouth unsure like the words came out before she could check if they were dumb. Like, she’s not sure if that counted as prying.

You take a beat, glass still in hand, then let the edge of your mouth twitch up. “Depends. Wine, if she’s trying to be classy. Margaritas if she’s trying to get me to gossip. Tequila if we’re both trying to forget shit.”

That makes her smile a little. Not all the way, but enough. Enough to soften her mouth. Enough to make you wonder what she really wants to know.

You turn and lean back against the counter now, your hip finding the spot it always does like this is any other night. She’s not dressed like that, and the air isn’t thick with whatever she hasn’t said yet.

You turn and lean back against the counter now, your hip finding the spot it always does like this is just any other night. She’s not standing there in silk silk and a coat like she didn’t drive here in the dark just to see you.

Your eyes flick toward her carefully. She’s still by the doorway. Not moving. Not saying anything. Just looking at you like she does when she’s about to say something that’ll stay in your head for weeks. Months, maybe.

You clear your throat just a little. Then, casual, too casual, you ask, “So… what do you want to drink with me?”

Not what do you usually drink. Not what do you want. Just that small, specific weight at the end of it with me.

She doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers brush the table’s edge like she’s thinking it over. This is more serious than you meant it to sound.

Then she finally says, “What do we have?”

And when she says, “Not you, not your mom, not this house,” your stomach tightens just enough to feel it.

You shrug, glancing toward the cabinets, then back at her. “I don’t really drink at home,” you admit, voice low. “So… just pick whatever you want. Whatever looks good.”

You try to sound breezy, unaffected. But it comes out quieter than you meant, like you’re afraid of breaking whatever this is. You’re not sure what’ll happen if she picks something too firm or soft or walks all the way in instead of standing there like she hasn’t already crossed a line just by being here.

Tashi doesn’t say anything. Just steps into the room like she owns the silence between you, her coat slipping more off one shoulder as she moves toward the cabinet. Her hand grazes your arm when she passes, light, deliberate, and completely unnecessary. Your skin sparks like it’s been waiting for that exact kind of contact, like it’s been rehearsing it in dreams you don’t admit to having.

She opens the door and browses like it’s a bookstore, like she’s looking for something familiar. “You used to have that peach liqueur,” she says after a moment, half to herself. “Your mom swore it tasted better over ice, but I always liked it neat.”

You blink. “She still has it.” Like it’s some little secret you’re sharing, like a fact that settles something between you.

Her mouth quirks up, that half-smile she’s been saving for moments like this when she’s unsure if she’s amused or just trying to look calm. “Good. Then that’s what I want.”

You reach for the bottle, that peach schnapps your mom and Tashi always drink when they’re here together, the one that tastes like syrup and sunburn and afternoons that stretch too long. You hold it like it’s a clue you’re handing her, like maybe it’ll say something you both haven’t dared to say out loud yet.

“But I don’t really drink that at home,” you say, your voice folding around the words like you’re telling her some new fact she didn’t know about you. “Too sweet. Too fake. Like it’s trying too hard to be fun or something, I don’t do that. That’s not me.”

You set two glasses down for her, one for yourself. How your hand brushes the counter feels like you’re waiting for the room to catch up, waiting for her to catch the weight of what you just said.

“I’m more the hard stuff kind of person,” you add, and you can’t help the smirk that pulls at the corner of your mouth. “Tequila, gin, things that hit you where it hurts, and don’t apologize for it.”

You watch her, eyes steady, daring her to say something or maybe just daring her to meet you where the sweet meets the sharp, and nothing’s quite what it seems.

She shifts like she’s weighing whether to step closer or retreat into the doorway she claimed moments ago. The silence hums between you- thick but fragile like a secret waiting to spill.

“You always do this,” you say finally, voice casual but low. “You show up out of nowhere, asking for a drink with my mom. I don’t know if I should be grateful she’s already asleep or annoyed she’s missing all the fun.”

She swallows, and you catch that flicker - that small crack in her calm. Because yeah, you both know the history here. The lines that were never crossed but always hovered just beneath the surface. The way she’s always been careful not to stay too long, not to look too hard, not to linger when your eyes caught hers across a too-quiet room.

“So,” you say, your voice just a little rougher now, a little lower, “what’s really going on tonight?”

She’s still standing there like she hasn’t decided whether to come all the way in. If she does, something shifts. Something tips.

Like her being here becomes something else that becomes real. Becomes a choice.

Her coat’s slipping further down her shoulder now, satin catching the soft yellow light of the kitchen like it’s staged, like the universe is lighting her from some impossible angle just for you. But she doesn’t fix it. Doesn’t notice, or maybe does and leaves it anyway. The curve of her collarbone is bare. Clean. Unbothered. She didn’t drive here with a headache, heartache, and no idea what she’d say once she got to your door.

You don’t press. Not yet. You just look at her and let her decide how far she wants to take it.

But she doesn’t say anything.

So you do.

“…Is it about the divorce?”

You don’t say it is cruel. You don’t say it curious, either. You just say it straight. Maybe you’re tired of pretending she came here for the peach schnapps and not something bleeding under her skin. Something that brought her here in the dark, wearing perfume and silence and that expression she always puts on when she doesn’t want anyone to know she’s hurting.

Her mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not a frown. Just something caught in between, like she’s been holding her breath since she parked the car and doesn’t know how to let it out.

Her gaze drops to your hand, one still holding the bottle, and she steps closer.

The sound of her heels on the tile is soft but final, like a clock ticking over to the next hour. Her fingers wrap slowly around the neck of it, brushing yours, warm, present, and a little too firm to pretend it didn’t happen.

She takes it from you like you offered it, like you didn’t mean to, but maybe you did.

She pours carefully. Steady. Like the quiet between you hasn’t thickened into something close to guilt.

Or want.

Or both, messy and knotted up, sitting in your throat like something sweet you’re trying not to choke on.

Two glasses. There’s no rush. There are no excuses. She doesn’t look at you while she does it; she just watches the syrupy liquid rise in both. That seems safer, as if it gives her time.

Once they’re full, she slides one across to you without speaking. Then she picks hers up, turning it once between her fingers like she’s still deciding what to say or if she should say anything at all. The glass catches the light. Her nail clinks against it, absentminded.

You don’t touch yours yet.

You watch her.

You wait.

She exhales. “I didn’t think I’d say anything.”

Her voice is lower now. Not soft, exactly, but undone in a way you’ve never really heard before. Like she’s halfway through the thought and hasn’t decided if she trusts it enough to finish it.

You glance up. “You didn’t have to come here to talk.”

“I didn’t,” she says, a little too quick. A little too automatic.

You nod slowly. “Okay.”

But you both know that’s not true.

You don’t even have to say it. It just sits there between you, evident as the drinks and the hour and the way her eyes won’t quite meet yours.

And when you finally reach for your glass, her eyes follow your hand like she wants to stop you. Maybe you’ve already heard too much. Perhaps this is already more intimate than it should be.

You take a sip anyway. Let it burn.

Then, after a beat that lasts longer than it should: “You’re allowed to fall apart, you know.”

She stiffens-not all the way, not enough for anyone else to notice. But you do. You feel it in how she adjusts her weight and her thumb stills on the glass.

She stares down into her drink. “Not in front of just anyone.”

Her voice is quieter now. Not hushed, but stripped.

You swallow. Quiet. Slow.

“Good thing I’m not just anyone.”

Her eyes flick up at that fast, sharp, like a reflex she didn’t mean to show.

And for a second, she doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. Just watches you in the way she does when her mouth wants to be clever, but her chest is too tight for it.

Then she says it quietly, flat, almost defensive:

“No. You’re not.”

Her voice isn’t cold. It’s careful like she’s trying to hold something back that has already slipped out.

“You’re my friend’s daughter.”

It’s not a joke. Not a tease. It’s a warning. A reminder. A fucking line in the sand that she’s already ankle-deep in.

And she knows it.

You just blink at her. Not mocking. Not flinching. Just standing there, looking back at her like you already knew she’d say it, and you don’t care.

And that makes it worse.

Because god, you shouldn’t be looking at her like that. Not with your lip caught between your teeth. Not with your neck bare in that tank top. It’s not like she’s the one who made you this bold.

Tashi breathes in slowly and steadily like she’s trying to cool something off inside her ribs.

Fucking hell, she thinks, you could be my daughter.

Not biologically. Not legally. But emotionally? Practically?

She watched you grow up. Ate birthday cake in this kitchen. Drove you to volleyball practice once when your mom was sick. You had braces the first time she ever heard you cry in this house. You used to beg to stay up late just to listen to her and your mother talk shit over wine.

And now you’re standing across from her, grown, calm, a little offering her a drink like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like the rules never applied.

And maybe they didn’t.

Because she called you tonight, not your mother.

She knew what she was doing. Somewhere, under all the grief and mess, she knew.

You tilt your head a little, watching her unravel one inch at a time, and then say soft, amused:

“So, why did you call me instead of her?”

Her eyes drop before you even finish the question.

Not in guilt, exactly. More like avoidance. She already knows what you’re asking and is not ready to answer it out loud. Or maybe she’s just tired of lying to herself about it.

She presses her palm against the counter, fingers splayed like bracing herself against something heavier than gravity. You watch her shoulders settle- not relaxed, not tense, but somewhere in between, like she’s practiced this exact posture in a mirror. A long pause. Then:

“She’s usually asleep by now.”

You hum, dry. A quiet scoff under your breath, not cruel-just real.

“Still not an answer.”

That gets you a glance. Quick. Sharp at the edges. Like she’s weighing whether to snap or shrug.

And you let the silence stretch, just for a second. You know her well enough by now. She’s not the type to spill unless it starts to burn. And something about tonight smells like smoke.

She exhales, barely. A breath that folds her in on herself, slow and reluctant, like it costs her something to keep talking. Her hand lifts to her temple, thumb dragging across her forehead like she’s trying to rub something out, a headache, a memory, the echo of your voice.

And then, quieter, almost like it’s for herself:

“I didn’t want to have that kind of conversation tonight.”

Your brow arches just slightly. You don’t lean in, but your gaze sharpens and narrows.

“What kind of conversation?”

You know the answer already. You just want her to say it. You want to see if she’ll be honest when it’s just the two of you, the lights are dim, and the house feels like a different version of itself.

She doesn’t look at you. Not right away. Just reaches for the bottle in silence, fingers curling around her neck like she’s done this before. This is muscle memory, not a choice. Her movements are smooth and practiced but not casual. You catch the subtle tremor in her wrist as she unscrews the cap. The quick, tight inhale she pulls through her nose before she tips the bottle.

“The kind where I have to pretend I’m okay.”

The words hit the counter like a dropped spoon-soft but loud enough in a room this quiet.

It lands between you like heat. A private admission dressed as a throwaway line. You don’t flinch, but it sinks into you anyway.

She pours your glass first, then her own, steady now. Doesn’t meet your eyes until both are filled. When she finally does, there’s no apology in it. Just a kind of fatigue. And underneath it, something sharp. Something still alive.

You let your hand close around the glass, fingers tracing the rim without lifting it. The peach smell hits your nose- syrupy and familiar. It smells like summer nights you weren’t invited to. Like how your mom would giggle after three sips, and Tashi would just smile without explaining why.

But this isn’t then. And she isn’t smiling.

“And I’m the easier option?”

You say it like you’re teasing, but your voice is low, unreadable.

Tashi’s mouth presses into a line. Not a flinch, exactly, but close. You can see it in how her jaw shifts; it is like she swallowed something bitter.

Then, deadpan:

“You’re not easy.”

A pause.

Her eyes hold yours, steady now. No smile. Just heat.

“You’re just… not her.”

There’s a beat of silence that doesn’t rush to fill itself. She looks down into her glass for a moment, like it might tell her something.

And then she says it. Half under her breath, almost careless but not quite:

“And that’s not nothing.”

You don’t smile. You don’t joke. You let the weight of it hang.

The thing is, she’s known your mother for decades. Long enough that most people forget to filter around each other. Long enough that she saw your mother fall in love, felt the weight of those early, fragile promises, and witnessed the slow unraveling that came later. She’s been there through the celebrations and the silences, through moments in grander homes and quieter nights.

She knows the exact shape of your mother’s laugh, her wrist bends when she pours a drink, and her silence when she fears being seen.

And yet, somehow, you’re the one she called tonight.

Not your mom.

You lean against the counter again, slow and deliberate, letting the space between you shrink-not with steps, but with a shared understanding that neither of you is pretending anymore.

“Is it about the divorce?” You asks again.

The question slices through the quiet like a blade-clean, unavoidable. No fluff. No circumnavigation. Just the raw truth hovering between you.

She doesn’t answer right away.

Her fingers tap lightly on the side of the glass. Once. Twice.

Her mouth twitches like she’s about to deflect, joke, or change the subject. The words catch in her throat.

Then, quietly- just above a whisper, but firm, certain, “Everything is, lately.”

She doesn’t look away when she says it. Hold your gaze instead, steady and real.

And that- more than anything- makes you still.

Because she doesn’t deny it.

Don’t try to redirect or hide behind worn excuses.

She just stands there in the kitchen of her best friend’s house, across from the one person she probably shouldn’t be drinking with, eyes too clear, glass full of something sweeter than she probably wants.

When she takes a sip, you follow.

You don’t even think about it, really. Your hand moves. Like your body’s already whatever she does, you do. Like some part of you’s still following her lead, even now, even here, when she shouldn’t be leading anything at all.

The drink is sweeter than you expected. Syrupy. It coats your throat, lingers on your tongue, and tastes like something people drink on porches in towns where nothing ever happens. It’s not like this kitchen, not like this night. It’s the kind of sweetness that tries to pass itself off as innocent, like fruit punch at a church picnic, but there’s nothing pure about it. It stays too long. Sticks to the back of your teeth. Refuses to let go.

You swallow and watch her over the rim of your glass.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t flinch or twitch or shift. She just sets hers down like that’s the end of it. Like she’s done now. Like that one line- everything is, lately- is supposed to be enough. Like it should land and stick and explain away the years. That’s an answer and not a deflection dressed up like closure.

You let a beat pass. Just one. A silent exhale between the two of you, a space she could fill if she wanted, but she doesn’t. So you set your glass down, too. A soft clink, perfectly timed. Not dramatic. Just… placed. Like punctuation. Like you’re drawing a line in the sand with glass and liquor.

“So.” You tilt your head a little. Let the pause hang between syllables. Let it linger just long enough to press, not prod. “Why’d you really split?”

It comes out calm. Easy. Like you’re asking about the weather. Or about how long she plans to stay. But your eyes don’t leave her face. Not once. You want to see the first crack, the first tell, the first little shift that says you’ve touched a nerve.

She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even blink. Just shifts her weight like her shoes don’t fit right. She might just turn and walk out, take the bottle with her, leave you to drink in her absence, and sit in the echo of the things she didn’t say.

You give her a second. Maybe two. Long enough to take them out if she wants it. Long enough to walk away. She doesn’t.

Then, casual as anything: “I mean… ‘mutual’?” You lift your brows and sip your sarcasm. “Sure. That’s believable.”

She glances at you once, quickly like a flick of light off the glass. Like she’s just checking if you’re serious or if this is some kind of joke. But nothing in her expression moves.

So you smile. Not nice. Just sharp enough to scratch.

“What was it?” you ask like you’re playing a party game. “Too many nights apart? Too many cameras in your face? Was it one of those situations where you both wanted ‘different things�� but didn’t actually say what they were?”

Nothing. No reaction.

You keep going.

“Maybe he got tired of you telling him what to do.” You lean on the counter, chin propped on your knuckles. “Or maybe you got tired of pretending like he ever listened.”

She exhales slowly. Measured. But her fingers flex against the edge of the counter as she braces herself for a gust of wind that hasn’t yet come. She knows what’s coming next and is already doing the math to determine whether it’s worth staying for.

And you-it only fuels you. That stillness she hides behind. That constant calculation. If she stays perfectly quiet, none of this will count. Like silence is a shield.

You tilt your head the other way. Smile smaller now. Meaner, maybe.

“Could’ve been the retirement,” you say, offhand, eyes on your glass as it might explain her. “He brought it up, right? Not you.”

You don’t have to look up to know it lands. The quiet gives it away - not stiff, just still, like she’s trying not to react.

“He was the one who said it out loud first. Said he was done. Wanted out. Wanted to stop playing before it got uglier.”

You pause and swirl what’s left in your glass.

“Didn’t even fight you on it, I bet. Just… said it. Like it was nothing.”

You lift your eyes to her, slow. “But I don’t think you liked that.”

Still no answer, but something shifts - a faint breath through her nose, a muscle tightening in her cheek.

“Not because you wanted him to keep playing,” you add, voice light now, almost amused. “Let’s be real. He was barely holding it together. He could’ve thrown his back out tying his shoes.”

You smirk into your sip.

“No, I think you hated it because you weren’t saying it.”

Now she looks at you. Finally, it’s that look - not angry, not defensive, just… exposed. Like you pulled a thread she didn’t think you’d find.

“You were supposed to end it,” you say. “When you were ready. When you were done. Not him.”

A slow blink from her. Nothing else.

“You spent half your life turning him into something bigger than he was,” you continue. “Managing him, building him. Cleaning up his losses, stacking his wins. And he just… took that and handed it back to you. Said he didn’t want it anymore.”

Another pause. You set your glass down, soft.

“Bet that pissed you off more than anything else.”

You don’t smile now. You look at her. Quiet. Direct.

“Not because he quit,” you say. “But because he got to be the one who let you go first.”

Still nothing. Not really. But you can feel her silence now. It’s active. Charged. Like the pause before thunder. Like she’s daring you to say more because she won’t.

“God,” you say, dragging it out, light and cruel and just a little amused, “I can only imagine the arguments.”

You lift your glass again and swirl the liquid, looking for something to do or touch that isn’t her.

“But I mean… you were better than him.”

You shrug casually. “That’s not even opinion. Everyone said it. You were supposed to be the one who went the distance.”

She looks away, toward the stove, like it might rescue her. Like she wants to ask you to stop but won’t.

You keep going.

“But then your knee blew out, and he got a golden ticket, and you pivoted like the pro you are. Coach. Wife. Brand manager. Career midwife. You pretty much rebuilt him from the ground up.”

A pause. You lower your glass.

So you lean in a little. Eyes on her mouth.

“Or maybe you cheated on him?”

That does it.

Her head turns slowly like she’s already exhausted by you, but she can’t not look. Can’t hear what you’re really asking.

“Was it someone you knew already? Fucked someone he knows?” you ask, half-curious, half-slicing. “Or just a stranger?”

Still nothing.

You click your tongue, teeth catching your bottom lip like you’re trying not to laugh.

“Guess that’s a yes.” Yes, to the cheating. Clocked it.

You don’t flinch when she sets the glass down like that. Not quite a slam, but sharp enough to echo against the counter, against your ribs. Loud enough to mean something, even if it’s not clear what. A line in the sand. A flare is going up. A warning, maybe, though you don’t need it.

You just watch her. Her head was tilted slightly, her hip was against the counter, and her posture was loose, as if you were not reading every flick of her eyes. Like you’re not cataloging every breath. You wait because you think she’ll give you something, but because silence, lately, is the only thing that feels like power.

And when she doesn’t speak and move, doesn’t deny, doesn’t defend, laugh again. This time quieter. Smaller. Less venom, more disbelief. Not even for her benefit. If you don’t laugh, you’ll fall into that old habit of softening things for her. And you’re too fucking tired for that.

Then: “You know,” you say, almost thoughtful, voice a little breezy, a little too casual for the weight of the room, “for someone who can talk circles around a loss, you got real quiet when I said the word cheating.”

That’s the thing that does it.

Her head snaps toward you so fast it cuts the air sharply, and suddenly, she seems to have forgotten how to hold still. She also appears to have forgotten that you aren’t that kid anymore.

“Oh, fuck you.”

It’s not loud. It’s not even harsh. But it lands hard. Loaded. Raw. The filter finally slipped, and her authentic voice came out underneath. The one she’s been biting back since she walked in the door.

You blink, slow. Then, you’re slight, smug, and mean because you’re not trying to be fair. Not tonight. Not after everything.

“There it is.”

“No,” she says, jaw tight, shoulders squared like she’s gearing up for a serve. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like you caught something. Like you know something.”

“Didn’t I?”

She scoffs, breath sharp and bitter. “You threw a grenade and waited to see if I flinched. Congratulations. You’re exhausting.”

You laugh through your nose. Short. Sharp. Then step back like the moment doesn’t weigh a damn thing-leaning into the counter like it’s all just a joke now, like you’re watching it unfold from somewhere else.

“You could’ve said no.”

“I don’t owe you an answer,” she spits, a little more venom now like she’s only just realizing you’re not going to back off.

“But you gave me one anyway.”

“No,” she says again, her voice rising steadier. “You decided what it was. You always do that. Fill in the blanks. Make it fit whatever story you want to believe.”

You lift your brows, unimpressed. Your glass sweats in your hand, still half full. Still ignored. “It wouldn’t have hit so hard if it weren’t true.”

Her hands brace the counter like it’s the only thing tethering her to the floor. She’s leaning forward now, with weight in her arms and tight across the shoulders, like she wants to run, hit something, or both. Like she’s burning from the inside out and trying not to show it.

“You think I came here to be accused?” she snaps, eyes cutting toward you like a blade.

And you, you almost laugh. Not because it’s funny. But because she still thinks that works. She can raise her voice, pull rank, and pretend she doesn’t know precisely what she walked into. Like she didn’t sit in her car for ten minutes outside before ringing the bell.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, all mock-innocent, your glass still in your hand, fingers loose around it like you’re trying hard not to throw it. “Is that not what this is?”

She flinches barely, but you catch it. A twitch. A stutter in her breath. And it’s enough. You step in a little closer. Not touching. Just pushing the space like it’s a boundary she forgot she gave you. Like you’re letting her remember who you are now.

“What the fuck did you expect me to think?” you ask, low, steady, almost nice. Like you’re not ripping into her. Like you’re not waiting for her to bleed.

She doesn’t answer. Of course, she doesn’t. The silence between you stretches, pulled taut like a wire about to snap.

You tilt your head and let your eyes sweep her slow neck to shoulder, mouth to jaw. She’s too close for this to be nothing. Not casual. Not innocent. Not even remotely smart.

“So what, then?” you ask, your voice soft now, too soft like you’re already bored with this game. “You called looking for my mom. She was asleep, and I offered. Now we’re here. Drinking. Like, that’s not weird. You didn’t just get divorced and think this would feel the same.”

Still nothing. But her mouth’s a little tighter now. Her throat works around a swallow, and she won’t let you hear. You can practically see the war she’s fighting behind her eyes.

“Is that the vibe you were going for?” you press, smiling like it’s a dare. “Little kitchen reunion with your friend’s daughter?”

Her eyes flick just once. Like she didn’t think you’d go there. Like she thought you would stay polite. Like she still thought you were someone she could manage.

But you don’t let up.

“You know how old I am, right?” you ask, raising your brows. “Or were you counting on the fact that I still look sweet enough to get carded?”

She still hasn’t answered, which only makes it worse, more pathetic, and more damning.

“Jesus,” you mutter, laughing a little now because you’ll scream if you don’t laugh. “Did you come here to drink with someone who could literally be your daughter, or were you just hoping I wouldn’t call it what it is?”

You let the question hang. Nasty and pointed and a little too honest. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. But her jaw sets like she’s chewing something down-grief, guilt, or a comeback she can’t land.

“So what now, Aunt Tashi?” you add, voice dripping with mock the way you used to say it when you were a kid, back when your mom told you to call her that like it meant something. Like she was just some benevolent presence in your life instead of a woman who’d later show up drunk at your door at midnight. “You come crying to me now that it’s all falling apart?”

That gets her. A flicker. A tightening around the eyes. As the words hit somewhere soft, she forgot she was still sore.

But she doesn’t break.

So you go for the throat.

“Yeah, sure. You just happened to end up here, with me, of all people. Just a little nostalgic drive, right? Nothing to do with guilt or needing someone to say it out loud.”

You pause, glass hovering near your mouth. Her eyes are on it. You know she’s watching your hands now.

“And maybe you came because you wanted someone to make you feel like shit for it.”

You sip, slow. Unbothered. Let her sit in it. Let it thicken the air between you.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. But the silence tells you everything. It hangs there like a guilty verdict, waiting to be read aloud.

So you give it voice.

“Bet he still defends you. Even now. Isn’t that pathetic?”

She blinks slowly. Her jaw twitches. But she doesn’t speak, and that only feeds you.

“Man’s out here playing loyal husband, and you couldn’t even keep your legs closed.”

Her head tilts, barely like she’s trying not to react like she’s calculating the exact amount of rage she can swallow without choking on it. But you’re not done. Not when she still thinks she can wear that calm- like armor.

“You had a man who worshipped the ground you walked on.” You lean in just enough to make it hurt, voice soft like cruelty in a whisper. “You pissed on it instead.”

That’s when she breaks.

Not loud. Not dramatic. But her hand clenches on the counter, and her breath stutters out of her nose in a way that makes your chest go hot like you hit something deeper than anger. Maybe, for just a second thought, she could still keep her dignity intact.

Too fucking late for that.

Her knuckles go white on the counter. She stares at it like it might offer her a way out. For example, if she doesn’t look at you, she won’t have to admit how much that landed.

But then-

“I swear to God,” she says, voice quiet, ragged at the edges, “if you say one more fucking thing like that-”

You raise your brows slowly. “You’ll what?”

That gets her. Her head snaps toward you, eyes sharp enough to gut.

“I didn’t come here to be judged by some- some little girl who doesn’t know shit about what it means to be lonely.”

Ouch.

But she doesn’t stop. Can’t.

“You think I came here to be judged?” she says, low now lower than before but harder, like the edge of a blade pressed to skin. “By you?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

Her eyes flick up, meet yours, and for the first time tonight, she actually looks. Not away. Not through you. At you.

“You think you know something because you’re angry? Because you got a few bitter lines and a front-row seat to a marriage you didn’t understand?” She laughs, bitter and breathless. “You’ve been dying to use it on me, right? All this time, waiting for the chance.”

You flinch, barely. Her smile twitches. She saw it. She steps in. Just slightly. Just enough to feel the shift in the air like pressure drops before a storm.

“You think calling me pathetic makes you grown?”

You hold her stare, breath caught somewhere in your chest. You should say something. You should push back. You don’t. “Been waiting for this moment since the first time your eyes landed somewhere they weren’t supposed to.”

Her voice is a curl of smoke now, hot and venom- sweet, too close to your mouth.

“Don’t act like I didn’t notice. Don’t pretend you didn’t look at me like I was the one who’d done something wrong like you weren’t the one coming downstairs in shorts that barely passed your ass and trying not to stare at my legs.”

You swallow. You shouldn’t be hard.

“You think I missed how your voice always dropped when you said my name? The way you’d linger in the doorway when I said goodnight?” She scoffs, mouth curling around every word like it tastes filthy. “You’ve been soaking in it for years. Desperate. Quiet. Acting like you didn’t want me to catch you.”

She steps in close- closer than she ever has. Her coat brushes your chest. The silk underneath whispers when she moves.

And her mouth is right there.

“Pathetic little thing. You don’t want to judge me,” she breathes. “You want to be the reason I never stop being a fucking mess.”

You can’t move. You don’t want to.

“And now that I am,” she says, dark eyes burning into yours, “you don’t know what to do with it, do you? You thought I’d come here crying. You thought I’d fall apart.”

Her fingers graze your wrist. Barely. But it scorches.

“Poor thing,” she purrs. “You wanted to play grown-up? Show me your teeth? Then come on.”

The coat parts just slightly as she moves, the silk underneath catching the light like something obscene. You know that fabric. You see that nightgown. You’ve imagined it, dreamed it, ruined yourself over it, even back when you had no idea what to do with the ache.

And she knows that, too.

She sees your eyes catch on it. Linger.

You don’t even ask.

You just drop.

It’s not polite. It’s not romantic. It’s not anything you could explain without choking on your filth. You drop to your knees as they owe her something like they’ve been aching to hit the floor since the second she walked in with that coat slung over her shoulders and her mouth already parted as she knew.

That goddamn nightgown. Looks too good and too soft, the kind of silk that should be worn in candlelight, not under kitchen fluorescents, while someone half her age rubs their face against it like a dog in heat.

Her voice is poison- sweet when she says, “You recognize it?”

Your lips part. Nothing comes out.

She hums. “He bought it for me,” she adds, soft and vicious. “And said this makes him want another Lily.”

Then she leans in, faces leveling before you, breath hot and foul with something ugly.

“Guess that’s why you couldn’t stop staring.”

When she stands properly again like a god… you nose along the hem like you’ve lost your mind. You have. You must have. Because it smells like her- her skin, her perfume, her pussy, barely shielded by layers that feel like paper when your mouth’s this hot, this hungry. You mouth at her like it’ll save you. Like getting her wet through her nightgown might buy you absolution.

It won’t. But fuck, it feels close.

“Tashi,” you groan, already pressing open-mouthed kisses where the silk clings damp to her. “You smell so- fuck- so good, oh my god-”

She should push you off. Say your name like a warning. Say stop.

But her hand finds your head instead.

Not gently.

Fingers in your hair, scalp- tight grip, and her hips fucking jerk forward like she doesn’t care if you bite. Like she wants the teeth. Wants the desperation. Wants the tongue that’s dragging slow and heavy up the curve of her through that ruined silk, like it’s not even in your way.

“Jesus,” she breathes out. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

She’s not even saying it to you. She’s saying it like a confession. Like an apology.

But you don’t care. You’re gone. You’re lapping at her like you can taste the years of bad decisions soaked into her skin. Like if you’re disgusting enough if you worship her hard enough through the layers, she’ll let you do worse.

You grind your nose up where the fabric clings darkest. Your tongue presses. Her thighs shake.

“Bet no one’s ever been this fucking desperate for it, huh?” you mutter, voice wrecked and breathless. “Bet Art never got on his knees. Not like this. Not for this. Didn’t know what the fuck he had.”

“Shut up,” she gasps, but it’s not angry.

It’s desperate.

You know that tone. You’ve heard it behind doors years ago, room over, pressed up against drywall, breath caught in your throat. At the same time, her voice broke, and you didn’t know why you were wet just hearing her beg him in another room when you slept over her place before.

Now she’s the one soaked.

And you’re the one making her.

You grab her ass and drag her forward against your mouth as if it belongs to you like she should’ve been letting you do this the whole damn time. Her knees nearly buckle. Her hand tightens in your hair like she wants to tear your scalp open.

“Tashi,” you whisper, breath hot enough to melt silk. “You’re shaking.”

“Fuck you,” she chokes out.

But her hips say thank you.

You lick a stripe straight up the center of her cunt through her nightgown and panties- obscene, slow, heavy with spit. She lets out a noise that’s half a sob, half a growl. Like this is killing her. Like she wants it to.

And you?

You’d stay here forever.

On your knees, face soaked with her, mouth pressed against the place no one else gets to see her break. She’s older. She’s been loved. She’s been ruined. But not like this.

You’re the one making her fall apart now.

And you’re not even under the silk yet.

She doesn’t even try to stop you now. Her fingers are knotted so tight in your hair they’re shaking, and the coat slips off her shoulders like even fabric can’t stand between you anymore. It hits the floor with a whisper.

But the silk stays.

Because that’s the thing, you don’t move it. You don’t even try. You just drag your tongue up the soaked center of her cunt, slow, like the silk’s not a barrier but a sacrament. It sticks to her wet, sheer, clinging to every curve, every ridge, every swollen beat of her pussy like it wants to be ruined.

And god, do you ruin it.

You nose up into the seam, breathing hot against it, and the heat makes it cling tighter. Her taste is leaking through, already sweet, sour, and sharp, like sweat, skin, and something even deeper. You lick again. Broad. Firm. Right up the center, letting your tongue flatten against the thin slip of fabric and press.

She chokes on her breath. Her whole body twitches.

“Oh fuck-”

You don’t stop. You double down. You wrap both arms around her thighs, fingertips digging into the soft give of her ass, holding her steady as your tongue works her over. The silk is a second skin now, and you’re devouring it. Lapping at it. Mouthing at the swollen, slick outline of her pussy like it’s a puzzle you’ve been dying to solve for years.

And it’s not just the silk.

She’s still got panties underneath- thin, soaked through, clinging to her just as tight. You can feel them under your tongue when you press harder. A soft layer of lace or cotton, maybe both, bunched under the silk like a final line of defense that gave up hours ago. They’re drenched- darker than the nightgown now, twisted into the shape of her cunt like she came into them days ago and never stopped leaking. You lick right through all of it. You feel the texture shift under your mouth- wet silk dragging across soaked cotton, your tongue pushing the fabric harder into her clit with every pass, and she’s shaking. You want her to cum through it. You want to taste her as she breaks apart in layers.

She moans- harsh, guttural, trying to swallow it down and failing. She buckles. Grabs the countertop. Her knees wobble, and her hips roll, seeking, grinding against your mouth like she can’t help it. Like the friction’s not enough and too much all at once.

And fuck, she’s wet.

The silk’s drenched now dark, clinging, and practically transparent with how soaked she is. You can see everything. The way her folds push up against the fabric, plump and flushed. The outline of her clit, straining, begging. The soft dip where her hole flexes, twitching under the heat of your tongue. You lick it all. Slowly. Obscenely. Over and over, soaking your face with her.

She shudders violently. Her thighs clamped around your head, not enough to stop you- just sufficient to make it filthy. She’s rocking now, breathing hard, trying not to say your name, but it keeps slipping out anyway-half-formed, like a prayer.

And still, you don’t pull the silk aside.

You want her like this- wrapped, soaked, too far gone to care. You want her cunt to pulse against fabric you’ve defiled with your mouth, want her to feel you even through layers. The pressure. The heat. The drag of your tongue as you circle her clit through the silk again and again until her whole body jerks.

“Fuck-” she gasps, voice cracking.

You hum into her, filthy and satisfied, and the vibration makes her whimper.

“Tashi,” you pant, spit-slick and raw. “You taste so fucking good- this pussy- god, you’re soaked. You’re fucking dripping.” Your mouth is already glossy with her, chin sticky, upper lip burning where her slick is drying fast in the kitchen air, and still, you keep licking like you’re trying to get drunk on her, like it isn’t enough to just taste- like you want her leaking down your throat until she lives inside you.

You nose hard into the mess of it, grind your tongue right up into the soaked seam, and that breaks her. Her whole body lurches, stutters, hips pushing forward like she’s chasing the pressure, thighs clenching around your head so tight it makes your ears ring. You moan into her in response, tongue dragging firm and slow right up the seam again, and her whimper curls into the air like a scream that’s been swallowed too many times. You swear you feel her clit twitch just from the heat of your breath.

She arches. Moans like her whole body’s unraveling. And you don’t even flinch- you push into it, greedy, worshipful, kissing her cunt as you mean it like it’s her mouth and you’ve been starved for it. You’re not just licking- you’re making out with her through silk and lace, lips pressing soft and hard in turns, tongue slipping across the soaked fabric like you’re begging to crawl inside. Your jaw aches, your mouth is raw, but you don’t care- you’d live like this forever if it meant she’d keep gasping your name like that.

Because that’s what this feels like. Like making out with her pussy through silk and soaked lace, mouth dragging slow, reverent licks over the heat of her, tongue pressing up against the wet fabric while your fingers come up and start rubbing her clit in tight, focused circles- firm and hungry and filthy. You groan against her, the vibration of it rolling through her clit, your fingertips catching the swell of it through the fabric, grinding it down. At the same time, your lips suck against the shape like you’re kissing it open. Every touch is soaked. Every stroke drenches your hand more.

“T-Tashi,” you murmur again, hot breath fogging the sheer fabric, mouth sliding against her like you’re trying to devour her through it. “Let me kiss you. Let me fucking kiss this pussy until you cry.” Your voice breaks on it, all husk and reverence like you can’t believe you get to worship her like this like she’s holy and ruined and still letting you kneel between her legs like a girl who’s never wanted anything else.

She whimpers. And you do. You lick and suck and rub and press, tongue dragging slow and deep along the line of her slit, nose nudging the base, lips locking around the outline of her clit while your fingers work it from the outside. You grind your face into her like you’re kissing her hard, sloppy, hot- and every time your mouth seals against the fabric, she gasps like she’s feeling your mouth inside her. Her thighs twitch around your head, and her hands scramble for the edge of the counter like she doesn’t trust her legs to hold her up.

You moan into it. Let her feel the sound. Let her feel the vibration all the way through the soaked silk and her pulsing cunt and the nerves firing off like sparks. It’s not just heat anymore- it’s friction and desperation and the way she’s grinding into your face like she’s trying to fuse with you. Like the silk isn’t a barrier, anymore- it’s the thing holding her together.

She’s trembling. Her hips roll forward like she’s trying to kiss you back, grinding herself into your face and your hand, as she needs it deeper, more complicated, wetter. You’re rutting your tongue up through the fabric, sliding it just right while your fingers rub fast, relentless, slippery circles into her clit until she’s soaking both of you. Her panties are still on under the silk, pressed in and tight, and everything- everything- is slick.

You suck hard through the fabric- groaning against it-then slow it down, flick your tongue over her like you’re tracing the seam of her lips. Tongue to silk to lace to skin. One thin layer away from the flesh and still somehow inside her. You can feel her clenching, feel the tremble beneath your lips, the way her clit twitches under the fabric as your fingers tease and tongue works in time.

She gasps, jerks- ruts forward on instinct- and you meet her, kisses her clit like it’s her mouth, open-mouthed and wet and filthy, dragging your fingers faster now in time with your tongue, like the rhythm of a kiss that’s turned violent. She cries out. Her knees buckle. Her body’s trying to fold, but your grip won’t let her- you. You’re holding her up, feeding off her, moaning into the silk as she pulses against your face.

“W-wait,” she pants, voice sharp and useless. One of her hands fists in your hair, the other scrambling behind her for the counter’s edge. “What if your mom- fuck, what if she comes down and sees me like this-?”

You don’t answer.

You just keep licking her through everything. The thin, clinging silk of her nightgown, the soaked panties underneath. You press your tongue hard against the heat of her, mouthing at her like you could suck her off through the fabric if you just tried hard enough. And maybe you can. The way she’s twitching, gasping, and whining now is like she’s trying to stay quiet and failing, like her body’s giving you away whether she wants it to or not.

Her hips stutter forward, grinding into your mouth on reflex. Your fingers don’t stop either- rubbing messy little circles right over where you know she’s aching, where the fabric’s glued to her cunt and getting wetter by the second. You’re soaked in it. Your chin, your lips, your fucking soul-drenched with her.

And she’s trying to fight it. She is. She’s still mumbling about your mom, looking toward the stairs like she will pull back. You’ve got her trapped. You’ve got your hands gripping the backs of her thighs, your face buried where no one can save her, and she’s so close now it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter if your mom’s upstairs. Doesn’t matter if god’s watching. Doesn’t matter that she’s still fully dressed because you’ve got her coming apart anyway.

You moan into her like you’re fucking starved- like you’ve been waiting years for this like you’d crawl through the glass just to taste her through those panties again. You’re not even pretending to be good anymore. You’re sloppy with it now, tongue everywhere, mouth wide and messy, soaking the silk with spit until the fabric’s clinging to your lips like a second skin. She’s drenched. You’re drenched. It’s fucking sick how wet she is through all this, how your chin’s slick and your jaw aches, and you still won’t stop.

“Fuck, you’re-” she chokes, one hand in your hair, the other gripping the countertop like it’s the only thing tethering her to this dimension. “You’re not even under.” She can’t finish it. She doesn’t have the breath. She just whines instead, sobs almost, her thighs trembling where they’re locked around your shoulders.

You palm her ass with both hands now, greedy and possessive, dragging her hips forward until she’s got no choice but to grind on your face. And she does. God, she fucking does. She ruts against you like it’s wrong, and it is her best friend’s daughter on her knees with a mouthful of silk and pussy and history-and. Still, she pushes harder, grinds filthier, rocks into your face like she’s trying to fuck you through the fabric.

Her voice cracks. “We shouldn’t- we shouldn’t- what if she-”

And you don’t. Even. blink.

You groan into her, deep and filthy, like you want her to feel your refusal all the way up her spine. Your fingers speed up faster, tighter, cruel little circles over the soaked lace of her panties, the pressure too good to think through. Her whole body jolts like she’s been shocked, and you suck at her through the silk-like you can punish her for thinking about anything else but this.

She’s gonna cum. She knows she is. And she starts shaking her head like that’ll stop it, like she can logic her way out of what you’re doing to her body she can’t. Not when you’re moaning like that, not when your fingers are grinding her down, and your tongue is pushing and pushing and fucking pulsing over her clit through the wet fabric like it belongs to you.

And the worst part? The most disgusting, humiliating part?

She’s gonna cum dressed like this. Half-covered in silk, panties soaked, nipples hard and visible through that ridiculous nightgown her ex-husband bought her. She’s gonna cum standing in your mom’s kitchen, trembling like a slut on the mouth of the girl she shouldn’t even be touching.

And she does.

She cums.

It slams through her like a train- fast, brutal, no mercy. Her whole body locks and then shudders violently. Her knees nearly give out, thighs quivering where they’re clamped tight around your head like a vice. A raw, broken sound tears from her chest-half a gasp, half a sob- and it punches straight into your mouth. You keep licking. Keep sucking. Keep grinding your tongue into her clit like you’re starving for it.

Because she’s soaking.

Everything between her legs is obscene now, filthy and soaked, a mess of spit and slick and come, sticky and hot and seeping through layers like it’s got nowhere else to go. The silk of her nightgown is utterly ruined, clinging to her skin like melted sugar, translucent and dark where your mouth’s been. Her panties-thin and utterly useless, now- are plastered to her cunt like a second skin, sodden with your spit and her slick. The crotch is slick and squelching every time your tongue presses in, and the fabric clings so tight you can see the outline of everything- her folds, her clit, the twitch of her pulsing hole.

She shakes, twitching like her body doesn’t know what to do. Her thighs squeeze around your head once-twice-then go loose, trembling violently. And she’s still coming. You can feel it. Taste it. The way her pussy keeps pulsing under your tongue, spasming helplessly, her whole cunt clenching through the fabric like it’s not sure what it wants-more pressure or to run.

“Fuh-fuck-” she chokes, hips jerking, one heel skidding on the floor.

Your mouth is soaked. Your chin is soaked. The whole bottom half of her nightgown is soaked, clinging wetly to her inner thighs and sticking in a twisted mess between her legs like you poured warm syrup down her body. Her panties are ruined- warped and stretched, glued to her from slick and spit, and come leaking through the seams.

You don’t stop. You keep licking like you’re chasing the final tremors of it, tongue wide and slow, lips dragging over the soaked swell of her cunt like you’ve gone mad for the taste.

Then-

“Sweetheart?”

Your mother’s voice.

Upstairs.

Tashi jolts. Her entire body stiffens. Her hands clutch your head like she’s going to shove you off, but she doesn’t. She’s still panting. Still dripping.

“Are you downstairs?”

You don’t move. Neither does she. You can hear her heartbeat can feel it pounding through her thighs against your cheeks. Her nightgown twitches with every hard breath she tries to swallow.

You breathe once, hard through your nose, and whisper against her, voice shredded raw:

“Don’t. Say. Anything.”

Her grip on your scalp is trembling. Not releasing. Not pulling.

“I thought I heard something,” your mom continues. “Are you okay?”

You sit back on your heels, a little face still slick, your mouth glistening, her mess smeared all over your lips.

“Yeah! Just getting water!” you call back, voice wrecked but pitched high- innocent. Harmless.

Like you weren’t on your knees seconds ago with your tongue buried against the soaked seam of Tashi Duncan’s panties. Like your mouth isn’t still slick with spit and her come. Like her pussy isn’t still twitching behind the fabric that’s clung to her for years and will never feel clean again.

You don’t move. You don’t even look up. You just keep your head bowed like she’s an altar, and you’re already in prayer, forehead brushing the inside of her thigh, mouth parted where her scent lives thick in the humid air between her legs. And she’s still shaking-legs loose, knees buckling, breath stuttering sharp and shallow where her chest heaves under silk that’s clung to her in places you ruined.

“Jesus,” she hisses, more breath than voice. It doesn’t even sound angry anymore. Just stunned. Shattered.

You look up. Her face is flushed. Her lips are parted. Her hair’s sticking to her temple in wet pieces like she’s been through a storm she pretended not to see coming. One hand is still tangled in your hair, and her grip is slack, like she forgot to let go.

You should get up.

You should stop.

You should wipe your mouth and pretend you were actually getting water.

But instead of pulling back, instead of catching your breath or wiping your mouth, you slide your hand under her nightgown.

Not fast. Not greedy.

Slow. Sure. Possessive. Like you have every right.

The silk lifts just slightly, but you don’t look yet- you don’t need to. Your head stays down. Your cheek is still pressed warm and reverent to the inside of her thigh as your hand climbs higher. You worship, like prayer, like you’ve been waiting for this exact moment longer than you’ve ever been alive.

And when your fingers find her panties again… underneath this time, your breath stutters.

They’re soaked.

Not just damp. Not just a wet patch. They’re ruined. Drenched all the way through with spit and slick and come, sticky and hot and clinging to her like a second skin. You can feel everything now. Everything. The heat of her. The mess. The way she twitches when your palm first cups her fully, right between her legs, like she wasn’t expecting that kind of contact even though she should’ve known you were never going to be gentle again.

You press your hand flat against her. Just hold her there. Let her feel the weight of it- your palm against her pulsing cunt, the pressure steady and low.

She exhales sharply as if it hurts a little.

You rub.

Slow at first. Just the heel of your palm rocking forward, dragging the wet fabric over her. It slides easily, slick enough to drown in, your fingers catching gently at the edges of her folds through the cotton. You feel her start to throb again. You feel it in your wrist and your fingertips, like her whole body is centered here now- right here, under your hand, under your control.

Then, you lower your fingers.

Trace the length of her down the whole curve of her slit, slow and unhurried. You can feel everything: every soft swell, every twitching ridge, every shiver that jolts through her thighs. You press in a little. Feel the way the fabric pulls tight over her folds, soaked and warm, clinging to the shape of her like it wants you to know what’s underneath.

And you do. God, you do.

Your fingers rub lower, then back up. Find the curve of her again. Let the tips dip gently along her lips, not quite slipping inside, just dragging enough to make her shudder. Then, higher- pressing into the swollen little bud at the top, the one pulsing like it’s begging to be touched.

You circle her clit through the panties- slow, dirty, deliberate.

She gasps.

It’s soft, but it punches straight through you. Her thighs twitch. Her hips roll just a little. Just enough to push herself harder against your hand.

And that’s when you look.

You lift the hem of the nightgown finally, slowly, reverently, and the sight that greets you is fucking obscene.

Her panties are plastered to her- dark with wetness, slick with spit and come and sweat, and everything you did to her. The center is stained so deep it looks painted on, the cotton sheer with how soaked it is, clinging to her lips like a fucking confession. You can see the shape of her through it- the puffed, flushed folds, the tremble of her clit twitching under the pressure of your hand. Her slick glistens where it’s bled through, still leaking, still hot.

Your hand’s still under her nightgown.

Palm pressed flat against her soaked panties. Your fingers slide low, dragging along the outline of her cunt, tracing the shape of her lips through the drenched material. Every inch of her is slick- wet from your mouth, from her come, from everything she spilled all over your tongue and into your hands. The fabric is sticky against your skin. Clings like it’s begging you not to leave. And you don’t.

You rub her slow, tentative, just to feel it again. The heat. The mess. The way she twitches when you catch her right fingertips grazing the swollen bump of her clit through layers too ruined to count as clothing anymore.

And fuck, she’s still wet.

Still dripping.

Still leaking through her fucking underwear like you haven’t already taken her apart in the middle of your mother’s kitchen.

You swallow hard, staring down.

You haven’t even moved the nightgown out of the way. Haven’t peeled anything back. You’re just holding her there- cupping her with one hand and staring like it’s something sacred. The silk is bunched up around your wrist, warm from her body heat, and her panties are so soaked they’re practically see-through. You can see everything. The puffed flush of her lips. The quiver at the tip of her clit. The wet spot is blooming darker where she’s still leaking, still ruined.

You drag your thumb over it again with a slow, reverent stroke.

“M-mommy,” you breathe.

It comes out so soft that you almost don’t hear it yourself, as if it wasn’t meant to be spoken at all, just thought, maybe. Dreamed. Whispered in some dark corner of your mind where names and boundaries blur.

But it hangs there. It lingers. Sweet and sticky and awful.

And her body goes still.

Not just still- tense. Like a wire pulled too tight, straining just before it snaps. Her fingers flex where they’re braced on the counter behind her, her jaw going slack. She doesn’t look down at you. Doesn’t move. She just stares straight ahead like she’s been frozen in time, like the word struck some nerve she forgot she even had.

You go breathless, weightless. The panic doesn’t hit right. First comes the awareness, the shame, thick and sick in your throat, your stomach flipping over like a dying thing. And still, somehow, you don’t take your hand away. You don’t move an inch.

Because she hasn’t moved either.

She hasn’t told you to stop.

Her chest rises slowly and shallow. Her lips part. And when she speaks, it sounds like it hurts. “What… did you just call me?”

You blink, stunned by your mouth. “I-I didn’t-”

She looks down at last, and fuck-her eyes are wild. Glossy, wide, full of something you can’t read. Not anger. Not quite. Not disgust. It’s closer to grief. Or lust. Or both tangled up in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“You said mommy,” she says, almost to herself. Not angry- just wrecked. Like she can’t believe it. Like she’s trying to scrub it out of her own ears with disbelief.

You want to backpedal. You want to undo it. But the moment’s too full. The air is too thick. There’s something between you now that wasn’t there before, and it won’t go away just because you pretend it didn’t happen.

You whisper, “I didn’t mean-”

“Yes, you did.” Her voice cracks at the edge- thin, glassy, like she’s not sure whether to break down or burn you alive for it.

There’s something brittle in it, something dangerous like she’s splintering from the inside out like your voice alone did that. Like the word you moaned cracked open a vault, she swore she’d never touch again. Now everything’s leaking out all at once: want guilt, that rotted sweetness you always thought she only used on other people. It’s in her now, and it’s in you. You see it flash behind her eyes like lightning. Then she moves.

And then her hand’s in your hair.

Not a caress. Not even close. Her fingers knot so deep it feels like she’s trying to pull memories out of your skull. If she grips hard enough, she can rip the name out of your mouth and strangle it in her fist before it gets a second chance to ruin her. Your scalp screams, and your spine locks, but you don’t pull away. You don’t even want to. You just gasp-and it’s wet, embarrassing like the pain is wired straight to the slick heat that’s already running down your thigh.

She yanks you up in one sharp, breathless motion. Fingers twisted deep at the roots like she wants to scalp you for what you said and punish herself for liking it.

It’s so fast it steals the air from your lungs and knocks the sense from your head. You stagger forward, bent at the waist, half-bent and breathless with the humiliating burn, your mouth slack and your eyes wide. She hasn’t even touched you properly, and you’re already dripping. Already aching. Already- fuck- already needing. And maybe she sees that. Perhaps that’s why she grins, just a little, without joy.

Your gasp barely makes it out. She’s already walking. Dragging you by the hair like she’s reclaiming some twisted territory like she doesn’t trust her mouth to speak, and this is the only language she has left.

Every step is an accusation. Every tug is a curse. She walks like she owns the house, and you’re a stain, so she will scrub out upstairs. Her grip tightens when you hesitate, and the pain shoots hot and liquid down your spine. You swear you feel her breath behind you. Close. Measured. Like she’s counting the seconds it’ll take to get you into bed and ruin you properly.

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

349 notes · View notes