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sunbeamlessreads · 3 days ago

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Let Him See - Oscar Piastri x Reader One-Shot

❝ He kisses you like he’s waited for permission. And that’s what makes you break. ❞

[oscar piastri x reader]

~8.2k words | rated: E

tw: 18+, emotional neglect, infidelity, porn with plot, smut, possessive behavior, complicated breakup dynamics

lando stopped seeing you. oscar never missed a thing. now the whole paddock knows.

notes: i tried writing in present tense for this, which really isn't in my ballpark. not sure if i loved it, but maybe i'll do more of it later on. i’m sorry i made lando out to be such a dick. i promise ill make up for it!! enjoy! <3

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The McLaren party is elegant in that vaguely overstated way team events always are—polished chrome fixtures, dim gold lighting, and drinks served in glasses that clink too delicately for the kind of tension simmering beneath the surface.

You walk in on Lando’s arm. A black strapless dress hugging you like it was tailored in vengeance. The ruffled ruching along the bottom cascades like spilled ink with every step you take. You planned everything—the heels, the bold red lipstick, the subtle shimmer in the inner corners of your eyes. All for him.

He barely glances down at you.

Lando says something to a passing engineer, nods at a sponsor, then slips out of your grasp as naturally as water slipping through your fingers. No one notices the slight shift in your balance when he lets go. But you do.

You’re left standing beside a bar you didn’t want to be near, surrounded by people who smile too brightly and ask questions you don’t want to answer.

You’re his girlfriend—the public face of a dying relationship neither of you have the courage to end. He doesn’t even try to hide it anymore. He’s across the room within minutes, grinning down at a woman in a red backless dress, hand resting low on her spine. It’s a familiar stance. You’ve seen it before. You’ve even been on the receiving end of it—back when he still bothered.

Your chest aches, but you don’t flinch. Not here. Not while people are watching.

Someone asks you if you want champagne. You decline with a polite smile, then excuse yourself—something about needing to take a call, voice breezy, unbothered.

You step out of the ballroom like you’re slipping out of a skin that doesn’t fit anymore.

The hallway is dim and mercifully empty. You exhale, back against the cool wall, and pull your phone out of your clutch—blank screen. No missed messages. No excuses to stay outside longer than you should.

You open WhatsApp. You type a few words. Delete them. Start again. Then stop. You let your head tip back until it rests against the cool wall, eyes fluttering closed for a second.

You wore this dress for him.

You practically starved yourself all day, got your makeup done by the same artist who preps you for photoshoots, shaved every inch of your body until your skin ached—and he didn’t even look at you.

A sharp sting pricks behind your eyes, but you blink it back. Your mascara is too good to waste on someone who hasn’t kissed you in public in weeks.

You shift your weight in your heels. They’re taller than you usually wear—he once said he liked when you looked just a little out of balance, like he had to catch you. He hasn’t caught you in a long time.

The hallway feels like limbo. You’re not sure if you want to scream or vanish. The silence settles over you like a second skin—until it breaks.

“Hey.”

You look up.

Oscar stands a few feet away. Hands in his pockets. Brows knit with something like concern—or maybe anger, but not at you.

You straighten up instinctively, “Hey.”

His gaze flicks toward the ballroom, then back to you, “He didn’t even notice you left.”

Your voice catches before it comes out, “He never does.”

Oscar doesn’t speak. He just stays there, watching you like you’re not crazy for feeling the way you do.

For a few seconds, that’s enough.

You look away first. Not because you’re embarrassed—but because his eyes are too steady, too full of something that burns beneath the surface. Like if you look too long, you’ll start crying or say something you can’t take back.

Your gaze falls to the floor, to the veins in the marble tile, to the perfectly manicured hand holding your clutch like it’s the only thing holding you together.

Then, softly—like the truth finally scraping its way up your throat—you speak.

“He does this a lot,” you murmur, “Leaves me at these things. Flirts with whatever blonde he hasn’t slept with yet. Sometimes it’s just talking. Usually it’s not.”

You swallow. The bitterness coats your tongue.

“And I’m supposed to smile through it. Pretend I don’t care. Because we’re McLaren’s golden couple, right? I look good enough on his arm, and he looks better in the photos. Win-win.”

Oscar doesn’t interrupt. He stays where he is, still but attentive, like if he moves too fast you might break.

You don’t stop. It’s pouring out now.

“I tell myself it’s fine. That I knew what I was signing up for. That it’s just how he is. But then I see the way he touches them—like they’re interesting. Like they matter.”

Your voice drops, quiet and sharp:

“He hasn’t looked at me like that in a long time.”

The silence after that is loud. Heavy.

You take a shaky breath and force out a dry laugh. “God. I sound pathetic.”

“No,” Oscar says immediately, “You sound hurt.”

You blink. His voice is too honest. Too kind.

It cracks something wide open.

“Of course I’m hurt,” you whisper, “I feel disposable. And maybe I am. Maybe that’s why I don’t leave. Maybe I’m scared if I do, no one else will want me.”

Oscar moves then.

Just a step. Slow. Controlled. Like he’s grounding himself.

“That’s not true,” he says, sincerity and care laced in his voice.

You lift your eyes to his. His tone doesn't match how furious he looks. Not at you—never at you—but at everything you just said. At every bruise Lando left behind that didn’t show up on your skin.

“I’m tired of watching him hurt you,” he says, voice like steel wrapped in silk.

The breath catches in your throat. You didn’t expect that. Didn’t expect him to say it. Not so simply. Not so seriously.

You fold your arms across your chest, trying to find a shield in sarcasm. It’s the only armor you have left.

“What, you want to make him jealous or something?” A laugh, light and mocking. A shrug, “Go ahead.”

You don’t mean it. It’s a deflection, a defense. Something to push him back before he gets too close to the bleeding parts.

But Oscar doesn’t laugh.

He steps in.

Close.

Too close.

You feel his hand brush the side of your face, gentle fingers slipping behind your ear. He pauses—waits for you to stop him—and when you don’t, he tilts your chin just enough.

And then he kisses you.

Your body locks. Every muscle goes taut.

Your lips are frozen against his, breath caught somewhere in your chest.

But his mouth is soft. Steady. Patient.

He kisses you like he’s waited for permission.

And that’s what makes you break.

You melt.

Fingers tangling in the collar of his shirt, you kiss him back. Rough. Desperate. Furious with yourself for how good it feels. For how long you’ve wanted this, buried it, pushed it down under years of Lando’s carelessness.

Oscar groans when your hips tip into his.

The kiss deepens. His hands grip your waist—hard, grounding. Yours slide up his chest, grabbing fistfuls of cotton like you need to hold on or you’ll collapse.

You hit the wall with a soft thud. He doesn’t stop. You don’t want him to. One of his hands finds your bare thigh where your dress has shifted, the other cradling your jaw.

He kisses you like he needs to prove something. Like he’s making up for every second Lando didn’t touch you.

You moan into his mouth—too soft, too shocked at yourself.

He pulls back just enough to breathe against your lips.

You’re both breathing heavily; you more than him.

Your lipstick’s ruined. His pupils are blown. His chest is rising and falling like he’s just come off a cooldown lap.

Then—voice low, rough, shaking with restraint—he says,

“Room 321. If you mean it.”

And he steps back. Hands still curled like he wants to reach for you again.

But he doesn’t.

He leaves you standing there in a dim hotel hallway, breathless, shaking, lips tingling, with your heart slamming against your ribs and your mind screaming that something just changed forever.

Room 321.

You stare at the number plaque for a moment.

You knock once, and the door opens like he was already standing behind it—waiting.

Oscar stands in the soft glow of the hotel room, still in his suit pants, white shirt rumpled with the top two buttons undone. His jacket’s folded neatly over the back of a chair. His hair’s a little mussed like he’s been running his hands through it since he left you.

His eyes land on your lips first. Then your throat.

Your lipstick is smudged from the hallway kiss. You didn’t fix it. You didn’t want to.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there. Chest rising slowly. Eyes locked on yours. There’s something sharp in his silence—not anger, not regret. Restraint.

You step into the room slowly. The door closes behind you with a dull thud that feels heavier than it should.

He still doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

The tension crackles between you like a tripwire no one wants to step on first.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly, eyes dark.

Your chest lifts, lips parted slightly as you look at him across the room, “Then tell me to leave.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he takes a slow step forward.

You mirror him.

Another step. Closer. Breath catching.

Until there’s no more distance between you.

He reaches out—hesitantly—fingers brushing your chin, then trailing along the line of your smudged lipstick.

“You look like you’ve already been kissed,” he says.

You breathe, “You did that.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I did.”

That’s when the tension snaps.

The second his mouth meets yours again, everything else dissolves.

It’s rougher this time. Starved. Less like a kiss and more like a confession torn from his chest. His hands cradle your jaw, fingers pressing just beneath your ears like he’s grounding himself in the feel of you. Your arms loop around his neck instantly, your body melting into his like it always belonged there.

His tongue slips past your lips, hot and slow, as your backs bump blindly into the desk behind you. A McLaren cap falls to the floor unnoticed. You gasp softly into the kiss, and he groans into your mouth like it’s killing him not to take more.

His hands slide down your arms, then to your waist, where he grips you tightly—not to push, not to rush. Just to hold. Just to feel.

You don’t pull away when he reaches behind you and finds the zipper of your dress. It comes down slowly, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet of the room. His knuckles brush your spine as he guides the fabric off your shoulders.

You’re still kissing when it falls to your ankles.

Still kissing when you push his shirt off, fingers slipping under the undone buttons, palms brushing warm skin. He shrugs it down his arms and lets it fall with a soft rustle to the carpet. His pants follow soon after, as you blindly undo his belt and unbutton them.

His hands don’t leave your body. Not once.

You walk backward together, mouths fused, breath short, until the backs of your knees hit the bed.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you.

Then he bends slightly and lifts you—carefully, like you might shatter in his arms—and lays you down on the sheets as if it’s an offering.

Your hair fans out against the pillows. Your chest rises and falls quickly. Oscar stands over you for a second, chest heaving, jaw tight, eyes moving across every inch of your skin.

Then he climbs onto the bed and kneels between your thighs.

You watch him watch you, lips parted, body burning.

He leans in and kisses your neck—softly at first.

Then lower.

And lower.

Down the column of your throat, over the swell of your chest. He shifts the fabric of your bra aside, reaching beneath you and removing it gently, with trembling fingers, and kisses the curve of your breast, then bites gently.

You gasp, fingers grasping at the sheets.

He sucks gently—and when he pulls back, there’s a blooming red mark just beneath your collarbone.

Then another. Between your breasts.

Then one lower, over the swell of your ribcage.

He takes his time. His mouth moves down, and you lose count of how many places he claims with his lips and teeth.

You squirm as he shifts, adjusting on his knees to reach lower, pushing the edge of your panties aside so he can press another kiss just above your hipbone—then right at the inner curve of your thigh.

He sucks there, too. A long, slow draw that makes your fingers fist the sheets.

“Oscar—”

“Shh,” he murmurs, voice husky, “Let me leave them.”

Another bite. Another mark, just shy of the place where you’re already aching for him.

“I want him to see every single one of these.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

You’ve never been kissed like this—not for show, not for ownership, but for the sheer need to leave a piece of himself behind on your skin.

By the time his mouth trails back up your thighs, your panties are damp with heat and your breathing’s gone shaky.

Oscar leans up, one hand bracing beside your waist. His other hand finds the waistband of your panties and begins to ease them down—slowly. Carefully. Like unwrapping something delicate.

He watches your face the entire time.

They slide down your legs with ease, and he tosses them aside.

You’re bare for him now—fully, completely—and you’ve never felt so seen.

He kisses your knee. Then the inside of your thigh again. Then finally, finally, his mouth hovers over where you need him most.

You’re already soaked. He groans when he sees it.

“Fuck. Look at you. I’ve thought about this,” he says softly, eyes fixed on where you’re already wet for him. “So many times.”

You can’t answer. You can barely think.

His hands spread you open gently—reverently—and then his mouth is on you.

Warm. Wet. Soft.

The first stroke of his tongue is unhurried, a slow drag from bottom to top that makes your spine arch off the mattress. You gasp, hips twitching, but his grip is firm on your thighs.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers against you.

He licks again—long and deliberate—then presses soft kisses to your clit, switching between his tongue and his lips like he’s tasting something he wants to savor.

You moan—high and broken—and he groans back like he feels it.

His hands hold your thighs open, thumbs stroking slow circles into your skin. You’re writhing now, overwhelmed, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your belly with every passing second.

Your fingers claw at the sheets. You feel it coming, your body locking up—

Until he pulls back.

Your hips lift off the bed, chasing the loss, but his hands still you.

He leans in, kisses the inside of your thigh again—slow and deep—a soft, open-mouthed press that lingers just long enough to leave another blooming bruise.

Then he hovers over you, mouth wet, eyes locked on yours.

“You’re close,” he murmurs, “I can feel it. You’re shaking.”

You nod, lips parted, breath stuttering.

His hands slide up your thighs, grounding you—but instead of returning to where you’re desperate for him, he pulls back more.

“Don’t come yet.”

Your brows draw together, lips twitching in protest, “What—why—?”

Oscar leans in again, hand wrapping around your thigh to hold you open as he presses a kiss just above your aching heat.

His voice is low, but firm, “Because I want to be inside you when you fall apart.”

The authority in his tone makes you clench around nothing. You whimper as he sits back on his heels, rubbing his palms over your thighs in soothing strokes.

“Please…” you whisper.

His mouth tilts into the faintest smirk—not smug. Hungry.

Then he crawls back up your body, leaving another trail of slow kisses across the bruises he’s left down your chest.

“You don’t come without me tonight,” he says quietly against your skin. “You understand?”

You nod, barely breathing.

“Say it,” his tone is demanding, but not impatient.

“I—I won’t come until you’re inside me,” you surrender.

He moves back up to kiss you—soft at first, then deeper, longer—as he reaches over to the nightstand. You hear the foil tear, the familiar sound grounding the moment in something real. His body shifts against yours as he sits back briefly to roll the condom on, his breath catching as his hand moves.

Then he’s back above you—one forearm braced beside your head, the other hand sliding down to guide himself to your entrance. His cock brushes against you, hot and thick and so ready.

But still, he pauses.

“Are you sure? You won’t regret this later?” he asks, voice quieter now. Not demanding. Not coaxing. Just open.

You reach up, cup his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek.

“Yes. I’m sure. I want this. I want you.”

Oscar exhales—one soft, shuddering breath—and presses his forehead to yours for a moment, like he’s soaking those words in.

He sinks into you slowly—not teasing, just careful, controlled, like he’s doing something sacred. His hips press forward inch by inch, stretching you open, filling you fully until your thighs tremble against his sides.

You gasp, clutching his biceps, head tipping back into the pillows, “Oscar…”

“I know,” he breathes. “Fuck, I know. You feel—”

He cuts himself off with a groan, jaw tightening as he bottoms out, “So fucking tight. Like you were made for me.”

He stills inside you for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, both of you shaking with the effort of not losing it too soon. He brushes your hair away from your face with the gentlest touch, his palm cupping your cheek like he’s afraid you might break if he lets go.

“You okay?”

“Yes,” you whisper, “Move. Please.”

So he does.

The first thrust is slow and deep, rolling through your whole body. His hips pull back and push forward in a smooth rhythm that feels like worship. Each time he fills you, you feel more of yourself unravel, like he’s stripping you bare with every stroke.

He kisses you through it—long, lingering kisses against your mouth, your cheek, your jaw, your throat.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs, “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

You breathe it against his lips, broken and honest:

“I’m yours.”

He groans, burying himself deeper.

His pace stays steady, grounding—not brutal, not rushed, but deliberate. Like he wants to make this last. Like he needs you to feel it for hours after.

His hand slides down your side to grip your thigh, pulling your leg up around his waist to angle you just right—and when he thrusts again, you choke on a moan.

“Right there?” he pants.

You nod frantically, eyes wide and wet.

“Yeah, baby. That’s it,” He stumbles through his words, deep within his own pleasure, “You take me so well.”

You cling to him like he’s the only real thing in the world, his name slipping from your lips between soft gasps, your body clenching around him, slick and pulsing and completely his.

When your orgasm hits, it’s not sharp—it’s deep. A wave that rolls through you, full-body and consuming. You cry out, and he swallows the sound in a kiss, fucking you through it with soft praise and steady hands.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Let go. I’ve got you.”

You don’t even realize you’re crying until he kisses the corner of your eye.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, “You’re safe.”

He comes only seconds later, thrusts stuttering, mouth falling open against your neck. You feel him groan into your skin as he grips your thigh and spills into the condom, his whole body shaking with the effort.

And when it’s over, he doesn’t pull away.

He just collapses into you—gently—his chest pressed to yours, his arms wrapping around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his hold.

You lie there tangled in each other, your fingers brushing through the damp hair at the nape of his neck, your thighs still parted around his hips.

Neither of you speaks.

You don’t have to.

You’re both suspended in that quiet stillness—the kind that only comes after something real, something that changes the shape of you.

After a long moment, he shifts slightly, careful not to crush you. His hand strokes your thigh where it’s still curled around his waist. He places a soft kiss on your cheek, then another on your jaw. Then he pulls out gently, drawing a small whimper from your throat.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, brushing his hand down your hip, “You okay?”

You nod. Your voice is still trapped somewhere in your chest, so you let your hand answer for you, fingers curling around his bicep. He disposes of the condom quickly, then returns to the bed without hesitation, lying beside you and immediately pulling you into his arms.

He doesn’t ask if it was good.

He doesn’t need to.

Instead, he cradles you, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, the other brushing soft fingers through your hair.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers.

“I’m fine,” you murmur. “Just… a lot.”

You feel his smile against your forehead. His hand slides up and down your back, slow and steady, grounding.

“Hey,” he says gently after a pause. “You don’t… regret this, do you?”

You shift slightly to look at him. His eyes are wide, open, vulnerable—stripped of all the heat and control from earlier. He’s just Oscar now. Soft-spoken and careful with your heart.

You shake your head slowly, “No. I don’t.”

His shoulders relax.

“Okay,” he says, “Good. I just—I need you to know…”

He hesitates, thumb brushing your side, “This doesn’t have to mean anything. If it was just about him—if it was just something you needed to do — that’s okay.”

You blink. His voice is steady, but there’s a hint of sadness tucked into it. Like he means what he’s saying, but part of him hopes it isn’t just that.

You slide your hand up his chest, over the steady beat of his heart, “It wasn’t just about him.”

His brows lift slightly. You lean in and press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“I wouldn’t be here if it didn’t mean anything.”

Oscar exhales—slow and shaky—and you see the tension leave his body like someone just untied a knot that’s been there for months.

He pulls you in tighter. You tuck your head beneath his chin, leg slipping between his, arms around his torso, his scent already warm on your skin.

“Okay,” he murmurs, “Stay?”

You nod against his chest, “I want to.”

You fall asleep like that—in his arms, his fingers tangled in your hair, your body marked with proof of what happened.

Not revenge.

Not just sex.

Something.

The first thing you feel is warmth.

Oscar’s chest beneath your cheek. His arm still slung around your waist. The faint hum of city life beyond the hotel windows. You blink slowly into the early light, your lashes brushing the skin of his collarbone.

He’s already awake.

You can feel it in the way his fingers trace lazy, absentminded shapes along your back. He’s not in a rush. Not trying to move you. Just… there, soaking the moment in.

You shift slightly, stretch, and wince a little—your thighs ache, in the best way. Oscar immediately pauses.

“Sore?” he says, voice still rough with sleep.

“A little,’ you respond quietly.

He kisses your forehead, “Good sore or… need-an-ice-pack sore?”

You snort, hiding your smile in his chest, “Good sore.”

He hums, content. His hand returns to your back. You both stay still for a few more seconds—not talking, not overthinking—just breathing together.

Then, softly, “You don’t have to sneak out,” he says, “You can walk out like you belong here.”

You glance up at him, “I kind of do belong now… don’t I?”

His lips lift into a tired smile, “Yeah. You do.”

You press a soft kiss to his jaw before finally sitting up, the sheets slipping down your body, baring the constellation of love bites he left down your chest. His eyes flick to them, and his smile shifts—pride, possession, a little satisfaction.

“He’s gonna see those,” he says.

“Good,” you echo, voice quiet but sharp.

You find your underwear, pull on your clothes from the night before — everything still wrinkled from the floor. You go to the mirror, fix your hair just enough, and borrow his hoodie. He watches you do it all in silence.

Before you leave, he stands, cups your face in both hands, and kisses you slow. Sweet.

“See you down there?”

You nod, “Yeah. I’ll be around.”

You open the door.

Step out.

And you’re not five steps down the hall before you hear the elevator ding.

You hear the sound of footsteps before you register anything else—then the shift in atmosphere. Heavy. Cold. Unwelcoming/

You turn.

Lando steps into the hallway off of the elevator, coffee in hand, hoodie tied low around his hips, damp curls falling over his forehead like he just stepped out of the shower.

He doesn’t speak right away.

He just stops—eyes locked on you—and stares.

At the heels.

At the wrinkled black dress from last night.

At the hoodie hanging off your shoulders—Oscar’s '81' hoodie.

Then his gaze lands on your neck.

The bruises.

The silence stretches, thick and venomous.

“Wow,” he mutters, taking a slow sip of his coffee, “Didn’t think you’d stoop that low.”

You raise an eyebrow, heartbeat steady, “Funny. I was thinking the same about you for the last six months.”

His eyes flicker—a flash of guilt, gone in an instant.

“So what, then?” he snaps. “You fuck my teammate to even the score?”

You shrug one shoulder, “I didn’t realize we were still keeping score.”

“You really let him leave those on you?” His voice cuts sharper now, bitter, “Is that what you’re doing now? Walking around marked up like a fucking trophy?”

“He didn’t do it to prove a point,’ You step closer, just enough, “He did it because he wanted to touch me. Because he actually looked at me.”

Lando’s jaw clenches,

"You’re still mine.”

That’s when you laugh—not cruel, but quiet. Final.

“No, Lando. I was never yours,” you say with a confidence you didn’t know you possessed, “I just played the part.”

His lips part like he wants to fire back, but no words come.

You walk past him without another glance, heels echoing softly against the hotel carpet. His coffee hand twitches like he wants to stop you—to say something that could undo what he just saw.

But he doesn’t.

He can’t.

The bruises on your neck do all the talking.

The tension hits before you even step onto the concrete.

You’d heard whispers all morning—something about a joint media pen meltdown, Lando snapping mid-question, storming off, Oscar handling it with trademark calm. Nobody quite knows why. No one’s saying anything aloud. But everyone feels the shift.

Especially in the McLaren garage.

The energy is tight. Controlled. Like an engine revving just a little too high.

You move through it like a blade through silk.

Sunglasses on, McLaren pass hanging low on your chest. Hair neatly pulled back, hoodie zipped halfway. You tried to cover the hickeys— light foundation along your collarbone, you hadn't expected to need color corrector on this trip—but Monaco’s heat is unforgiving. The bruises are starting to bleed through the coverage, soft and red and obvious.

You don’t adjust your zipper.

Let them wonder.

As you step through the divider into the team area, a few heads turn. You're familiar enough to them. People don’t stare—not directly—but eyes flick. Conversations pause. It’s subtle, but you’re used to it by now.

Oscar’s standing just to the side of the media tent, debrief notes in one hand. He looks up the second you appear—and though his expression doesn’t change much, you catch the tiny lift at the corner of his mouth. Just for you.

He doesn’t come to you.

You don’t go to him.

Not yet.

You pass close enough that your arm brushes his, and the heat between you sizzles like something private. He doesn’t look, doesn’t touch.

But he says, quiet enough for only you to hear, “He cracked.”

You smile faintly, “I heard.”

“They asked about quali, he said something about ‘teammates knowing their place.’”

You raise a brow, amused, “Classy.”

“Zak pulled him out. Press has no idea what the fuck he meant,” Oscar says, with a hint of boyish triumph laced in his voice.

“But you do.”

He doesn’t answer that—just smiles again, a little wider this time.

You walk past him and take your place in the viewing area beside one of the engineers. From across the garage, you feel Lando’s eyes land on you. Just a flicker.

Just long enough.

He sees the bruise peeking above the collar of your hoodie. The faint outline of teeth just beneath your jaw.

He looks away.

You don’t need to say a word.

Oscar already said it for you—with his mouth on your skin, with his name on your lips, with every mark he left behind.

Qualifying starts, and Monaco doesn’t give anyone room to hide — not on track, and definitely not off it.

From the team pit wall, you watch it unfold through tinted lenses, headset perched loosely around your neck.

Oscar’s smooth. Fast. Calm through Sector 1, surgical through the hairpin. Lando’s twitchier. Overcorrecting. Radio sharp. He goes wide into Turn 12 and mutters something that gets bleeped on the live feed.

The garage knows.

Everyone knows.

Even the engineers are glancing at each other between data runs. The tension hasn’t lifted—it’s just gone quieter. Deeper.

Zak walks past you once, then again, and doesn’t say anything.

You don’t move.

Oscar finishes P3. Lando P7.

When Oscar’s lap time flashes on the board, there’s a flicker of something like satisfaction in the way he lifts his visor. He doesn’t celebrate. Doesn’t gloat. Just pulls back into the garage like he’s done his job—and knows you were watching.

You head toward the back hallway after the session ends. Quiet space behind hospitality, where the drivers come through before facing the press.

You’re leaning against a wall when you hear the voices before you see them.

Lando’s.

“Why don’t you tell them what you were really thinking on that last lap?”

Oscar’s.

“Excuse me?”

Lando’s.

“You wanted to beat me. You needed to. Don’t act like this was just another quali for you.”

Oscar’s voice is quieter, cooler, “Every quali, I want to beat the guy next to me. That’s the point.”

Lando laughs, sharp and joyless, “You think you’ve won something, don’t you? Some prize of a woman?”

You step into view.

They both go quiet.

Oscar’s eyes flick to you first—not surprised, not smug. Just aware. Present.

Lando sees the faint hickey blooming again, the one the foundation couldn’t fully hide, and his jaw ticks. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to.

You tilt your head, “Everything alright?”

Oscar looks at Lando for half a second longer, then turns to you.

“Yeah,” he says, calm and even. “We were just clearing the air.”

This earns him a glare from Lando.

You smile at Oscar, brush your hand lightly along his arm as you pass.

Lando stays frozen.

It’s dark when you find Oscar again—rooftop level, away from the noise. He’s leaning on the railing in his McLaren hoodie, watching the city lights flicker over the water.

You slip in beside him.

He doesn’t look away from the skyline.

“He’s pissed,” Oscar says.

“He’ll stay pissed,” you admit quietly.

“He’s not just mad about it being me,” a beat, “He’s mad because he never thought you would leave him.”

You nod, fingers grazing the edge of the railing, “He never thought I’d let anyone else touch me.”

Oscar turns to you then. The tension’s gone now, burned out somewhere between the lap and the hallway. He notices you shivering and removes his hoodie, handing it to you without a word.

“Do you regret it?”

“No,” you respond, more assurance in your voice than the last time he asked. You turn fully toward him, “Do you?”

He just looks at you—steady, thoughtful, something softer than anything he’s shown all day.

Then he shrugs one shoulder and smiles faintly, “Not even a little.”

You lean in.

Kiss him.

The kiss is soft—nothing like the one in the hallway, or the ones from last night, hot and breathless with desperation. This one is calm. Confident.

Yours.

Oscar’s hands rest lightly on your waist, the cool night breeze lifting strands of your hair between you. Monaco glitters below, impossibly golden. You kiss him once. Then again. Slow. Unrushed. Like no one’s watching.

Except someone is.

You don’t notice it at first—the small mechanical click behind you. Subtle. A shutter. A camera lens adjusting to the low light.

By the time you pull back, it’s already done.

Oscar’s head lifts just slightly, eyes narrowing toward a corner of the rooftop—barely visible through a line of glass. Not press-official. Paparazzi freelance. The ones who sell exclusives when the media team’s off-duty.

“Shit,” Oscar mutters under his breath.

You turn, eyes locking on the shadowed figure just as they duck behind cover.

Too late.

“Think they got it?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Oscar nods slowly, expression unreadable, “Yeah. They got it.”

You exhale—not panicked. Just… bracing.

Because the image will drop. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow morning. You in his arms, mouth on his, Oscar’s hoodie on your shoulders, his fingers curled around your waist like he’s holding something that matters.

It’s not a rumor anymore.

It’s not a whisper in the paddock hallway or a locker room assumption or something Lando only suspects.

It’s proof.

The photo drops sometime after 2 a.m.

It’s soft. Intimate. The Monaco skyline blurred behind you, Oscar’s hands gentle on your hips, your lips brushing his in a kiss too tender to be casual. You’re wearing his hoodie, your body leaning into his like you belong there. The headline spins fast, and the image spins faster.

“Piastri and mystery girl— late-night kiss confirms more than paddock rumors.” #MonacoGP #OP81 #McLaren #F1WeekendRomance

By the time the sun rises over the harbor, the image has circled the globe. Instagram reels. Reddit threads. Private group chats with McLaren team tags.

Some know who you are. Others ask. Everyone guesses.

No one’s surprised.

Not even Lando.

He sees it around 6 a.m. His phone buzzes with the notification, a WhatsApp ping from someone in media: “Bro…?”

He clicks it, thumb slow, still groggy from a half-slept night.

The image fills his screen in just about a second flat.

And for a second, he doesn’t feel anything at all.

Then it hits—slow and thick, like cold water spreading under his ribs. He stares at the photo, eyes scanning over the curve of your smile, the way your fingers curl into the back of Oscar’s shirt, the undeniable ease in your body.

You look happy.

He hasn't seen that look on you in months.

The worst part is how quiet the fury is—how it doesn’t come out loud, how it just sits there in his chest.

He doesn’t throw the phone.

He just stares, jaw tight, thumb hovering above the screen like he could rewind the moment and undo it.

But it’s already out.

And nothing will unsee it.

The paddock is different that morning. The kind of quiet that’s not actually quiet—just loaded.

Oscar walks in calm. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t shrink. He gives one quick nod to Zak, another to the comms lead. Then walks into the garage like he hasn’t just become the most searched man in F1.

Lando’s already in the back, zipped into his fireproofs, eyes locked on the telemetry like it might give him something to hit. When Oscar appears beside him in the media pen, the tension is immediate—even before the interviews start.

“Oscar,” one reporter says, half-laughing, “you’ve been trending all morning. Surprised by the attention?”

Oscar’s lips tug into a polite half-smile, “Not particularly.”

“Balancing a fast lap and a fast… personal life?” someone else jokes.

He doesn’t miss a beat, “One lap at a time.”

Lando laughs then—too sharp, too loud, “He’s got more than enough time to focus on everything else, clearly.”

The PR handler stiffens. The reporters go quiet. One camera clicks. Someone tries to move the topic on, but the moment lands.

Oscar doesn’t react. Just folds his arms across his chest, gives a small smile, and looks straight ahead.

You hear about it an hour later.

And when you enter the garage, it’s like parting smoke. The space tenses. Heads turn. No one quite meets your eyes, except for Lando —a glance, sharp and quick, from across the space.

He looks away.

Oscar doesn’t.

You find him standing near the screens, headset tucked around his neck, one hand in his pocket. He sees you and offers the smallest, softest smile.

You pass close. Don’t touch. Don’t stop.

But your fingers graze his as you go.

He breathes like it’s the first time all day he’s been allowed to.

Later, after the final briefings wrap, you find him alone behind the paddock—tucked into a quiet service alley, the marina glittering beyond the concrete walls.

He doesn’t hear you approach. Just stands with his back to you, hands braced on the railing, still in his gear. His shoulders rise and fall in slow rhythm.

You stop beside him.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Then, “So,” you murmur, “that’s one way to go public.”

He huffs a laugh. “Guess we don’t get to control the timing.”

You glance sideways at him. “Regret it yet?”

He finally looks at you — eyes soft, voice quieter than it was all day, “Not even a little.”

You nod slowly, “Me either.”

He exhales, like that’s what he was waiting for.

“It’s going to be loud,” He warns

“I know.”

“He’s not going to take it quietly,” Oscar adds.

“He’s not my responsibility anymore.”

Oscar studies your face — the calm in your expression, the steadiness in your voice — then lifts a hand to your jaw, thumb brushing gently beneath your cheekbone.

“If it gets messy—” Oscar starts.

“We’ll deal with it,” you reassure him with a confidence foreign to you.

He nods once.

"Good luck out there."

The Monaco sun glints harshly off the harbor, but the air inside the McLaren garage is colder than it should be. Everyone’s already seen the photo. The photographers couldn’t have asked for a cleaner shot.

No one says a word about it — not to your face. But there’s something in the silence. The way engineers glance between Lando and Oscar before looking away. The way a strategist clears his throat before relaying sector data like he’s afraid it might ignite something.

You stay quiet. Poised. Present in the garage like you’ve always been. Just another figure with a headset and a McLaren pass. Except now, yesterday's bruises aren’t just hickeys—they’re headlines.

Oscar’s composed during formation laps, fully in the zone. Lando, on the other hand, can’t seem to keep still. His fingers twitch on the wheel. His visor drops early. And when he lines up behind Oscar on the grid, his car nose to the back of the #81, the message is clear:

He’s not racing for position.

He’s racing him.

The lights go out at the start, and the tension snaps taut.

Oscar gets off the line clean. Fast. Aggressive, but composed—the kind of driver who cuts through chaos like he’s above it. He settles into P3 behind Leclerc and Max, calm radio calls rolling through your headset.

“Tyres feel stable. Brakes coming up nicely.” His tone is smooth. Professional. Locked in.

“Copy that, Oscar. You’re looking good. Just manage the gap.”

Lando, meanwhile, is chewing through the field from P7, but he’s not driving—he’s fighting. And it shows. He’s too heavy into the Nouvelle Chicane. Nearly clips the barrier at Mirabeau. Gets squeezed by Hamilton going into the tunnel and screams down the radio like it’s personal.

“Is anyone actually gonna call shit today, or should I just punt him off the fucking track?”

“Lando, stay focused.”

“Oh, now you want focus. Should’ve told golden boy to stay out of my way in quali.”

Twenty laps in, Oscar’s holding steady in third with tire wear perfectly balanced. Lando’s muscling his way up to P5, then P4 after a gutsy dive into Sainte Devote. It’s impressive. Chaotic. Pure Lando.

“Tell him if he’s going to block me, he better commit to it. This half-ass defending doesn’t help anyone.”

The pit wall tries to smooth it over.

“Copy, Lando. Maintain focus. Oscar’s running clean.”

There’s a beat of static. Then Lando again.

“If he wants to play team leader, he better drive like it.”

In Oscar’s car, there’s only quiet. Steady updates. Clean cornering. No rise. No reaction.

Just sector after sector of control.

But it’s Oscar who makes it look effortless.

Final laps tick down. Lando’s close—closer than he’s been all weekend—but not enough.

You watch the checkered flag fall from the garage viewing area, headset still clutched in one hand, heart thudding in your chest. Oscar crosses the line second—a solid, beautiful finish. No mistakes. No drama.

Lando follows in fourth.

The crowd roars. The team celebrates.

But inside the garage, the energy is split.

Half the crew glances toward the monitors. The other half glances toward you.

No one says anything.

But the silence speaks volumes.

The garage claps for Oscar’s podium. It’s not dramatic. No confetti. But the applause is sincere. You stay tucked to the side as he peels off his gloves and helmet, curls damp and jaw clenched with adrenaline.

He doesn’t look for you.

He knows you’re there.

The podium happens in a flash champagne, interviews, cameras. Oscar is graceful. Deflecting the kiss photo with a shrug:

”I try to keep focus on track. Everything else…” He shrugs. “That’s not what wins points. I let the track speak louder than the tabloids.”

Clean. Cool. Unbothered.

Lando’s post-race media scrum doesn’t go as smoothly.

His smile is too tight. His answers too short.

“Happy with your pace today?”

“No.”

“Anything you’d like to say about team dynamics?”

“I think a few people need to remember who they were before the cameras showed up.”

You’re not sure if it’s coincidence or fate. Lando's leaning against the wall near the back of the hospitality area, arms crossed over his chest, fire suit still half-zipped, sweat drying on his neck. The air between you tightens instantly.

He sees you before you speak.

“So that’s it?” he says, voice low, mocking, “You get your moment? Photo hits the press and suddenly you’re Piastri’s girl now?”

You keep your voice even. “It’s not about the photo.”

“No?” His eyebrows lift, “Looked like it. Looked like perfect timing, actually. Right before race day. You really going for the full storybook arc, huh?”

You cross your arms, matching his stance, “You think I planned that? You think I wanted to be caught?”

He snorts. “Certainly didn't stop.”

You step closer.

“You didn’t stop sleeping around. You didn’t stop ignoring me. You didn’t stop until I was already gone.”

His mouth twitches—not a smile. Something bitter.

“And you think Oscar’s different?”

“I know he is.”

He studies you then. Really looks. Like he’s trying to find the part of you that still belongs to him. The part he can poke and prod and control like he used to.

But it’s not there.

His breath stutters. He looks away—jaw tight, hands clenched.

There’s movement behind you.

Lando glances past your shoulder—posture tensing.

Oscar stands just beyond the corner. Silent. Watching.

But he doesn’t step in.

He meets your eyes—not Lando’s—and with one subtle nod, he turns to go.

Because he trusts you to handle this.

Because you needed to take this one yourself.

You find Oscar later by the hospitality coffee station, half-dressed down from his suit, fingers curled around a water bottle, his race boots unlaced. The crowds have thinned. The crew’s winding down. But he’s still here—waiting.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“You saw?”

“I heard,” he says. “Then I saw.”

He studies you.

“You handled him.”

You nod, then smile faintly. “So did you.”

Oscar lifts his water bottle and takes a sip.

You step closer. Not rushed. Just enough.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“For what?”

“Not stepping in.”

“Didn’t need to,” he replies, “I knew you could handle him.”

You lean into his side, your hand resting on his chest. His arm slips around your back like it’s instinct.

There are still cameras around.

Still whispers.

Still fallout coming.

But for now, it’s just the two of you.

Still standing.

FROM PADDOCK DARLING TO PIASTRI’S MYSTERY GIRL: MONACO GP’S MOST TALKED-ABOUT WOMAN

Well, well, well. Things are heating up in more ways than one at McLaren—and this time, it’s not just on track.

In case you missed it (though how could you?), Oscar Piastri made headlines this weekend for more than just his flawless P2 finish in Monaco. The 23-year-old Aussie was spotted sharing a kiss with a woman who—until recently—had been very publicly linked to his teammate, Lando Norris.

Yes. You read that right.

The viral photo, snapped late Saturday night on a rooftop terrace above the Monaco paddock, shows Piastri in what can only be described as a very cozy moment with a mystery girl who fans quickly identified as Lando’s longtime (but reportedly estranged) girlfriend.

Wearing his hoodie. With his hands around her waist. And what appear to be love bites peeking out from beneath her collar.

(We zoomed in. Don’t act like you didn’t.)

The woman once seen at every race on Lando Norris’ arm is no longer just a grid-side accessory—she’s made it very clear whose garage she’s in now. And it’s not Norris’.

Neither Oscar nor the woman in question have made an official statement, but the body language has said plenty. The pair has been spotted multiple times, hand-in-hand, unabashed.

While reps for McLaren offered no official comment on the photo, the tension in the garage during Saturday qualifying spoke volumes. Sources inside the paddock describe Norris as “visibly short-tempered,” with one engineer claiming he was “racing like he had something to prove.” As for Piastri? Calm, composed—and, if we may, focused.

He brought home P2.

Norris? P4—and reportedly less than thrilled.

Let’s not forget: this isn’t the first time Lando’s off-track antics have made waves—rumors of infidelity have followed the Brit through the past few seasons, though they were often brushed aside by his ever-loyal girlfriend. Until now.

While nothing has been confirmed (yet), it would certainly appear that she’s Oscar’s now.

Whether this unexpected romance will fuel drama or just give Oscar a boost on track remains to be seen, but one thing’s for sure: we’ll be watching.

Very closely.

Stay tuned. The summer break’s never felt so far away.

#oscar piastri #op81 #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri smut #ln4 #mclaren #f1 #f1 x reader #f1 smut

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magicaloneandmystery · 3 days ago

Text

blush

pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!reader

summary: the five times Bucky made you blush and the one time you did.

warnings: AU where all Avengers are alive and live together as a family because I say so; lots of fluffy couply things because I'm In A Mood™; this is NOT proofread!!

the two of you were new to this... relationship. not that it was an exclusive one. you were still figuring out whether you wanted to be a superhero's girlfriend and Bucky was still figuring out what modern dating looked like.

today was your third date, an evening to the new observatory, both of you excited to look at some stars together. New York could be suffocating without the glitter in the sky.

you were wearing a blue, full-sleeved top with a sweetheart neckline, paired with dark trousers. when you met Bucky in front of your door, he gave you a once over before a charming smile spread over his lips.

"I'm not sure whether I'll be able to focus on the stars if you look like that, doll."

it was the first time he had called you by a nickname. his words paired with him calling you doll in that low, teasing voice made heat crawl up your neck and face, your bashful smile directed at the ground as a sudden wave of butterflies swarmed your belly.

"th- thank you?" you said, not sure how to respond.

he chuckled warmly, holding out the helmet for you.

"and if you keep reacting so cutely, I'll have to call you doll more often," he remarked, meeting your eyes and winking at you.

damn him and his disarming smile.

after an exciting time at the observatory, both of you were walking down the New York streets together to get some food to eat. his bike was still parked at the observatory, you two deciding to walk to the nearby quaint cafe instead.

walks with Bucky were one of your favourite things. despite his long strides and natural tendency to walk fast, he would consciously slow down to stroll behind you, your hands animatedly talking about a random topic and his staying in his pockets.

when a rowdy friend group suddenly crowded the sidewalk, Bucky's hands immediately found yours, pulling you close to him as you two passed them.

it was the first time he had held your hand, his big, calloused hand almost enveloping yours. somehow, they fit perfectly, like two jigsaw pieces.

it was a weird sensation holding his hand. good weird.

you could feel his steady hold grounding you to the present despite the way your insides were melting at the contact.

when the path cleared, you expected him to let go of your hand.

instead, it loosened slightly but still held on, now a more casual grip than the protective one it mimicked earlier.

you continued to talk about your favourite Latin phrases while he walked on as usual, the other hand in his pocket.

your hands intertwined together felt natural.

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you had heard about the glamourous, over the top Tony Stark Galas. everyone had heard of them. never in a million years would you have thought you'll be invited to one.

so when Bucky asked "would you be my date for the Stark thing?" it took you a few moments to understand what he was saying.

"Stark thing? like, the Tony Stark Charity Gala?" your voice had raised by two octaves, excitement bleeding from your voice.

"yeah, that," Bucky's nonchalance gave way to amusement at your reaction.

you squealed in delight. "will Captain America be there? I mean Steve and Sam both. Black Widow? Thor?"

you started pacing in front of him, his eyes following you.

"I don't know what to wear, but wait- what if I make a fool in front of them?"

"you do realise these are all people I work with."

you turned around with a flurry that had Bucky concerned about whiplash. "wait so... we'll be going together?"

"... yes?"

"no, like. together together?"

"doll, you need to be clearer."

you shook your head, standing directly in front of him, your feet touching his as you looked up to him.

"I'll be your date." you stated, as if that was supposed to clear things up for Bucky.

"yes," he nodded, still giving you a confused smile.

"you'll introduce me as your...?"

"date?" he responded, his eyebrows scrunching in a cute but dumbfounded way.

you groaned. "Bucky this is the first time I'll be meeting your friends!" exasperation laced your tone. "that's... that's a huge step for us, right?" your hands found each other, fiddling with each other.

"do you not want to?" he asked, suddenly nervous. had he pushed you too far? Sam had given him the 'don't take things too fast' talk when he had ventured into dating in the 21st century.

"no, I want to," you clarified quickly. "I just want to make sure we're on the same page. you're ready for this, yeah?"

"of course," he stated, tugging you closer by your hands, his arms wrapping around your frame. "I get to show you off and prove to Romanoff that I can get girls to go out with me."

the sentence brought you back to your earlier predicament. "oh my god Bucky I don't have anything to wear! and my hair! and makeup! this is an Avengers affair! what if I embarrass myself?! what if I embarrass you!"

"doll," he tightened his hold on you, kissing you to shut you up.

your mind came to a stop, your focus shifting on his lips.

"it'll be fine," he promised. "you'll be great. you'll look pretty - there's no way you could look ugly even if you tried - and I'll make sure to punch anyone who dares say anything against you. yeah?"

"okay," you said in a daze, looking up at his eyes, finding comfort in the ocean staring back at you. "but no punching."

"no promises."

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when the big day was here, you were surprised at how good you looked. after all the panic and indecision, the begging your girl gang to help you get ready, the shopping and the borrowing of dress, accessories, and everything else, you were satisfied when you looked in the mirror. you looked pretty.

you hoped Bucky would think the same.

so when you opened your apartment door and saw him standing outside in a dark blue suit, the jacket hugging his biceps, the shirt underneath outlining his chest, and the tie adding a delicious flair, with his thick thighs being on full display with the slacks...

your breath hitched. you felt familiar heat up your neck, a blush forming on your face by just looking at him.

you didn't have energy to focus on your insecurities when you could focus on Bucky and how downright decision he looked.

"you look exquisite, doll," he said, a single white tulip in his hands. you had strictly banned him from getting bouquets for some time, after he filled your apartment with flowers and you were running out of vases. but he couldn't not get you a flower. especially for an occasion such as this. your first public appearance together.

"Bucky, you look..." you breathed out, mind working in overdrive to find a word that would describe the effect he has on you. your mind was also distracted by his slicked hair and clean shaven face, the way his eyes sparkled when he looked at you, the way his muscles bulged when he moved his arms. "simply delicious." you settled.

well, so much for being coherent.

he chuckled. "I could say the same about you."

he held out the flower in front of you, giving you a wide grin as you narrowed your eyes at him.

"you said no bouquets," he winked.

you sighed, shaking your head.

he assessed your hairstyle before you could take the flower, deeming it good enough for his next actions.

he tucked the flower behind your ear.

Bucky Barnes, the feared assassin, tucked a tulip in his date's hair.

like a lovesick fool.

you blushed even more profusely at his actions.

"it goes well with the dress," he concluded, giving you a once over, taking your hand in his. he pulled you closer, his other hand settling on your waist. "did I tell you how beautiful you look?"

"yes," you said, still in awe of the man in front of you. "did I tell you how handsome you look?"

he chuckled, kissing you, careful of your lipstick.

"are you two ever getting out of here? I have a takeout box and Netflix waiting for me at home," your best friend said from behind you.

"right," you pulled away from Bucky, turning around. "thank you for the help," you hugged her goodbye.

the gala was... overwhelming. both in a good and bad way.

the Avengers were everything you hoped for. a delight.

the attention, on the other hand...

but Bucky was always there, a hand on your back or around your waist. if he left, it was to bring you a drink or talk to someone about some superhero-y thing. classified and top secret. but he was never out of your reach for too long.

in the rare moments he was, his team members kept you company.

Steve and Sam were teasing but respectful, trying to get you to tell them embarrassing stories about Bucky. Wanda and Natasha were friendly, letting you be comfortable in their presence and dishing out gossip to you as if you three were a clique. Pepper and Jane occasionally joined the three of you. Thor was... booming. loud. his presence demanded attention, which made sense. he was a god, after all. Loki, on the other hand, was a shadow. he would occasionally prank someone in a small way, but nothing too major or serious. he was a refreshing presence. Tony was the star, the one that got everyone to act like a group. a united front, and all that. he was both charming and disarming, intimidating to an outsider like you at first, but his warmth was noticeable after some time.

the team welcomed you into their group easily. so much so, they even welcomed you at the after party.

when Bucky returned with your drink, he heard the end of your conversation with Tony.

"think about it, we could use a mind like you," Tony was saying, nodding his head at Barnes in acknowledgement.

"are you poaching my girl, Stark?" Bucky asked, pulling you closer.

"just offering her a better pay, right sweetheart?" he said.

you laughed, nodding. "I'll think about your offer."

"you know where to contact me," he raised his glass, swiftly siding away in response. you frowned in confusion.

"I actually don't know that..."

"are you having fun?" Bucky asked.

"yeah, your friends are nice. do you think they like me?" you played with the lapels on his coat.

"you're their new darling," he said, stealing a kiss. "I think they'll be fighting me for your attention."

"Bucky!" you said, slapping his shoulder. "don't kiss me, we're in front of the Avengers." you whispered the last phrase.

"so?" he laughed. "I'm one of them."

"yeah but you're... you. I know you."

"do you, now?" he raised his eyebrows. you could practically feel the teasing remark on his lips.

"I know you well enough to know you're not gonna stop kissing me in front of your friends."

"damn right," he said, leaning down to give you a proper kiss. the one that left you in a breathless daze afterwards. with a slow motion of your lips, the taste from your drinks mingling with each other. faintly, you could hear Sam shouting a teasing remark that only made Bucky pull you closer to his chest.

when you pulled away, your lipstick was smudged on his lips, but he seemed to not mind.

you could barely meet anyone's eyes for the next ten minutes, cheeks and neck flushed at the memory of Bucky's very public display of affection.

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you were sprawled out on Bucky's chest, the movie playing in front of you, but it was well in the background of your perception. your mind was clouded with new information about your relationship with Bucky, unable to focus on anything else, not even the way his fingers made patterns on your back as he held you.

he could sense you were distracted.

"is everything okay?" his voice pulled you out of your thoughts.

you wondered whether to share the information with him or not. would it help your relationship? it could make or break your future, effectively changing your life forever.

your thoughts were a jumbled mess.

"I came across some new information about our relationship," you said, finally.

that made Bucky sit up, pausing the movie to give you his full attention.

"I think this could make or break us," you repeated your thoughts out loud.

"okay..." Bucky said slowly, not sure what you were getting at. "what kind of information?"

"feelings," you said simply, looking at him expectantly.

"feelings?"

you nodded.

"you've stopped making sense again," he stated simply.

"the information has to do with feelings," you clarified.

"uh... still not making sense."

"I think I love you," you clarified further.

"you- what?" Bucky spluttered, not expecting that.

"I think about you all day, I dream about our future. you make me feel safe, warm, and excited about life. you've made it really hard to not fall for you, you know that? from your compliments to your gestures to your looks. it's a little frustrating how perfect you are."

for the first time, you saw a blush creep up Bucky's neck, a pink tint to his skin.

it was a beautiful thing - everything about this man was - the way his eyes darted around with a sheepish smile, the way his hand wrung together with nerves in a way you've never seen him. Bucky Barnes didn't blush or lose control.

apparently, he did now.

"do you mean all of that?" he said, his voice a whisper you had to strain to listen.

"yeah. every word. I love you, Bucky," you repeated. "you can take your time to say it back, or whatever, I don't really know. I- I just don't want this to ruin what we-"

your words were cut off with an oof escaping your lips before they were covered by his. this time, his kiss was deeper, his tongue fighting with yours for dominance before you gave way. he languidly explored your mouth, his hands gripping the side of your face, his fingers stroking your cheek.

your hands were on his neck, feeling his heat.

when you both broke away, you smiled at him.

"Bucky, you're blushing," you gushed, kissing his cheeks, adoration swelling in your chest.

"shut up," he grumbled, no real heat behind his words.

"make me?" you said.

he kissed you again. and again and again.

when the two of you were done kissing each other, he rested his forehead against yours. he was looking at you, eyes intense and focused only on you.

"I love you, too," he said finally, letting his walls crumble around you, letting you hold him safely.

tears welled in your eyes, the rush of feelings washing over you.

"I love you, Bucky," you repeated.

you spent the night intertwined with each other.

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated! thank you so much for reading :D

#sr writes #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barns fanfiction #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fluff

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amillionmagpies · 15 hours ago

Text

Depends? I'm 'good' ace rep, since I've never had sex and don't intend to, and I'm that holy completely aroace combo. On the other hand, I'm also nb and choose to present as fairly close to my assigned gender most of the time, and I don't really get body dysphoria or dysmorphia, so I'd be 'bad' trans/nb rep.

Also, I'm extremely mentally ill, and also physically disabled, which would probably get my author called out for acting like ace/aro/trans/nb/queer people can't be happy.

I personally see myself as being judged as not good queer rep, as aroace who dates, "feminine" trans, "emotionless" trope, alien/robot/outsider coded, etc.

This poll is because i am often thinking about characters that are considered bad rep, but I know people in real life are LIKE THAT and identity is messy! In my opnion bad queer rep would be the ones that aren't shown or touched upon on screen. Idk, just wondering.

Edit: lmao i wrote hood isntead of good and tumblr didnt let me edit

#asexuality #aromantic #transgender #nonbinary

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bunny-jpeg · 2 days ago

Text

virtual tracks

max verstappen

tags: smut/pwp, sim racing, oral sex/face sitting (reader receiving), masturbation, dirty talk, sub!max

you knew what you were getting into when you first saw the sim racing set up in his apartment. redline was a big part of his life, just like formula one. even when he wasn't streaming, it still meant a big deal to him.

and you were happy that he had a hobby! after all, it wasn't the worst video game to play. you were fine with him playing his silly little racing games and chit-chatting with friends and fans.

but sometimes, you wanted to break that set up with a hammer and toss it over the balcony.

how was this possible? you were standing there in nothing but blue lace panties and one of his redbull windbreakers, the zipper down enough to show your wonderful cleavage. you were inviting him for sex. and max was not paying an ounce of attention.

you were almost dumbfounded until you crossed your arms and said, "max."

"in a minute, my treasure. one second." he said, his eyes didn't peel away from the screen. he steered the virtual car around the curb on a virtual track. you pinched the bridge of your nose and zipped the windbreaker back up.

you went over and grasped the back of his chair and leaned, "max verstappen. for someone with sharp enough vision to win four championships. you are painfully blind." and placed another hand loosely at his neck.

"just let me finish this race and i swear i'll go down on you until you cum at least three times." he promised as he felt an uptick in his pulse. your engagement ring glimmered in the low light.

"you're picking a video game over me, max?" you leaned in a little closer, "thought i taught you better than that. i dressed up for you and you're too busy with your games." your hand lowered to his shorts where you got your hand under the waistband. you gave his cock a little attention, feeling him grow hard under your touch.

he instantly crashed the sim car into a wall and let out a sweet little moan. there was the max you knew and loved. the man who whimpered.

"please, my love." he shuddered, "i'm sorry."

"i understand, you boys love your silly little games. but, now that you're done with that level. why don't you keep your promise?" and played with his cock until he started to get up from his seat.

you knew that max was smart and to see him put that brain to use was always a good sign. you guided him to the bedroom. he let you lead him then pushed him onto the bed.

he reached for you and tried to grab you, but you swatted his hands away. your tone was stern as you said, "look, don't touch. got it?" he then put his hands back on the bed, but those blue eyes were trained on you as you stripped of your minimal clothes. if he had behaved, he would have been able to undress you like a present. he felt his cock twitch in his shorts.

"look at you, maxie." you purred as you got onto the bed, "aren't you the sweetest thing ever? mister big and tough on the track, but when it's just you and i, well, you're just a cute little kitten." you reached for him and kissed him firmly on the lips, "see you look better on your back than in front of a screen." you laid him out on the bed.

he shifted on the bed and felt his pulse spike once more. he could already feel the heat in his face, you stripped him of his black shirt and his shorts. you ran a finger up his hard cock and he almost came from that, you just giggled.

you licked your lips, "do your little racing friends know that you're such a good boy for me? so sweet and loved? does your teammate know? the other drivers on the grid? i bet everyone can see if on your face." your voice sounded nurturing, but your words were erotic.

it was no secret that you were more assertive, some would consider you a little brash. but max loved it. you were quite the pair. you were unlike anyone else he had ever been with.

"are you going to make me cum with that tongue of yours? you leaned in for a kiss before you got on top of him. when you broke the kiss, you got your knees planted on either side of his head.

he licked his lips and you pressed your wet cunt up against his mouth. he clenched onto the sheets as he rubbed his tongue against your pussy. he shuddered as his cock leaked pre-cum.

he was stupid for not focusing on you. you dressed up so nicely for him. racing should have been the last thing on his mind when he could be devouring your sweet, sweet cunt.

you reached down and held onto his shirt blond hair. you remarked with a small chuckle, "your hair is getting a little long, my dear. it feels nice, a good length to yank on."

he groaned, you weren't going to pull out the strands. but the small tug made him only further aroused.

maybe it was how good he made you feel, but you were feeling generous. you looked at him between your legs as you rocked your hips against him. you said softly, "max, my love. you must be so needy. you can touch yourself."

he mumbled a 'thank you' as he reached for his cock and he stroked himself. he made a blissed out noise as he feverishly pleasure you with his tongue. he swore under his breath as he felt the sexual pleasure grow.

max was so good for you, and you were so good for him. he moaned, as did you. you held onto the headboard and moved your hips further against his face. you clenched your thighs around his head.

he knew how to eat you out so well. he was talented with his tongue. he knew the pace that really got you going, the pressure to make you eager for more. his talent, to make you moan.

you groaned and pulled his hair a little more as you rubbed up against him further. you cursed under your breath.

"master with that tongue, max." you shakily exhaled as you moved further up against him, "look at you, fuck. you look good under me, max. you look better with my thighs crushing your skull." you looked as you felt the pleasure continue to course through you.

his tongue grazed across your clit, his licks were a little more heavy and it made your pulse jump as the heat coursed through you. fire in your blood as the hot blond between your legs made your cunt with sexual want.

"drive me crazy, honey." you purred, "you know what you do to me, is that why you were so focused on that stupid game because you are such a tease." you clenched your thighs a little tighter, he groaned as you said, "you're such a tease, max."

his thought were swamped, he could only think of you, you were intoxicating. alluring. you made his cock throb, even as he stroked himself. he could feel pre-cum slide down his knuckles. he breathed through his nose as he licked your beautiful cunt.

heaven.

that was all could be said about you. he needed you deeply, carnally. he yearned for you, in a certain way that he could only describe as being heavenly. is sang in his soul. he yearned for you, needed you. he loved you, even when your thighs were squishing his head. to die by them around be a noble death.

you moaned as you felt the pleasure brew in you. the intense feeling soon reached its peak and you held onto his hair tightly and continued to move against his face. it was an intense feeling as the warmth continued to flow through you.

max continued to jerk himself off, he needed his release soon. the pressure of erotic heat was far too much for him. everything in his body ran hot as he stroked himself quickly. his cock ached for you, when you moaned, he knew he was close. his pace was quick, matching with how he gorged himself on your cock. his dedicating to pleasing you.

you panted heavily, "fuck, fuck, yes. fuck, max. that's it." your noises got louder as you felt climax so close, like it was on the tip of your tongue.

as you came on his tongue, he came around his hand. you finished together. you slowed your ace to a stop and relaxed around him. you panted heavily and pushed hair out of your face to get some relief on your heated cheeks. you got off his face, your pussy was soaked.

you laid out next to him and let him catch his breath for a moment.

"fuck, you're so good to me." you said as you wiped your wetness from his mouth before you went in for a hot kiss.

he got the cum off his hand before he pulled you closer to him and kissed your sweaty forehead. he happily accepted your affection.

"this was amazing." he purred as he held you close to him. you felt good in his arms. he kissed you head and relaxed further into the bed.

you took him by the chin and made him look up at you. you said to him, "you said you were going to make me cum three times." then smiled, "time to get to work, max and then maybe you can go back to sim racing."

"yes, please." he said as he got back between your legs,. he was focused the same way he was when he raced.

you chuckled as he gripped your thigh, "good boy." <3

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footygirl114 · 2 days ago

Note

R is friends with Alexia's trainer, Alexia can't take her eyes off R, R does not feel in shape enough to be there at a class run by their friend with some famous clients present, and couldn't possibly believe Alexia is enthralled by them- while working out.

No pressure! Good luck with the writing! Have fun!

The last thing you wanted to be doing on a Saturday morning was heading in to a workout class, you much preferred to get your exercise in by hiking or exploring new cities, but when your childhood best friend was opening a new fitness study in a trendy Barcelona neighbourhood you had to show up.

Your friend had worked her ass off, she maintained a very exclusive client list including celebrities and professional athletes and everything in between. You were proud of her to watch her grow her dream into a reality and now that she has a her pwn studio you were always going to show up and be her biggest supporter.

As you walk into the new studio you are impressed at how it looks full of life and people, as you had only seen it empty, and you smile watching her greet every person with a big smile and hug. When you get a chance to see her you cant help but to laugh and pull her into a hug.

“Congratulations, I am so proud of you” you whispered into her ear as you squeeze her tight.

“thank you for coming Y/N, i know this isn’t your normal scene” she says as she pulls back.

You smile and say “I wouldn't miss this for the world.”

You don’t get a chance to say anything else as she is pulled away with a smile and you move away to get ready to start this class. You take a moment to stand off against a wall and let your eyes roam the crowd. You recognise more than a few famous faces, and you feel way out of your league when you spot the professional athlete.

As your scanning the room, you catch the eye of a tall blonde athlete, who you are positive is Alexia Putellas. She smiles at you and you can feel the blush rush to your cheeks and when she winks you know the blush is noticeable on your face. Before you can do anything else embarrassing there is announcement to start the class.

You make sure to put yourself to the back of the class as you were not up to embarrassing yourself in front of a room like this.

By the end of the 45 minute session you can barley breathe and you know your shirt is covered in sweat. You don’t even want to look in the mirror as you are sure your sweaty hair is every where. You lean back agains the back wall half watching as the other participants start to gather you things and leave, most of then looking like they are barley out of breath.

You feel her before you hear her but someone comes and stands beside you, her arm brushing yours.

“hola” she says to you, and when you turn and see Alexia Putellas smiling at you.

You gape at her for a moment, and squeak out a “hi” feeling the red burn of a blush on your cheeks, but you know it is covered up by the red of your cheeks from working out.

She chuckles and says “I was hoping to catch you before you left.”

“You were?” you immediately blurt out to her.

Nodding she says “Yes, when I see something I like I don’t like to let it pass me by.”

“Me?” you stutter out a response, not quite believing that she would notice.

She smiles and leans in closer and whispers “Si, I noticed you right away and would like to take you out for a post workout smoothie?”

You have a hard time responding as you can feel the whisper of her breath on your ear.

When you do not respond she takes a step back and smiles lightly and says “No pressure, I will leave you be though.”

“Wait!” you yell out and place your hand on her forearm to keep her in place. You also notice multiple people looking at you including your friend who is smiling at winks at you. When you turn back to Alexia she is looking at you with a smirk and you smile and say “yes, I would like a smoothie with you”

She smiles brighter and says “should we jog over there together?”

You gape at her trying to come up with a retort and before you can she bursts out laughing at your expression and says “you’re cute, but I’ll save my running for chasing after you.”

#alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas imagine #alexia putellas #woso x reader #woso imagines #woso imagine

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augustwinesworld · 1 day ago

Text

𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬—𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

What if your eyes looked up and met mine one more time?

description:

pairing: dr. michael robinavitch x female ob/gyn attending! reader

genre: hidden pregnancy…maybe? smut.

warning: explicit smut (p in v), oral (f! receiving), DRY HUMPING (sooo hot), unprotected sex (never do this in real life, ever—couldn’t help myself lmao), age gap relationship (present time! robby late 40s, reader mid 30s—flashback! robby late 30s, reader mid 20s), problematic power dynamics (in the flashback reader is an intern, robby is a junior attending), inappropriate use of hospital property (?), female reader.

notes: idk what happened. this wasn’t in my outline. I started fleshing out the chapter and BOOM, the smut just appeared. Also, I am so sorry to any filipino people reading this, if I butchered the tagalog please lmk. THIS WAS NOT BETA READ.

word count: 10.3 k.

extra: moodboard | playlist | ☆:**:. 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐞 .:**:.☆

Feel free to #𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 (◕‿◕✿) *:･ﾟ✧ if you have any scenarios in mind! I might not write everything but I’ll respond to everyone.

series masterlist: 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬

12 years ago...

The vibe was off.

It wasn’t the usual exhaustion from a tough shift or hospital malaise—it was sharper. The kind of wrong you could taste in the back of your throat.

Robby could feel it the second he stepped onto the floor.

Felt it when his gaze skimmed across the nurses’ station, caught your pink-scrubbed form bent over a chart—and you didn’t look up.

Didn’t flash him the usual quick smile. Didn’t so much as acknowledge him.

Good, he thought viciously. Better that way.

He knew he was being short—clipped orders, tight jaw, no eye contact—but he couldn’t seem to stop it. It was either that or let something uglier bleed through.

You weren’t any better.

You charted like the pen was a weapon, avoided him like a live wire. No smart remarks, no quick glances. Just silence and a careful, perfectly crafted space between them.

Which made it worse. Somehow.

He stayed terse, barking out orders with a little more edge than necessary.

You stayed busy, answering questions without once meeting his eyes.

They orbited each other in a strange, broken rhythm—like magnets flipped the wrong way, close enough to feel the pull but fighting it every step of the way.

When the call came over the PA—Trauma incoming. OB consult needed. ETA four minutes—he felt it like a crack down his spine.

Of course.

Of course it had to be you on consult rotation today. Of course it had to be on his case.

He reached the trauma bay first, pulling on gloves with brisk, jerky motions. You arrived seconds later, steps light but purposeful, pink sneakers squeaking faintly against the tile.

You caught sight of him and flinched so subtly most people would’ve missed it.

He didn’t.

You hovered at the door like you considered staying back.

But then you squared your shoulders, locked it all away behind that bright, professional mask he hated so much, and stepped in beside him.

A nurse at the desk, watching them assemble, snickered under her breath, teasing, “uh oh. Dream team’s back together.”

There was a ripple of laughter from behind the desk—not cruel, exactly, but knowing. Like the whole fucking hospital had gotten a whiff of whatever was simmering between them lately.

Robby forced a half-smirk, the kind he used to disarm patients’ families in bad news consults.

“All part of the service,” he said dryly, snapping on a pair of gloves. “Premium package: expertise and entertainment.”

It got the intended effect—a few more chuckles, a little of the tension bleeding off the room.

But when he glanced sideways, you were already moving toward the gurney bay, chart in hand, shoulder brushing past him.

Over your shoulder, syrup-sweet, you chirped, "Just smile and nod—it’s easier that way.”

The nurses chuckled, thinking you were just poking fun at yourself.

Someone called after you, “Ain’t that the truth!”

“Lucky you. You get to watch us work our effortless magic."

The nurses cracked up, tossing you good-natured jabs. But Robby felt the gut punch underneath it.

Effortless.

Right.

The bitterness laced through honey.

But he caught the way your fingers tightened around the edges of the chart you held. Caught the way you shifted a fraction farther from him—no closer than you absolutely had to be, not even to grab a sterile gown.

He almost said something.

Almost reached for you.

Instead, he turned toward the incoming gurney and bit down hard on whatever reckless thing was clawing up his throat.

When they reached the trauma bay, the patient was already there—a woman in her late twenties, panting through a contraction, one hand braced under her swollen belly, eyes wide and terrified.

"Name's Emily," the nurse called quickly. "Third baby. History of a ventricular septal defect follow-up, but no set delivery plan. Presented in active labor about an hour ago. No prenatal records on file yet. No beds upstairs, so she’s ours for now."

"Vitals?" He asked, already snapping on gloves.

"Stable for now. Cervix was seven on arrival. Labor’s progressing fast."

He flicked a glance toward you, and caught the tight nod you gave, all business.

Still so damn new, scrubs just slightly too crisp, name badge gleaming, but already standing your ground like you’d been born for this.

No panic. No dramatics. Just pure focus.

"We’ll need NICU on standby when the baby’s out," you said, voice steady. "And page Cardiology for a newborn ECHO, stat."

"On it," a nurse answered, jogging off.

Meanwhile, you stepped closer to the bed, voice softening as you addressed the laboring woman directly.

"Emily, you’re doing great," you said, one gloved hand resting lightly against the patient's shaking thigh. "I know it hurts, but you're not alone, okay? We’re right here with you. We’re gonna take care of both of you."

"My husband—" Emily gasped between breaths. "Where's—"

One of the nurses answered quickly, squeezing her shoulder. "He's on his way, sweetheart. There was a pileup on the bridge��traffic’s slow, but he’s coming."

Emily nodded shakily, biting down on a cry as another contraction tore through her.

The intern immediately stepped in, resting a reassuring hand on Emily’s arm. "You're doing so good, Emily. Breathe with me."

You turned to a nearby nurse. "Page Dr. Levin. Let them know labor's progressing quickly."

The nurse nodded and hustled away.

Robby hovered close, not interfering, just...watching. Ready. His hands itched to help, but he knew better. This was her case to lead. And hell, if he wasn’t a little awed.

When the nurse returned, slightly breathless, she reported, "Dr. Levin's tied up with another delivery. They said you're clear to manage—hold steady."

For half a heartbeat, something flickered across your face—the barest tremor of uncertainty.

He saw it. Of course he did.

But then you lifted your chin, took a deep breath, and turned back to Emily with firm hands and a gentler voice.

"Okay, Emily. Looks like I'm here with you for now. You're not alone. We're right here."

Emily’s eyes—wild with fear—locked onto yours. "Is my baby okay?"

"She's strong," the intern said firmly. "She's a fighter, just like you."

Emily squeezed her hand—a desperate, sweaty grip—and nodded, teeth clenched against the next contraction.

There it was. That thing you had. That quiet, steel-threaded kindness no textbook could teach. You just had it, in every fiber of your being.

The next hour blurred.

Emily’s labor accelerated at a breathtaking pace. There was barely enough time to pull together a sterile field. Barely enough time for you to snap on gloves and don a gown before the baby crowned.

"Almost there, Emily," you murmured, voice low and encouraging. "You’re doing beautifully. Just breathe."

The patient whimpered through another contraction.

"It hurts," she gasped, panicked.

"I know," you said—gentle, but firm. "It means you’re close. When you feel the next urge, I want you to push right through it. You can do this. We’ve got you."

Robby was there at her shoulder, mirroring her calm, matching her rhythm. He coached the patient through each final push while you supported Emily with both words and hands, working seamlessly together.

You moved in perfect tandem without needing a single word.

"Big breath, Emily—now!"

The baby slid free, slick and furious, and Robby caught her deftly, heart thudding—clamping and cutting the cord.

"Female, vigorous, crying," he called out.

"Taking her for ECHO! Mom informed!" a NICU nurse shouted, rushing the newborn away, tiny fists punching the air.

Emily sobbed, half in relief, half in terror.

"They’re checking her heart," you reassured, leaning close. "That's all. She's strong."

One last glimpse of tiny fists and furious wails—then gone.

Emily clutched at her gown with a trembling hand. "My husband—"

"Still on his way," Robby said quietly from her side. "He knows you're both okay. He’s getting here as fast as he can."

Emily squeezed her eyes shut, another broken little sob escaping, but she nodded, trusting them because she had no choice. Collapsing back onto the bed, half-sobbing, half-laughing.

Robby exhaled slowly, swiping a forearm across his forehead as he watched you work. Gentle hands palpating the uterus, checking for bleeding, even whispering reassurances too low for him to catch.

Emily cracked a watery smile at them.

And he saw it hit. The way you blinked hard, throat working around whatever emotion you were swallowing down.

God, you cared. You cared so much it made him ache.

He turned to find you stripping off your gloves.

"You good?"

You didn’t even look up.

"Fine," you said, too quickly. Your brows furrowed briefly—just a flicker—as your hands moved lower, more deliberate now.

"Uterus firm?" he asked under his breath.

"Borderline," you murmured, careful to keep your tone light, soothing the patient with your free hand. "Placenta delivered intact. No tears. Mild vaginal bleeding—expected. Nothing alarming, yet."

Before he could say anything else—before he could betray how hard he was trying not to reach for you—the charge nurse leaned in.

"Still no beds upstairs," she said. "Mother's stable. She can stay put for now."

He nodded. You nodded.

And just like that, the moment disappeared—tucked away like something too dangerous to look at directly.

You turned back to work.

The current pulling you both under, once again.

It wasn’t until nearly an hour later—after two more traumas and a screaming match in a back hallway neither of you would even remember the details of—that the call came.

"Your patient, Emily" a nurse said, tugging at her sleeve. "She says something hurts. Down there."

Your forehead furrowed. Instinct snapped into place.

"Vitals?" you asked sharply.

"Stable for now. She's pale, though."

Without thinking, you gestured for Robby to follow—habit, muscle memory—but he hesitated. Watched you.

Still, he stepped in behind you.

When they got to the room, Emily’s husband was already there, sitting at her bedside, hunched over her hand like it was a lifeline. He looked like he was about to cry.

“She said it hurts," he said immediately, desperate. "She said it feels wrong—please, can you—?"

“We’ll take care of her," you said, already pulling on gloves.

At Emily’s bedside, it took seconds to see it: a deep, dark bulge along the right labia, swollen and angry under the skin.

You pressed gently. Emily cried out.

"Hematoma," you muttered.

"Expanding," Robby confirmed, grim.

Your eyes met, just for a moment, over the patient’s trembling body.

Then you moved. Hands colliding, breath held, adrenaline buzzing through every shouted word.

"Type and cross two units. I want blood at bedside!" Robby snapped.

"Two large-bore IVs, wide open," you called to the nurse. "Start fluids—ringers, fast."

"Ready the sterile tray. Lidocaine. Scalpel. Suction!"

The portable scanner whined to life as they prepped the site. One nurse darted in with meds, another with a sealed tray.

"Ready?" he said.

"Ready."

The blade kissed skin, and a flood of blood spilled out, hot and dark and wrong. Way too much blood, too fast. Way deeper than a simple hematoma.

The suction whirred to life as they worked, fighting to keep up with the flood of blood.

But your gut twisted. Something was off.

“Emily,” you said, clamly, “I know it hurts, but stay with us, okay? Just breathe. You’re safe.”

Emily let out a broken moan, almost animal. Suddenly her blood pressure monitor started to shriek.

"Ultrasound, now," you snapped.

The tech swung the wand over Emily’s belly—and there it was: fluid pooling deep in the abdomen. Liver involvement. Bleeding into the cavity.

Recognition hit like a gut punch.

“Fuck. It’s not just the hematoma. It’s systemic.”

"HELLP?" Robby asked tightly.

"Or DIC, probably both," you answered, voice flat. "Page Dr. Levin—911."

No simple fix. No easy out. A fucking bloodbath.

One of the nurses bolted from the room.

“Pressure's tanking,” a nurse called. “Sats dropping!”

“Keep packing! Give a bolus now—what’s the status on the blood?”

“Almost here!”

“We need to move now,” you said under your breath, voice slicing through the rising disarray.

“I’m aware,” Robby snapped, harsher than intended.

You recoiled, just for a second, then planted your feet and met his eyes again.

Emily cried out, this time weaker.

"Prep for surgery!" He barked.

Gloves snapped on. Tray rattled. He grabbed a line. You grabbed suction. You complemented each other seamlessly. The fucking dream team.

Everything was chaos.

Gurneys squealed. Monitors howled. Gloves snapped on in a dozen frantic beats.

Dr. Levin stormed through the door, barking orders—body already covered in a half-tied surgical gown.

"Vitals?" she demanded. "Blood loss? Labs? Is the OR ready?"

Robby stepped back instinctively, clearing the way. He was there to help if it were needed, but he knew it wasn’t his fight anymore.

He caught a glimpse of you across the chaos—bloodied, but still beautiful—as you followed your attendings' lead, and it kicked something vicious inside him.

Dr. Levin snapped a glance toward you. "You scrub or you step out," she said, curt but not cruel, simply expecting a quick answer.

But he saw you hesitate—just for a second.

You turned and saw him. The husband. Still there. Still clinging to the bedside, white-knuckled and weeping quietly now, his hand shaking as he tried to hold onto Emily’s fingers through all the tubes and wires.

In that instant, your mind was made up.

"I’ll stay with him," you said, quiet but certain.

The words knocked the breath out of him, almost leaving him stupid.

Without another word, you peeled off her bloody gloves, yanked on clean ones, and crossed to the husband. Soft hands guiding him out of the blast zone.

Robby stayed where he was, frozen. Watching and wanting.

He had no right to feel this. No excuse. And still—it was there, scorching him from the inside out.

The husband crumpled halfway into the hallway, sliding down the wall, burying his face in his hands. You went with him, unflinching. Dropped into a crouch beside him, your hand bracing lightly between his shoulder blades, anchoring him when the rest of the world was spinning out.

You murmured something, words Robby couldn’t catch over the shriek of monitors and boots pounding past.

But he knew the cadence. Knew the shape of it.

You were praying with him.

Not loudly, or taking the lead. Just quietly, like it was the only thing you had left to offer. The only thing that mattered.

God, it wrecked him.

Don't do this, he thought. Don't you dare go to her. Don't you dare make this worse.

But he was already drifting—helplessly, blindly—toward you like a man leaning into a fire without noticing the heat until it was too late.

You shouldn't be able to gut him like this. Not yet. Not like this.

But you did.

He turned toward the door without waiting for orders. Not because he wanted to leave. But because if he stayed another second, he was going to lose the last thread of control he had left.

Because some reckless, broken part of him already knew: you didn’t even have to touch him to own him.

You already did.

He stayed longer than he should have. Long after the OB team left the ER. Long after the adrenaline bled out of the room, leaving only the wreckage behind.

He found himself leaning against the wall across from the trauma bay, pretending to review his chart, pretending not to watch you.

You were still sitting with the husband. No gloves now, no sterile gown, just you and your pink scrubs. He could see your face was calm, but your voice was still too soft to hear from where he stood.

Then a nurse approached, murmuring something in your ear.

Robby’s gut twisted before he even heard the words. He could see it in the nurse's face, in the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

The patient hadn't made it.

He watched—couldn't not watch—as you rose to your feet, moving carefully toward the husband.

Watched the way your hands hovered for a second, wanting to reach for him, not sure if you should.

Watched the moment the words hit.

The husband reeled back from her like you'd slapped him. A choked, animalistic sound tore out of him, and for a second Robby thought he might hit you.

He moved instantly, stepping forward, already halfway between you. He was ready to use himself as a barrier—no hesitation, no second thought. But the man didn’t strike.

He didn't. He just broke. Collapsed into your arms like a man whose world had ended—because for him it had.

You held him without flinching. Held him like you’d been built for this, for carrying other people's grief when it got too heavy for them to bear alone.

Robby’s throat burned.

He turned his head, couldn't look anymore.

By the time he looked back, the damage was done. The husband was crumpled on the floor, sobbing. And you sat with him—shoulder to shoulder—saying nothing.

After a while, someone from NICU came and talked to the husband. Something about the baby.

A chance to go meet his daughter. A chance at something salvageable.

The husband staggered away, still weeping.

And finally, finally, you were alone.

You sat there for a moment longer, head bowed, hands limp in your lap. Then you stood, moving like someone twice your age, and started toward the back hallway.

Robby followed without thinking.

"Hey," he called after you, low.

You didn’t stop.

He caught up easily, staying at your shoulder.

"You did good," he said, rough. "You stayed."

Nothing. Not a glance. Not a breath.

You barged into an empty on-call room without slowing. He followed.

"You could’ve scrubbed in," he said, almost defensive now. "That was a big case. A huge learning opportunity. You let it go."

You stripped off her bloody scrub top and threw it into the bin with a vicious flick. The sound of it hitting the mattress was louder than it should’ve been.

He edged closer.

"It was...decent," he fumbled, hating himself for not being able to say what he meant without faltering. "Uhh—selfless. You did the right thing."

Still nothing. An awful fucking silence.

Something in him twisted sharp and stupid. "You should be more careful about getting attached," he said before he could stop himself.

God why the fuck did he say that? How is that the only thing that came to mind? What a fucking idiot.

Now that made her come back. You turned slowly and leveled him with a look so furious it made his mouth go dry.

He’d never seen her so angry. Furious, yes. But something deeper too. Something that had his gut clenching before you even opened your mouth.

"That's rich," you said, voice shaking with rage. "Coming from you."

He opened his mouth—tried to speak even.

Too slow.

"You think this is about getting attached?" you asked, stalking toward him. "You think I stayed because I’m green? Because I don’t know any better?"

He took a step back, but you followed, relentless.

"Maybe because I’m soft? A little bit stupid?"

He shook his head, but it didn’t matter.

"No, Robby. I stayed because someone fucking had to," you hissed. He swallowed hard, jaw flexing.

"You think I don’t know what’s going on?" you said, voice raw now. "You think I don’t feel it too?"

You jabbed a finger into his chest, not hard, but enough to make him flinch. "You think I don’t know what this job costs? You think I don’t know exactly what this does to us?" Your voice was going hoarse now, brittle from all the things you hadn’t said for weeks. “What it does to you?”

"You’re not the only one scared, Robby. You’re not the only one who knows this is dangerous. I get it." Her voice cracked, fury burning through it. "But you don't get to use that as an excuse to punish me for something we both feel."

He swallowed hard and opened his mouth, but you cut him off—you weren’t done.

“You kissed me. And then you disappeared. For whole goddamn week. Not a fucking word.”

Your eyes were wild, glassy. “You think I didn’t notice? You think I didn’t feel it too?”

You stepped in, close enough that he could smell blood mixed in with whatever coconut-vanilla soap you’d used that morning.

"You act like we’re fine one second and then you treat me like a fucking stranger the next. You pretend none of it’s happening—and when it does, you shove it all onto me like it’s my fault."

You took a shaking breath, close enough now that he could feel the heat rolling off you.

"I see it in your face," you whispered, furious and gutted all at once. "You don’t look at me unless I’m fucking up. You don’t talk to me unless you’re trying not to want me."

He said your name, wrecked, a broken apology without words.

You flinched like it physically hurt to hear it.

"Don’t," you said. "Don’t you dare say my name like that."

And for a second, just a second, you stood there, breathing hard. Rage and things said undone, bubbling between them.

He reached for you without meaning to. You didn’t stop him.

When your bodies crashed together, it wasn’t soft. It was rough, and messy, and inevitable, and everything you’d been avoiding.

His hands landed on your waist like he'd needed something to hold on to—like you were the only solid thing left in a world he no longer trusted. You grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, hauled him closer with a force that was almost violent.

He was fucked.

You were fucked.

You were both fucked.

Everything you’d buried under sharp words and longing glances and the unbearable weight of being near each other for so long without touching.

A mix of harsh breaths, spit, heat. Your nails scraped down his arms. His hand found the back of your neck, pulling your mouth harder and harder against his like he could climb inside you and disappear.

God, you were warm. Warm and trembling and there, finally there.

He broke the kiss just long enough to look at you—lips swollen, eyes glassy, breathing uneven like you’d run miles just to get to this moment.

“I hate you,” you whispered, voice cracking once again.

“I know,” he said. It tore him open.

You grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked him back in.

Your bodies locked like puzzle pieces that never should’ve fit, but somehow did. You pushed him until his back hit the door and then kissed him again, deeper, slower now, like you needed to make sure this wasn’t a dream.

He let you take control for a second, hands hovering at your waist, not sure where to touch, afraid of pushing too far. Thinking that maybe he didn’t deserve to.

But sensing his hesitation, you took his hand and placed it flat over your heart.

“Feel that?” you asked.

His fingers curled instinctively, as if to shield it.

“I feel it,” he whispered. “I feel all of it.”

And maybe it was the sincerity in his voice, or the way his eyes looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that had ever made sense—but something shifted.

His fingers skimmed the curve of your jaw, then lower—groping at your thighs as he lifted you, effortless, like he'd done it so a hundred times in a hundred other lives. You gasped into his mouth but didn't pull away.

Your legs tightened instinctively around his waist, the heat between you sparking sharp and immediate.

He didn’t break the kiss as he carried you to the cot, lowering you onto it with aching care. Your spine hit the mattress, and your breath caught, but he was already there again, bracing above you, forehead still brushing yours, waiting.

Always waiting—for you.

You breathed like that for a beat, into each other’s mouths. You clutched at his waist, your anger still burning low in your gut, but your mouth was soft now when it met his again.

His hands came up to your face, tentative. Fingers stroking the wet curve of your jaw, tracing the outline of your cheekbone, brushing damp hair back from your forehead. He kissed you like you were breakable. Like you’d splinter if he pushed too hard.

But you were breaking already.

Leaving your mouth, his lips kissed your wet cheeks. Trailing down to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat. One kiss at a time. Slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing you.

Your fingers curled into the hem of his shirt and slowly pulled it up. He let you. Raised his arms. Let you see him. Not just the body, but him. The man you’d seen come apart over the course of a hundred sleepless shifts, who’d touched you once and vanished into the walls after. The man who looked at you now like he was terrified and in love and trying not to drown.

His hands found you again, sliding under your soaked top, touching skin like it was a secret. You shivered at the contact, the warmth of his palms.

“Say stop,” he whispered.

But you didn’t. You didn’t even hesitate.

Instead, you leaned into his touch like it was the first real thing you’d felt in weeks.

He smiled—barely, just a flicker—and it broke you a little more. Because underneath everything, the storm of them, he was still gentle. Still him.

“I’m scared,” you admitted against his neck.

His arms came around you fully now, pressing you to his chest. “Me too.”

And that truth, soft and wrecked and shared between them, was what made this real.

You pulled back just far enough to cup his face in both hands. Her thumbs brushed the edge of his cheekbones. Her eyes searched his—like you were daring yourself to believe him.

This wasn’t just lust.

This was every moment you hadn’t touched.

Every glance across the trauma bay. Every almost. Every held breath. Every second of wanting that had turned into hurt.

It spilled over now, like it couldn’t be contained.

He kissed you again, slow, like a vow. His hands cradled your hips, not to take, not yet—but just to hold. Just to be close.

When you rested your forehead to his, you were trembling.

“Don’t let go,” you said.

He didn’t answer. Just kissed you once more, softer than any kiss that came before it.

He’d never let go.

His palms skimmed your waist, memorizing the soft give of your body. The subtle rise and fall of your breath. His thumbs circled the skin just beneath your ribs—bare now, exposed by the thin hem of your top riding up.

Your pulse beat fast at your throat. He kissed it. Then lower.

You shivered.

You wouldn’t meet his eyes, but you didn’t pull away. Not even when his hands slid under your top and flattened against your back, not even when his mouth brushed the hinge of your jaw.

“Hey,” he whispered. His voice had gone gravel-soft. “Look at me.”

You did. Slowly. Like it cost you something. So he kissed you again, slower, so he wouldn’t have to face the hurt gazing back.

Like he meant to prove something.

You let him undress you like you were giving permission for something you didn’t quite understand. He stripped your slowly, like the unraveling of a secret. Your top first. Then the bra beneath it.

His fingers trembled as he touched you, like the mere touch of him would corrupt you.

When you tried to cover yourself with your hands, he caught your wrists gently.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said. “Please”.

So you let him. You let him see you. All of you.

And Robby just—stared.

You were completly undone, mouth kiss-bruised, your chest rising fast, like you hadn’t taken a full breath in weeks. Your skin was balmy, a little salty with sweat. You were trembling. But you didn’t hide. Not from him.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, reverent. Like he wasn’t sure if he was swearing or praying. “You’re—”

But no words came to mind. Instead, he just dropped to his knees.

You gasped. One hand flew to his shoulder like you needed to steady yourself, like the sight of him there—kneeling, breath heavy, lips parted—was almost too much.

His mouth went directly to that sweet spot, where he could feel your pulse racing. He sucked gently, feeling the thrum of your heartbeat echo against his lips.

The scent of your bodywash—sweet and golden—rose up around him like steam.

It clouded his senses, made his head spin. He felt drunk on it, on you, on the fact that this was real. That you were letting him close. That he had your skin under his mouth and your hands in his hair had your breath catching just for him.

God.

He blinked—like he had to make sure this was real, like he didn’t trust what his eyes were seeing.

What had he done to deserve this? to deserve her?

He cupped one breast gently, reverently, and kissed the curve with a kind of aching awe. Your skin was hot here—almost scorching to the touch, like the heat was rising from somewhere deep inside you.

His fingers traced delicate paths along your ribs, brushing the swell of your breast, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps that bloomed under his touch. He could feel the hitch in your breath, and even the way your body leaned into his hands like it had been waiting for this

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice thick. “You’re so beautiful.”

He circled her nipple with his thumb, slow and lazy, watching it tighten under his touch. Then he bent to take it into his mouth, sucking softly, then deeper. You gasped—high-pitched and raw—and grabbed fistfuls of his hair like you’d needed something to anchor you.

“Robby—”

He groaned at the sound of his name. God, that did something to him. Something deep and helpless and animalistic.

He switched breasts. Licked the sensitive skin before drawing it into his mouth. Your back arched against the thin mattress, hips shifting restlessly beneath him, like your body couldn’t decide whether to rise into him or melt into the sheets.

“You okay?” he murmured against her skin, still panting. “I can stop. Say the word and I’ll stop.”

“No,” You breathed. “Don’t stop.”

And thank fuck, because he couldn’t have even if he tried.

He dropped back to his knees, hands sliding up your thighs until they met the waistband of your scrubs. He looked up.

“Can I?”

You didn’t speak—just nodded again, hard.

He hooked his fingers in the waistband and peeled everything down. Scrubs. Panties. All the way to your ankles.

When he looked up again, he had to pause.

Because you were bare in front of him now. Completely. Sweat beading lightly at your sternum. Breathing so hard he could hear it—ragged and real.

His mouth went dry.

He swallowed.

His hands were shaking, but he didn’t even care.

He ran them down the outside of your thighs, slow and sure, until they found the bend of your knees. He gripped them, spread her open just enough, like he needed to feel the shape of you there, the trembling tension of your body under his hands.

Your skin was silky under his palms, your thigh muscles fluttering like they weren’t sure whether to resist or give in.

His breath caught in his throat, and he sank lower, drawn in by the scent of your skin, the impossible softness of it, the way you let him take his time.

He kissed your hipbone. Your lower belly. Tasting salt and skin and the ghost of your perfume—sweet and dizzying. Dragged his cheek along the soft inside of your thigh, inhaling the heat of you. Behind that bodywash, he could smell the faintest edge of something else—something completely yours.

It filled his lungs, made his head foggy, like he’d walked into a heatwave and couldn’t find the exit. Until the only thing in the world was you.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“So are you,” you whispered back, fingers slipping into his hair.

He let out a breath, forehead pressed to your stomach. Your nails scraped lightly against his scalp—just enough to sting. He liked it. He wanted more of it.

“I’ve never wanted something so badly,” he said it so quietly, he was surprised you heard him.

Your hand slid into his hair. “Me neither.”

Then your grip in his hair tightened, not guiding—just holding.

So he knelt lower, shoulders between your knees, hands still on your thighs.

He kissed the tender skin at the crease, where thigh met pelvis, and felt you twitch beneath him. His heart was pounding. His mouth dry. And when his mouth finally touched you—just a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue, truly tasting you for the first time—you whimpered.

You whimpered.

A tiny, involuntary sound—high and helpless and half-ashamed—but it cracked something in him. He moaned into you, deep and guttural, and started again. Licking you slowly. Carefully. Like you were something sacred, and this was a prayer.

The taste of you. The smell of you. The feel of your thighs tensing under his palms.

You were gasping now, uneven little breaths, and he could feel every sound you made in the flex of your thighs, the clench of your fingers in his hair. When you tugged—hard enough to sting—he groaned again, sharper this time, and pushed his tongue deeper, tracing circles, lines, little teasing patterns.

It was too much and not enough all at once.

Your other hand reached down blindly, landing on his shoulder, digging in as you rocked against him. He let you. He wanted you wild. He wanted you wrecked. Unraveled. Every breath a surrender.

“Robby—” you gasped. Not a request. Not a protest. Just his name stripped bare.

He slid a finger inside you, slow and careful, groaning at the sudden wet heat gripping him tight.

“God, baby,” he whispered. “You feel... fuck.”

You clenched around him, your back arching slightly, your breath catching on a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob. He paused, eyes flicking up.

“You okay?”

“Don’t stop.”

So he didn’t. He added another finger, curling them just enough, angling until—

“Oh,” you breathed out. “Oh my God—”

That. That.

He latched his mouth to your clit, and sucked. Slow at first, almost tentative, then faster, more confident. Catching the rhythm of your hips and matching it, feeling you get closer with every broken whisper of his name, every helpless whine.

Your hand in his hair twisted hard, and he didn’t care. It only drove him harder, deeper, hungrier.

You came with a cry—his name falling from your lips like a sob—and he stayed right there, holding you through it, licking and kissing you softly through the aftershocks.

You trembled beneath him, gasping, hips jerking involuntarily every time he brushed you again.

He didn’t stop until you whimpered something like “please,” all airy and ruined.

You were panting when he rose again, chest heaving. Your skin was scorching hot. Eyes glassy and unfocused. Lips bruised and parted.

He kissed your stomach again. Your ribs. The underside of your jaw.

When your mouths met again, it was nothing like the first time.

You kissed him like you needed him to know. Like everything you hadn’t said was being poured into him through her lips. Like you were burning—and somehow, he was both the match and the water.

Your mouth opened against his, tongue slick and hungry, and he tasted you—really tasted you now. The sweetness of your skin. The heat of your breath. The faint echo of your own release still on his tongue.

You moaned into him, and his whole body tensed. Every muscle tight, every nerve ending screaming. He’d never felt this kind of hunger before. Not even close. It was overwhelming, terrifying. Addictive.

Your hands fumbled at his waistband, fingers clumsy with urgency. You were shaking, breathing like you’d run a mile, and your mouth never left his for more than a second.

“Please,” you whispered, voice wrecked. “I need you.”

The word nearly brought him to his knees.

He pressed his forehead against yours, closed his eyes, and tried to breathe.

Because this was happening. You were asking for him. And there wasn’t a part of him—body or soul—that didn’t already belong to you.

“I need you too,” he said. And this time, it cracked.

You pulled him in again, and he kissed you like he meant it.

Like he was starving.

Like he'd been drowning for years, and you were the first breath of air.

Because he had. He had wanted this—you—for so long it had carved itself into him. And now you were here, under him, around him, letting him in.

Your legs tightened around his hips. Arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him closer, closer, until your chests pressed together, skin to skin, heart to heart.

All he could hear was your breath hitching.

All he could feel was your nails digging into his back, dragging him down like you couldn’t bear a single inch of space between you.

All he could taste was your name, unspoken but alive in his mouth.

He doesn’t let you go.

Not after you cum, not after the trembling quiet that settles over you like fog. His face stays buried in your stomach, the heat of his breath still spreading over damp skin, his hands still firm around your thighs like he’s anchoring you in place. Like he’s not ready to surface. Like he might never be.

You’re shaking. Slowly, silently, in that post-release unraveling. And he holds you through it—like he’s the only thing that can keep you from dissolving entirely.

You thread your fingers through his hair, not gently, not just affection. It’s grounding. A silent I’m still here. A don’t stop touching me.

But then he shifts.

Your chest was still rising fast when his eyes meet yours—blown pupils, damp cheeks—and you look at him like you can’t believe he’s still there.

And he is. He’s not moving. Not pulling away or deflecting or pretending any of it meant less than it did. He stays above you, arms braced, heart hammering, caught in between whatever feelings you’re not ready to speak out loud.

He watches you trying to catch your breath and thinks: I did that. I got to do that. And it should scare him. It should make him bolt. But instead, it roots him in place. Makes him feel something terrifyingly close to home.

“I—” he starts, voice low and hoarse, but you don’t let him finish.

You pull him up to you. Fist your hands in the collar of his shirt and drag him up until your mouths meet. Kisses him open-mouthed, tasting yourself on him, swallowing the sound he makes into your throat. And when he groans—low, guttural, reverent—it vibrates through you like a second climax.

He breaks the kiss only to mouth at your jaw, your cheekbone, the soft, sensitive skin beneath your ear. Your body arches instinctively into the drag of his weight—hips tilting, thighs parting again, already needing more.

He’s not asking questions anymore, he’s moving on instinct.

When he shifts his hips, the front of his scrubs drags along your thigh—and her gasp punches straight through him.

You lift into it, chasing the contact like it isn’t just friction—it’s relief, a damn finally breaking open. Your legs tighten around him, and you grind against the hardness still trapped between you. It’s clumsy and frantic, but you want him, and he can feel it.

His breath shudders as you grind up again, the soft heat of you dragging against his hard, aching length through far too many layers. It’s clumsy, maddening, perfect. He clutches at your hips like he can’t bear to let you move without him.

And God, you’re killing him—rubbing yourself over him like you’re trying to carve the shape of him into you. Every movement makes him sink deeper into it. He buries his face in your shoulder and lets out a low groan, hips instinctively answering yours.

If they stay like this much longer, he’s not going to make it. He’s going to cum just from the feeling of you writhing against him. Clothes in between or not.

“Robby,” you whisper, almost a warning, almost a plea.

He hears it. Feels it. Freezes for half a second like he needs permission to keep going.

Your hands fumble between them—fingers unsteady and impatient—and he realizes you’re trying to undo his scrubs. The drawstring catches, knots. You curse softly, and he feels himself smile.

“Here,” he whispers, his voice gone rough, and he helps you. Together, you tear through the last of the barriers—cotton and a little hesitation and whatever thin line you’ve been pretending still exists.

And then he’s bare—finally—his scrubs kicked off, forgotten, the cold air licking over his flushed skin as he covers you again.

Your eyes drag over him—his chest, the line of his stomach, the flush across his throat, and that downright sinful happy trail resting a top his navel.

No more barriers. No more restraint. He chokes on the sound it drags out of him, the way your thighs fall open to cradle him, so ready for him.

He’s not calm anymore. Not careful. His control’s gone. He fits himself between your legs, shaking with it, dizzy from wanting you for so long. His hands frame your waist like he’s afraid he’ll fall through the moment if he doesn’t hold tight.

You’re everything he’s never let himself take. And now—God help him—he’s about to.

Your damp skin. The way your eyes darken as you drag them over him. He shudders under the weight of it. Not just desire—reverence.

He touches you again. Slowly, trying to memorize you. Trying not to lose his mind.

And when he settles between your legs, it's not dominance. It's gravity. It’s surrender.

And for a moment, you just look at each other.

Then he reaches down—between you—and touches you again, runs his fingers through the wetness there, swears under his breath when he finds you still open, still aching.

“I don’t—” His voice cracks. “I don’t have anything.”

“I’m on the pill,” you whisper. “And I trust you. Just—”

You break off. Her voice fails under the weight of the moment.

But your hands say it for you. The way you pull him down. The way you guide him.

The way your whole body opens.

He’s shaking as he lines himself up. Not from fear. From restraint. But also from something softer.

He has to breathe through it just to hold himself still.

You’re slick and hot and open beneath him, and when he lines himself up, it takes everything in him not to just take.

But this is you.

This is you.

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, and the sound you make—sharp, helpless, real—almost breaks him. Your back arches, nails dig into his skin, and he feels you take him in like you were made for this.

Like he’s not an intruder. Like he belongs.

Your fingers curl around his shoulder blades, your back arches, and you gasp—a sharp, involuntary sound that drags straight from your lungs.

He groans, deep and raw, like he’s trying not to collapse.

You’re hot and tight and soaking, and he slides, trying not to rush, trying to make this last. But it’s overwhelming—you’re overwhelming—and his whole body is tense with the effort of not falling apart the moment he’s fully inside you.

When your hips finally meet—when he’s there, all of him—you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for ten years.

He doesn’t move.

Just rests his forehead against yours. Your noses brush. Your eyes open at the same time. And there’s nothing guarded left between them.

“This…” he says, barely audible. “God. This feels like…”

He never finishes. But you know what he means.

It feels like everything.

And then he starts to move.

Not fast. Not frenzied. Just deep. Slow. Like he’s building something, not just chasing release. His hips roll into yours with purpose, with rhythm, with care. Every thrust stretches something inside you that hadn’t been touched in quite some time—something you didn’t realize you’d been starving.

You wrap your legs around him, thighs cradling his waist, trying to bring him closer, deeper. He answers with a groan, thrusts harder, presses a kiss to your cheek, your temple, your lips.

It’s not just sex. Not to him.

You moan his name—quiet, almost shocked—and it wrecks him. Because he wants to answer it with everything.

So he holds your hand. Laces your fingers tight and pins it above your head—not to trap you, but to stay connected. To prove he’s still there.

He doesn’t say what he’s thinking.

That you’re undoing him.

That he might never recover.

That this is the beginning of the end, and he’d do it all the same.

He moves inside you like he’s afraid to wake from this—like each thrust might break the spell. Slow at first, reverent, then deeper, as your body rises to meet him, to welcome him in like it’s been waiting.

And maybe it has. Maybe you both have.

Your hips lift, chasing him. Your fingers press into your shoulders, then his hair, pulling him closer. Your mouth parts on a breathless sound, and it undoes him. Everything about you undoes him.

He’s not thinking anymore.

He’s feeling—with every inch of her wrapped around him, every soft gasp, every whispered plea. His heart pounds like it’s trying to speak for him. Like it’s trying to climb up his throat.

Every slick slide of your hips is a plea, every arch of your spine a surrender he wasn’t sure he was ready for. It overwhelms him—how much you give, how much he wants. It’s too much and still not enough.

He buries his face in your neck and lets himself break there, lets himself believe this is real, just for a second. That he gets to be here. That he gets to love you like this—without shame, without hiding.

Even if he’s never said the words. Even if it’s only here, in the silence between your bodies, that he ever could.

And somewhere in the middle of it—sweat-slick skin and shaking limbs and your name on a loop in his head—he chokes out, “God…” he pants. “You feel so good, I can’t—”

He thrusts deeper, slower. Shuddering. “I don’t wanna stop.”

It slips out without thought, raw and hoarse and truer than anything he’s ever said. “I don’t know how.”

His voice cracks on it.

You go still for a second, your breath caught between you.

Then your hand finds his jaw, trembling slightly as you coax him to look at you. And when he does—eyes blown, lips parted, ruined in the most beautiful way—you whisper, “Then don’t.”

Your other hand moves through his hair, cradling the back of his head as he rocks into you.

“Stay here,” you breathe, forehead against yours. “Just like this—with me.”

He stills for a breath.

God, you’re soft even now—sweet in a way he doesn’t deserve. And the way you say with me like you actually believes he belongs there—like you’re offering him something permanent—he can’t bear it. He won’t let himself believe in it, not really. But fuck it, does he want to.

He presses his mouth to your shoulder to keep from saying something too honest. To keep from telling you he’s never felt more home than right here, skin to skin, heart to heart.

“I’m here,” he mumbles against your skin. “I’m not going anywhere.” A lie. A wish. A prayer.

And maybe you hear the crack in it, or maybe you’re too far gone to notice because then you’re falling apart beneath him, and the sounds you make aren’t words at first—just broken, breathy sounds punched out with every thrust.

“Oh—God—Robby…” you gasp, almost whines. “Please—don’t stop—don’t ever stop—”

Then your voice breaks into soft, helpless babble.

You shudder beneath him, thighs trembling around his waist, and when you fall over the edge, you clutched him and let your nails leave marks down his back.

“Michael,” you breathe.

Then again—broken, urgent. “Oh, michael.”

And he’s gone. Gone.

As he hears his real name fall from her lips, he knows he’s falling. Knows he’s already too far gone.

He stutters out a sound like a sob. And then it hits him.

Your body tightens around him, gripping him like you never want to let him go. Like you won’t. The way you pulse around him—hot, frantic, relentless—undoes him completely. It’s not just the friction, not just the pleasure, it’s you—all of you—wrapped around him, crying his name like a prayer.

His breath catches in his throat. He tries to hold on, tries to stop, but it’s no use.

He spills into you with a groan, low and wrecked, his face buried in the curve of your neck, one arm locked tight around your waist. His whole body shudders with it. Like he’s giving something back he didn’t know he still had.

He keeps his eyes clenched shut. Like if he doesn’t look, the world can’t take this from him.

They lie there like that, both of them shaking, breathing into each other. Your hand still in his, fingers sticky with sweat. Her chest pressed to his, rising and falling as their pulses slowly begin to settle.

Then—quietly—you let go.

Your fingers move to his hair, soft, reverent, stroking through the damp strands.

He stays buried in her neck, doesn’t want to lift his head. Doesn’t want to ruin this by speaking aloud, by naming it, by asking for something he knows he can’t keep.

But your touch undoes him all over again.

No one's touched him like this in years—maybe ever. Like he's not just wanted, but known. Like he could stay.

He swallows hard against the burn in his throat, his hand still gripping yours, like if he lets go, the moment will slip through his fingers and vanish.

“Robby,” you whisper.

God, he loves that. How you sabor his name whenever he says it out loud. Trying to feel every syllable and how they roll on her lips.

A little louder: “Robby…”

His breath stutters. He clings to the moment like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.

And then you say it again, louder, almost sharp now—“ROBBY.”

His eyes snaped open.

Bright light. Cold air.

The sound of his name—still echoing. But it’s not your voice anymore.

He’s standing just outside Trauma Room Two, a clipboard in his hand, with Dana waving her hand in front of his face like she’s been doing it for a while.

“Jesus, Earth to Michael,” she says. “You good?”

He blinks. His throat feels raw. “Yeah. I—I’m fine.”

Dana doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it slide—for now.

He pivots away before she can press further, walking down the hall like the fluorescent lights might burn him alive. His heartbeat still hasn't evened out. Every breath scrapes. Every step is a reminder that the past is bleeding straight into the present, and there’s nowhere in this goddamn hospital to hide from it.

He passes the nurses’ station, trying not to limp through the ache still in his chest, and that’s when he hears them.

Perlah and Princess, whispering in Tagalog, throwing glances in his direction like he can’t feel them.

“‘Yung reaction niya kanina? Sobrang weird,” Princess murmurs.

“Alam mo, baka may history sila nung babae,” Perlah whispers back.

He doesn’t know what they’re saying. Not exactly. But he knows what it feels like.

He knows the sound of people talking around him—about him. He can feel the weight of their stares, the way they try to glance without being obvious.

He catches Princess miming a fainting motion and Perlah responding with a wide-eyed shake of her head.

“Ang drama, ‘di ba?” one of them breathes. “Parang teleserye.”

They laugh, restrained but not unkindly. He knows it isn’t malicious. It’s curiosity. Speculation. The kind that blooms in places like this, where drama is the norm and gossip moves faster than blood through a vein.

Still, it grates.

Not because they’re wrong—but because they might be right.

Because he doesn’t have the language to explain it, even if he tried. Because there’s nothing he could say that would make this feel any less insane. Because some part of him—the part still stuck in that flashback—is screaming that he deserves to be talked about like this.

He keeps walking.

He doesn’t look back.

The files are digital now, stored on hospital tablets and synced between departments. He finds one, signs in, and scrolls until he lands on what he shouldn’t be looking for.

Noah. Age: Nine years, three months.

Sex: Male.

Arrival: cyanotic and unconscious after blunt trauma from an SUV. Brief cardiac arrest in transit. Bleeding from a head laceration. Resuscitation successful.

Blood type: AB positive. A rare enough match—compatible with his. And yours.

There’s no last name listed. Just “Mother: information withheld at patient request.”

His thumb freezes above the screen.

Noah.

He stares at the name for too long.

The word blurs and sharpens, then blurs again.

Noah, from the Hebrew—nuach—rest, comfort.

It’s almost funny. Or cruel. Or divine.

He doesn’t know which.

Because it’s not just a name. Not to him. Not now.

It’s a prayer.

It’s a mercy he’s long forgotten how to believe in.

It’s the kind of name whispered into linen blankets after a war. The kind spoken over sleeping children in stories passed down like blood. The kind rabbis preach about during parsha Noach, reminding congregations that even in destruction, there’s survival. That even in floods, there’s mercy. That one man, alone and chosen, can carry a future in the bow of a boat.

A name that carried the future in its hands. A name that meant someone made it through.

Noach matza chen b’eynei Adonai—Noah found grace in the eyes of God.

He swallows hard.

He hasn't thought about that in years.

Not since he stopped showing up to temple. Not since he stopped believing God had anything left to say to him.

This isn’t about loss. Not yet. This is about the possibility of something that lived.

The irony isn’t lost on him. He hasn’t known peace in years, not the kind that stays. Not the kind that sinks into your bones and says, you can stop running now.

He thinks of the Shema. The words that still curled around his ribs when he can’t sleep. Not a shield, exactly—more like a thread. A thread he pulls when the world spins too fast, when grief makes the ground tilt.

Shema Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad.

He closes his eyes.

He doesn’t know what he’s praying for. He just knows it feels like a prayer.

A boy named Noah. Nine years old. Hit by a car and still breathing. And his blood type—compatible with Robby’s. And hers. No listed father. No last name that gives anything away. Just—

Noah.

A name that shouldn’t mean anything, but feels like it knows him.

Like it’s been waiting.

His mouth goes dry.

He tries to focus on the chart again. On the vitals, the scans. Anything to keep the rising panic from pushing through his ribs. But he hears footsteps behind him and doesn’t even need to turn around.

Dana.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she says. Half-pissed, half-worried.

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit,” she snaps, tugging his arm. “Come with me.”

He doesn’t resist.

They step outside through the staff doors, onto the ambulance bay. Dana lights a cigarette, doesn’t offer him one. Just waits, arms crossed and her gaze burning through him.

He stands beside her in silence. Watches as rain starts pouring in. The once sunny sky now a dull gray.

He doesn’t know where to start. Or maybe he does.

“There was a girl,” he says finally, voice raw. “Before I came here.”

Dana raises her brows but says nothing.

“We We were together,” he says quietly. “A year and a half. She wasn’t just some girl—I loved her. Like, deeply. Fully. The way people only do once.”

Dana squints at him through the smoke. “And you left her?”

He nods. Once. Like the motion itself hurts.

A pause. The words come slower now, heavier. “Didn’t say goodbye,” he admits, voice breaking on it. “Didn’t give her a fucking word. I didn’t even tell her where I was going. I just disappeared. She woke up and I was gone.”

Dana doesn’t blink. “Jesus, Robby.”

“Yeah,” he snaps, his voice sharp with guilt. “Yeah. I know. You don’t have to say it—I say it to myself every goddamn day.”

He looks away, toward the street, where red lights blur in the rain. “She loved me. I know she did. And I—God, Dana. She was everything to me.”

Silence stretches between them. The rain hisses around them like static.

“I thought I was doing her a favor," he says. "I thought if I left… I don’t even fucking know. Maybe she'd be better off without me."

Dana lets the silence linger, smoke curling from her lips. Then she exhales sharply through her nose. "You’re an idiot."

He flinches, but she’s not done.

“You think you saved her? That wasn’t mercy, Robby. That was cowardice."

He bows his head soaking it all in. The taste of the word coward still burning on his tongue because it’s true. It's what he’s called himself every day since. Not in passing. Not just once. But like penance.

Dana watches him for a beat, then steps forward—barely a shift, but enough to make the air between them feel tighter. She speaks quieter now, but it still lands like a blow.

"You didn’t just disappear, Robby. You broke something. Something real."

That’s when it hits him. All at once.

His chest caves in on itself, his throat locking up around something sharp and guttural. The rain feels like needles now, every drop stinging against skin that suddenly feels too thin.

He steps back like her words were physical. Shakes his head once, hard, like trying to dislodge the thought before it roots.

“No—don’t—” he rasps. He tries to look away, but even the shadows feel too loud. His hand grips the railing behind him, white-knuckled.

“She—fuck.” He drags a hand down his face. His voice goes lower, fraying at the edges. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t lie awake every night trying to rewire it—trying to un-ruin it?”

And then quieter.

“I haven’t let anyone close since.”

Dana doesn’t move. Doesn’t rush in. She just lets him crash against the weight of his own words.

“You loved her,” she says, softer this time. “And you punished her for it.”

“I punished myself,” he snaps—but even he knows it’s not the whole truth. “I thought if I buried it deep enough, maybe it wouldn’t rot everything else.”

A pause. His breath shakes. Then he goes still, like he’s finally flatlined.

Dana takes one last drag from her cigarette, flicks it away into the rain.

“So what happened today?”

He presses the heel of his palm to his eyes. “I saw her. With a fucking kid”

There’s a pause—too quiet, too long.

Then: “How long ago was this?”

“Ten years.”

Dana stiffens. Her mouth parts like she’s about to say something, then closes again.

“The kid is…”

“Nine,” he says.

And that’s it. That’s the moment.

The math doesn’t just hang there—it detonates, slow and sharp, slicing straight through the humid silence.

Dana lets out a long, quiet, “Shit,” but there’s no real surprise behind it. Just gravity. Just confirmation.

Robby’s expression doesn’t shift, but something inside him buckles. His throat works like he’s trying to swallow glass.

“She looked exactly the same,” he murmurs, barely audible. “Like time skipped her. But then I saw the kid. And he had eyes like—”

He cuts himself off.

Dana’s voice is gentler now, but steady. “Like yours.”

For the first time all day, he doesn’t try to outrun it. He doesn’t shift the blame or dodge the truth or bury it under sarcasm. He just lets it hit him. Full-force.

The ache of it, the finality—the years lost, the silence, the what-ifs.

He might’ve left her.

But he didn’t just leave her.

He left them.

And now, the cost of that choice stands in front of him with wide brown eyes and a crooked smile—one he might’ve passed on without even knowing.

next chapter ↠

taglist: @snowflames-world, @nosebeers, @midnghtprentiss, @delicatetrashtree, @thestrals-and-firewiskey, @rosiepoise88, @miss-me-jack, @jojodojo02, @whimsicalfungiforager, @whos6claire.

#𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 (august)#𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬.｡.:*¤☆#𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬 #michael robinavitch x reader #dr robby x reader #michael robinavitch #the pitt x reader #the pitt #young dr robby #smut #dr robby smut

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that-sudsy · 3 days ago

Text

Johnny had a way of turning even the simplest moments into something unforgettable. Ever since the two of you started dating, he made it his mission to cherish every second together—especially after time spent apart. He didn’t just say he adored you; he showed it in a thousand little ways. A lingering kiss on your forehead before leaving the room. A whispered compliment as he passed by, just because he couldn’t keep the thought to himself. Dinner dates that lasted for hours, tangled in conversation and laughter. Late-night movies that turned into even later-night cuddles, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your skin as you talked about everything and nothing.

But his favorite ritual of all? Showering together.

It had started on a night soaked in rain and spontaneity. The two of you had been caught in a downpour, clothes clinging to your skin, hair dripping—but instead of rushing for cover, Johnny had pulled you beneath a flickering streetlight and swayed with you right there on the sidewalk. He wasn’t much of a dancer, all clumsy steps and exaggerated dips that made you laugh, but that was the magic of him. He turned ordinary moments into something electric.

That same night, he’d drawn you into the shower, warm water chasing away the chill, and what should have been just a way to get clean became something far more intimate. Something yours.

Present Day

"Come on, you know you want to,"* Johnny murmured, that familiar mischief glinting in his eyes as he tugged you toward the bathroom. His fingers laced with yours, warm and insistent, pulling a laugh from your lips.

"Alright, alright, you big puppy," you teased, letting him guide you. "Can’t you take a shower alone for once?"

He feigned offense, pressing a hand to his chest. "And miss out on this?"* His voice dropped, rough and playful as he leaned in, breath tickling your ear. "Nah. It’s too quiet without you. Too lonely."

You gave him a look, and he grinned,

"Oh, don’t give me that," he said, though his gaze flickered over you in a way that betrayed his thoughts. "It’s not just because I like seeing you naked—though, let’s be honest, that’s a perk." His thumb brushed your hip, sending a shiver down your spine. "I just… wanna take care of you. Wash your hair. Make you feel good."

How could you say no to that?

The water cascaded over you both, steam curling in the air like a lover’s embrace. Johnny’s hands were surprisingly tender as he worked shampoo into your hair, fingers massaging your scalp in slow, deliberate circles. You sighed, leaning into his touch as he lathered the strands, sculpting them into a playful mohawk.

When he stepped back, his smile was soft, almost reverent. "Look," he whispered, nodding toward the fogged-up mirror.

There, etched into the condensation, were two little mohawks—one for him, one for you.

"See?" His voice was warm, thick with affection as he wrapped his arms around your waist, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "We match."

Your laughter filled the small space, bright and unguarded, and you reached out to wipe the mirror clean—only for him to catch your wrist, turning you gently in his arms.

"Mm, not yet," he murmured, lips brushing yours. "Let me enjoy the view a little longer."

Then, with a playful nip at your bottom lip, he reached for the soap.

"Now, c’mere," he said, voice rough with promise. "Let me return the favor."

His hands glided over your skin, slick with soap, kneading the tension from your muscles as he worked his way down your back. Every touch was worship, every press of his fingers a silent I love you.

And when you turned to face him, his grin was all boyish charm, all Johnny.

"Yeah," he breathed, pulling you close under the spray. "This is exactly where I wanna be. and I love you"

I think Johnny would always want to shower together, not just because he wanted to see you naked

But he also wants to wash your hair and make mohawk with it

Then, he would point at the fogged up mirror and said "we're matching" or something like that

#call of duty #cod #call of duty x reader #john soap mactavish #soap cod #soap x reader #soap call of duty #mbe's soap

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pucksandpebbles · 2 days ago

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BLUE STRIPS, JH86

"Smoking cigarettes on balconies I ain't jumping, but I'll die to settle scores All your bidness getting back to me You don't know it but it's 'bout to be a war, yeah" You find out what Jack's been doing since you broke up, and decide to get your own back

a/n: heard this song and this came to me so here's a quick blurb. as per its not proofread - sue me! No warnings but just some in general lewd behavior...

wc: 1.3k

PART TWO HERE

Since the breakup, you’d been moping, gorging on takeout pizza and canned cocktails like the main character in a rom-com post third act break up. Except you weren’t going to get back together, this was the end - you’d tossed his hoodies and jerseys back in his face and in the trash. Not the jerseys, you sold them on EBay, and managed to get a good payout out of the break-up at least. For weeks now, your best friends had been nagging you to get out, move on to someone new. Your best friend had made a point of it being necessary to find someone new before he did, the satisfaction of a hookup would always be better than a crushing feeling of finding out your ex has moved on before you.

You’d huffed. Made some dumb point about morality and took another bite out of your meat-feast pizza, wiping at the salty residue under your eyes.

But now, now you were wishing you’d listened to her.

You almost choked on your breath when you saw it, plastered across social media. Jack. Seemingly, enjoying his summer in Michigan, with numerous different girls; and one, one girl in particular.

You watched her bleach blonde hair in the fan video sway gently back and forth. Her hands running up and down Jack’s torso, wandering and encroaching on a territory that was supposed to be yours, he was supposed to be yours. Their mouths locked together, moving in sync, his hips grinding down and her spine fluctuating in a movement that felt almost criminal to watch. You watched the video again - once, twice, three times, over and over until it made you feel sick and your eyes hurt with your squinting at the screen.

It was like something snapped in your brain the fourth time, the hurt and the upset and the tears were gone. All there was left was thought of revenge, of getting your own back. No, you weren’t mad, you didn’t own him and the breakup was the right thing to do. But, doing better without you, no - that was not acceptable.

The feeling surged through you. You tossed your phone to the side and stormed into your bedroom, and for the first time in forever swung open the wardrobe doors to look for something that wasn’t sweats

Within moments, you’d struggled your way into the sluttiest dress you owned - the one that always made Jack gape, made him handsy. You could tell that it was his favourite and a sick grin slid onto your face as you adjusted it in the mirror. You dolled yourself up, putting on your best and most expensive things, wearing the bag that Jack had bought you as a birthday present and making sure your eyeliner was sharper than a knife.

As you were pouring a shot on your kitchen table, ready to go out to the clubs - tipsy and ready to have fun - a text came through your phone, popping up on your screen like a cruel memory making its way to the surface. You stared at it for a moment, your fingers curling around the shot glass.

Quinn Hughes: have you been on social media

Quinn Hughes: don’t look you don’t want to see

You sighed. Unlocking the chat and replying apathetically.

You: see what? the photos of Jack with his mouth latched onto some random girls?

You: you are way too late for that

You threw the shot back, feeling the sick burn of the vodka down your throat - it filled you with a rush of giddiness.

Quinn Hughes: i’m sorry you had to see that

Quinn Hughes: if it makes you feel better, she didn’t stay

You got a notification that your uber had arrived and you grabbed your bag, looking down at the open chat as you made your way out of your flat and down to the car waiting in the dark.

You: that’s a shame, she looks just his type

Another notification in the chat popped up but you ignored it, choosing instead to watch out the window as the car sped through the streets of your city - the tall buildings and the blinking of lights in the night. You let the cold night air fill your lungs in deep breaths, every time you closed your eyes you could see the image flashing like the flash of a camera. Each detail amplified. The way Jack’s fingers dug into her hips. How she was pushed up flush against him. The stubble on his cheeks grating on her face. Her golden hair creating a shining curtain over the faces as she twisted her head as they kissed.

The uber driver dropped you off at the club, an old haunt - a place of the schemy, the underhand, the leering strangers.

You got to work.

One drink in. You chatted up a guy at the bar, he was hot, tall, looked in certain lights like the boy you used to love. For that detail, you stuck your tongue a little further down his throat for good measure.

You kissed one, two and let a third grope you in a not-so-secluded spot around back.

Two drinks in, the dance floor was your haven, you grinded, you shook, you let the dress give everything away under the strobing lights. You watched the flash of a couple iphone cameras, you sang to the lens shoved in your face.

Another shot. Your friends had arrived, hearing of the good time from your drunken texts. You did another round with them.

Four, five. Karaoke. You sang along to Blue Strips by Jessie Murph. Shaking your ass on the table as you belted out the lyrics with a thick southern twang. Your friends and a couple guys and strangers threw dollar bills at you as you screamed out, “throwing ones at your bitch!”.

When you got down for another round, a guy leaned in, his breath hot and heavy and stuck a 100 dollar bill down your bra. You smiled,

“How ‘bout a drink?”

You kissed him out in public, his hands trapping you against the bar. You paid little mind to anything except what his mouth was doing, sloppy against yours and the brilliant white flashing lights of iphone camera. Oh this was so going online.

You took him back to your flat. Your home. Had clumsy drunken sex with him in a bed that Jack no longer slept in. Kicked him out after, sticky and uncooth.

The photos ended up all over social media. Every site you clicked on, every app, every page, you saw yourself - the shocking headlines, the lewd commentary, the photos of you taken in dim light from every angle, with every guy, doing every shot. And then, the one. A picture of you standing on the bar counter, flash illuminating your face as you bent down to level your face with a guy, the hook-up, a 100 bill sticking out of your top, its blue strip shimmering in the light, your expression was one of want. In the photo you could see how he looked, peach fuzz around his mouth, long hair like Jack’s - they looked so similar in that lighting.

You saved the photo. Posted it to your instagram, no caption, just the song. Blue strips. Closed the app.

A message popped up from Quinn first.

Quinn Hughes: Are you serious? What the fuck happened?!

Then more. You watched with a pounding head as they filtered in.

Luke Hughes: Woah, I must have seriously underestimated your craziness

Trevor Zegras: Wild night huh. Jack is crashing out btw

Cole Caulfield: Let me know to never piss you off. That post is insane behaviour

A couple of hours later, still nursing a hangover, you lay on your bed. The messages had gone unread mostly, you’d indulged Luke a little, he was still like a little brother to you. It was beginning to get dark again.

A message lit up the darkened room.

Jack: Really?

You lay back and smiled. Really.

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xo2dee · 2 days ago

Note

hey babes!! i looove your writing a lot and i was SO happy to see a fellow netflix dmc hater. i quite literally reread any one of your works every night before bed, it’s kind crack to me hehehe <3

is it cool if i request a dante x dense reader? one where he flirts with them but they just assume he’s just initiating some freaky friendly banter, and he’s lowk tweaking over how oblivious his crush his. feel free to be as creative or silly as you want with it, whatever you write will be awesome <3

PAIRING: Dante x Reader WARNINGS: Dense!Reader WORD COUNT: 1887

A/N: thank you for the request! aahsiodnfg the stray... but i had so much fun writing this and im glad you like my fics! i hope you enjoy this as well!

DMC MASTERLIST

If he was going to be completely honest with himself (and just himself… he was never going to tell you it), trying to get your attention to let you know that he saw you in a romantic sense and wanted to pursue a further relationship with you… was one of hardest things he’d ever done.

And it wasn’t even because he was coming up short in the flirting and the hinting, it was because you just didn’t get it.

Dante had never been one to actively pursue for a relationship, let alone chase after anyone to the point he was tripping on their heels each and every time an attempt failed. It wasn’t really in the job description or his nature to be looking for anyone to be with given there was a horrifying chance it would end badly and then he’d just be adding another person to the list of people he failed to keep safe, and that was not something he was looking to do. However, he’d been the one to treasure his humanity the most and latch to it as much as he could, and in consequence he’d become more emotional to the point he had to practically hide anything before it was shown on his expression – and for some reason that felt extremely pathetic but, damn, he just couldn’t help it when he saw you. He was Dante, the Legendary Devil Hunter, had so many demons crushed underneath his boots, had lived on his own and survived for so long with nothing but a sword strapped to his back and two guns in his hands, and he was suffering from a crush…

A crush on you (well, it wasn’t a crush at the point he had to be honest), and you had the thickest skull of anyone he’d ever met.

(And Dante was sure Vergil was somewhere laughing at him and his shit luck.)

Dante wasn’t some blushing virgin either, and he knew his way around sweettalking regardless if he meant it or not, and yet even when he meant it with you… it just never seemed to stick to your brain just what he was getting at. From going out of his way to do things for you, complimenting you, and even letting you drink some of his tomato juice and put a strawberry sundae on his tab for you, it still seemed like you really didn’t get it. And it had gotten so bad he’d resorted to cheesy and terrible pick-up lines hoping you would understand then, something he hadn’t pulled out in a long while and something he was going to be sure would work that time around given how upfront they were.

The results… well, they spoke well enough for themselves.

The first time you had been posed on the sofa of Devil May Cry, deeply into some book you’d picked up from the library Trish had mentioned you would like, and he saw the opportunity presented before him. He waited until you stretched after reading too long, placing the book down onto your lap and sighing as your attention was elsewhere for the moment and it was his time to shine. Dante only cleared his throat from behind his desk (and no, he wasn’t preening to make sure his hair looked good either), making sure your eyes glanced towards him for better effect, then he let the words roll off his tongue as smooth as butter on toast.

“I don't have a library card, but do you mind if I check you out?”

A beat and you paused, looking at him for a long moment that nearly made him sweat before your eyes widened and he thought finally – finally you understood what he was getting at. And then, you jumped up way too enthusiastically for hearing some cheesy pick-up line and practically jogged in place before grabbing the book from the floor in a haste. “Oh my God, wait…” you started, then you were rushing towards the front door of the shop, “I just remembered one book is due today – thanks for the reminder, Dante!”

The door slammed on your way out, and Dante could only sit there in silence and wonder if there was some type of curse that had been cast on him on the past that made his words not make sense… Or if you really just were dense as they came. Regardless, he wasn’t going to give up so easily.

The second time he threw another one-liner at you was when you both were on a job together, and you’d been good at sniping and swiping kills from him (and he’d be lying to say that he didn’t ease up some so that you get a few in and he could sit back and watch you) to the point once it was done he couldn’t help but say something to you. He waited until some adrenaline wore off, taking pride in how messy you looked with blood smeared on your cheek while taking a rag to clean the excess muck off your gun, then he tried once more with a bolder approach.

“Stop, drop, and roll now, cause babe, you're on fire.”

Instantaneously you reacted, and Dante could only sigh in exhaustion at how you began to turn in place looking for the ‘fire’ that was on your ass. “Where?! Help me then!”

Dante could feel his eye twitch as you hopped in place, his words once again lost on you as he felt his chances with you significantly reduce. But he was not a quitter – never was, and never would be.

The third time around had been his last attempt at pick-up lines, and it was even worse because you were in public that time eating together (which was basically a date, but you were so scatterbrained it didn’t necessarily strike a chord in you… though him and you alone eating together – hello, that was a date). Dante had finished his food by that point and was content just to sit and wait for you, watching you pick around your salad before the thought came to him looking at a lone cucumber you had pushed to the side. Cheesy he knew, but it was another attempt he wasn’t going to pass up with you two alone and so close to each other, and he waited until you finished chewing and swallowed before he tried for the last time.

“If you were a vegetable, you’d be a cute-cumber.”

You stopped moving the same time his heart did, a beat of silence passing in-between you two as you looked up at him for a few moments. Dante could practically feel his palms sweat as you stared at him, thinking he was finally beginning to see the gears in your head work together and he braced himself for the inevitable rejection (or acceptance… he still had hope) the second you blinked at him and tilted your head inquisitively. However, what left your lips second later with a smile made Dante want to throw himself onto oncoming traffic.

“Oh, are you still hungry? You can have some if you want.”

If he could’ve shoved his head through the wall he would’ve, or even dented the table with how hard he slammed his forehead into it. How were you so intelligent when it came to everyday things but the moment it came to someone hitting on you, you just had zero clue to what was going on? And it had gotten so bad the damn point Trish and Lady were giggling at his failures, but at least Trish took some pity and tried to spell it out for you one night at Devil May Cry.

She grinned as she leaned her head onto your shoulder, curling her arms around your own as she snickered in your ear and knocked her foot into yours, “Y’know, I think Dante adores you.”

Thanks, Trish. Way to be real subtle.

However, that didn’t matter, because you didn’t understand what she meant. At all. Again.

You tilted your head to where he sat at his desk (and he remained nonchalant as possible reading a magazine upside down), and smiled at him so big he thought he finally had his chance. But alas, misfortune was his middle name apparently. “Thank you, Dante. I really appreciate it.”

What did you have against him? Please.

Dante was sure he was going insane, the longer he battled the emotions magnifying the more time he spent around you, and the more you seemed to just not understand what he was getting at. And it had gotten so bad he accidentally paid the pizza delivery guy with his mind all muddled with thoughts of you instead of the slamming the door in his face and putting it on his tab. That was when he knew he had to swallow some pride and just take you by the shoulders and tell you what he was feeling for you, male ego be damned. He loved you and needed to you know before he started stabbing himself to get your attention and some sappy romance scene played out.

So, that was what he did, waited until you two were alone in the shop and grabbed you by shoulders and just… confessed.

“Listen… I’m in love with you. I have feelings for you. That means, I want you romantically, so please get that through your thick skull.” Okay, Dante would admit the last part wasn’t that necessary, but his frustrations were literally making his hair turn whiter – if that was even possible.

And thankfully – thankfully, you understood that time, and he got the satisfaction and relief at watching gape at his words before you began to look bashful. And to his heart’s content, you reached up and covered his hands with yours with a soft squeeze and an even softer smile on your lips, “You love me too? I didn’t think I was being noticeable either...”

Dante blinked, and he practically hear his jukebox stutter somewhere in the back of his mind as he kicked too hard one too many times. One word made his eye twitch again, and then he was feeling as dense as you were. “’Too..?’”

A laugh escaped you, “Yeah, I was kinda worried you could tell, but it looks like you saw straight through me –”

The jukebox stutter in Dante’s mind abruptly turned to an old Internet dial-up tone, and he had no wards before he completely tuned your words out and shook his head. He couldn’t take it anymore. “Please, just… kiss me before I lose my damn mind.”

You giggled and did as he asked, and Dante was sure his leg might’ve lifted a little at the feeling of your sweet lips on his he’d dreamt about so many times before. He might as well been practically floating too, breaking away from you as you hummed and leaned into his chest for an embrace, basking in the silence of an embarrassing confession together as you both seemed to get what you finally wanted. Discreetly he inhaled the scent of you, and yeah, he could easily get used to a relationship with you… especially with the hard part over.

Then, breaking the serene silence and Dante’s brain, you spoke –

“So how long have you liked me?”

#{🩸} nee fics #💌#anon ask #dante x reader #dante x you #dante x y/n #dante dmc #dante devil may cry #dmc x reader #dmc #devil may cry

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zoe-oneesama · 2 days ago

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Hey Zoe sorry to disturb you if you are busy but um is Angelic layer like Gundam build divers only more expensive and you have to buy your own gaming console to go with it? I've never watched angelic layer so I don't know.

Don't worry babes, I gotchu. (I'll also be explaining this as it happens IN the story). I'll walk you step by step what it takes to start playing Angelic Layer, and give a summary of what gameplay is like at the end.

To start, you need an Egg.

Can't just buy a premade doll, you gotta buy the doll suspended in weird shock absorbent gel that ruins your bathroom.

Different Eggs will have different dolls, though female body type tend to reign supreme in the show/manga (it'll be more even in my AU).

Then, you have to cut the dolls hair.

Hope you're good at wig styling, your doll will have this hair forever~

Then, with an Angelic Layer Laptop and Angelic Layer Rings..thingies, you can customize and activate the doll. This is where you'll set stats, like prioritizing speed or strength, light or heavy.

In the manga, these are never seen again, which makes them super wasteful 🙃The anime at least brings them back when Misaki (the main character) needs to repair her doll, so that's probably where the value comes from.

Now the doll is technically playable, but you still need an outfit. You could probably buy some premade ones from the store, but it's apparently the standard to just make your own, given how Customization is kinda the whole point.

Congrats, you're ready to play! Oh wait, no you're not, you need an Angel Card to enter tournaments. You know, as proof that you're registered (and thus are giving tournament entry fees money~). It doubles as a points card that your winnings go to.

Obviously that's points = MONEY when you're just starting out. And to start out, you need to practice, so, time to rent a practice ring!

As the image says, you need a headset to take control of your angel, which means these practice rings and tournament settings are the only place you can actually play with your angel! 🙃You can't play at home~! (Okay, the anime introduced the idea of home rings but they're obviously massive, like a coffee table, and the one they had was a prototype and I bet the electric bill on that would be insane-)

So that's how the game works - Deus' (players) control their Angels (dolls) with a headset that only works within Angelic Layers. There, they engage in 1 v 1 battles which are won under two conditions - knock your opponent outside of the layer, or knock your opponent's HP points to zero. (both the anime and manga are unclear on what constitutes as a more powerful attack).

Over the course of the original series, terrains were added - ice covered landscapes, an island beach, rocky mountains, the anime added a pirate boat as a setting lol. Since my AU will be taking place full decades after the original, these will be standard from the beginning, with these flat layers only being really present when practicing.

So yeah, despite being called a "game", the level of commitment and money you have to put down to "play" makes it feel a lot more like a sport, and I have some jaded ass biases against certain sports that I'll be exploring with this AU lol, thus my constant jabs at how expensive it probably is despite price never really coming up in the original series.

#I mean okay they make a point that Misaki spent all her travel money on Angelic Layer to get started on it #but that's like...taxi fare or emergency 'I Got Lost' money #not even a train ticket cuz she'd already made it to Tokyo at that point #alau ask

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vonbabbitt · 2 days ago

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ojima loredump from a couple years back i wrote for my staff

i can finally post more of these now yay. tw for ojima things

so ojima, as you may recall, was one of the OTHER people who was abused by a parent! hes also the youngest of three boys with his two older brothers being four and eight years older than him respectively! his family was pretty well-off financially and his dad had a pretty prominent position in the business world, so from the outside looking in, all was pretty good! except that by the time ojima was born, his parents' marriage was already in a rapid downward spiral and his brothers were already regularly seeing the fallout from this in the form of physical and verbal abuse. ojima was supposed to be the sort of "patch" that was meant to fix their marriage because his mom thought that having another kid would force ojimas dad to be more responsible/caring/present etc, except obviously that did not happen because having a new baby in the house just made things way more stressful. his parents ended up staying together regardless, but their relationship was constantly in turmoil and for the first few years of his life ojima grew up in pretty much the same environment as his brothers: abusive and socially high-pressure

enter ojimas uncle, his dad's brother and another fairly relevant man in the world of business. hes super friendly and the boys love him and hes fun to be around and ojima in particular is attached to him because when hes out with uncle kenji, theres no fighting or yelling or hitting and everything is cool and hes only three so he has no concept of the fact that this dude is getting……..a little bit too comfortable around him! so things eventually get to the point where his uncle is taking ojima on outings without his brothers present, and from there, things escalate, and ojimas relationship with his uncle very quickly becomes sexually abusive. ojima is THREE of course so he has no idea how fucked up this is but understands that he does not like it and does not want to be around his uncle anymore except that things dont stop there and nobody really finds out about it for another two years despite it being ongoing.

so at age five ojima is talking to his oldest brother, who is now thirteen (his name is tetsuya!) and has a total meltdown. he knows hes not supposed to tell people about what he does with his uncle but hes completely losing it and he trusts his brother. tetsuya, who actually understands whats happening and is pissed, thinks it wise to go to their dad, which does not end well! dad is pissed that theyd make accusations like that about his brother and refuses to indulge the idea that ojima could be telling the truth in any way. what ensues is his dad doubling down on the psychological abuse that ojima is going through at home, and for lack of a better term, basically gaslighting him into thinking that hes lying and everything is fine, despite the fact that shit with his uncle is STILL ACTIVELY HAPPENING at this age!

so by around age six, ojima has his first experience with blacking out. between what his uncle is doing, what his dad is doing, the fact that he cant even trust his own mind anymore and the pressure of having to present all this as being totally fine because of his family's social status, something in him just snaps and he completely dissociates. hes suddenly in this world in his head where nobody can hurt him, nothing bad can happen, and MOST IMPORTANTLY, he is completely in control. of everything. ojima has never, ever been in control and its something he becomes practically addicted to because its the only way he can feel safe. it goes from dissociating once at a particularly bad moment to dissociating constantly to escape how shitty his life is. when ojima turns ten, his brother moves out and its absolutely devastating for him because thats one of the only two people in the world he can trust. from that point he pretty much never sees him again. tetsuya does literally everything in his power to get ojima and their middle brother (his name is toshiharu!) out of that environment, but hes eighteen and hes not their parent and their dad has a lot of sway, so it doesnt amount to anything meaningful. ojima is told that his brother left because hes a shitty person and he hates their family and eventually he learns to internalize that and blames his confession and his supposed destruction of their family for tetsuya leaving and never coming back. the many many attempts for tetsuya to contact ojima and toshiharu go interrupted by their dad and the two dont speak again.

things basically continue with ojima being abused at home and at his uncle's until he turns fourteen, at which point the next big milestone is that toshiharu moves out and reconnects with tetsuya, and now the two are full steam ahead on getting ojima out of that environment. except that its still basically useless because they have no legal say over him and their dad is really powerful so everything is still mostly the same except that ojima is completely alone. hes dissociated a good 90% of the time at this point because hes just incapable of handling the absolute shitstorm of things happening to him. hes in a living hell and maladaptive daydreaming is basically his only escape and the only thing that keeps him going. because of this, hes seen as weird and stupid by other kids at school and is treated like shit there too. theres pretty much nothing left in his life that could be considered good or redeeming except for the two things he enjoys: daydreaming and drawing.

contact with his uncle starts to break off around age fifteen when his uncle starts losing interest due to ojima being older now. ojima gets tremendously fucked up over this, and while hes relieved that its not happening, his brain is so torn at this point that he gets caught in a sort of spiral of wondering why hes no longer desirable and why people keep leaving him, even when they're bad people that ojima doesnt want in his life. in this time between age fifteen and age seventeen, things start to improve slightly because his uncle isnt touching him and his dad isnt constantly brainwashing him to get him to forget about his uncle touching him so for this brief gap of time, he can almost live comfortably. he starts doing some freelance illustration work because his dad wants him to get a job and it turns out hes pretty damn good at it, and he enjoys it a lot, so he spends a lot of his time illustrating. hes mainly motivated by the fact that he wants to give other kids like him a beautiful and vivid place to escape to, so he depicts all these fantastical and whimsical worlds in kids' books to give them that same sort of escape that he needed. his brothers are still desperately trying to get in contact with him/get him out of their old house, but its been years by this point and all he knows is that they both decided to completely abandon him one day and never look back, something that he entirely blames himself for.

despite things getting a bit better for him, ojima basically never grows out of the daydreaming and it takes over his life to some degree, which honestly? its debatable whether its good for him or not. on one hand, its extremely disruptive to his life and is not a healthy coping mechanism by any means. on the other hand, it was literally the only thing that got him through the past ten years alive and continues to be his only escape from the shitty life he has. anyway ojima is sixteen now! the physical and psychological torment from his dad starts to transition into a more familial/patriarchal pressure at this point - tetsuya and toshiharu are gone and severed, which means ojima is the son thats going to take over his business one day. suddenly his dad is treating him like a grown man when hes ever only been treated like a doll for his entire life - now hes being taught about business and social policy and world affairs and all these things he isnt interested in and doesnt understand. he really just wants to draw and dissociate and pretend nothing bad is happening to him. except even though hes not being tormented anymore, things are not good! because he has, obviously, absolutely massive amounts of trauma that he is not coping with. instead of ever dwelling on this or addressing it, which arent really options for him anyway, he goes deeper and deeper into his own headspace to escape it and pretty much locks himself away in this dissociative world to ignore everything that isnt his own art.

then ojima turns SEVENTEEN and the world flips. his brothers finally manage to get their case in front of a judge and the ojima family business SINKS LIKE A ROCK. his parents are in jail, and hes suddenly out on his ass. his brothers scoop him up pretty fast and do their best to piece him back together, but ojima is absolutely fucked in the head by this point. he lives with tetsuya and toshiharu and continues working because he loves to work, but he seriously struggles to rebuild the relationship he once had with them because in his understanding, they hate him. thats what hes been told for years. they live in this very tense situation where his brothers desperately want to help him, but they are also traumatized and they do not know what to do for him because hes just an absolute mess. ojima bounces around the idea of therapy for a while and frequently registers for therapy/drops out/registers/drops out repeat repeat repeat because he knows his broken and he knows he needs help, but going to therapy means actually thinking about his past and what happened to him and he cant do that. its terrifying and it hurts and he just wants to be in his own headspace. it leads to a lot of very emotional conversations with his brothers who still just dont know what to do but desperately want to get him help somehow.

and then the killing game starts

#von.txt #tetro danganronpa pink #tetro pink #tetro danganronpa #tetro spoilers

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this-is-tiny-mia · 19 hours ago

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Styles: The documentary (Harry Styles Fic)

General Masterlist

Summary: A documentary is being filmed about Harry’s life, and as his fiancée, you’re interviewed to share your perspective. Reflecting on how you met, your first date, and the special moments that brought you closer, you open up about your relationship and the journey you’ve taken together.

A/n: Hello my loves, this is something i've wanted to finish and now i had the chance! it's just fluffly moments, i hope you like it! i'd love to make even more moments around this, let me know if you'd like that too

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: it jumps from past to present many times so i tried my best to make it clear!

“Is it on right now?” You fixed your hair one more time, sitting up straight on the stool. In front of you was a big camera, a large light to your left pointing directly at you, and crew bustling all over the recording studio.

“Yes, now rolling,” said Drew, the cameraman who had been following you and Harry everywhere lately.

“So…” You chuckled nervously. It was the first day of filming Harry’s documentary. As his long-time girlfriend and newly fiancée, you were obviously a part of it. Today, they were shooting a series of interviews, starting with yours.

“How did you meet Harry?” Drew asked, smiling kindly. Out of everyone on the crew, he had the best knack for making people feel at ease, which was crucial for getting personal stories on camera.

“Oh… that’s a good one,” you said, smiling as your mind wandered back, recalling every detail.

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FLASHBACK

“I’m here for an interview,” you said to the receptionist, a nice woman seated at the front desk of a towering building.

“Company?” she asked, typing something into her computer.

“Pleasing,” you replied confidently. Somehow, one of your favorite brands had noticed you. Your portfolio had managed to shine among the sea of other creative directors. You weren’t actively searching for a new job, but when the email popped up in your inbox, you thought it was spam—or maybe a prank. But no, it was as real as Harry Lambert himself, the co-creative director of Pleasing. You had needed two full cups of coffee just to process how to respond.

“Third floor. You’ll need to wear this visibly.” She handed you a lanyard with a visitor badge.

...

“Y/N Y/L/N!” a cheerful voice called from inside a large, boldly decorated office. Taking a deep breath, you stepped inside.

You’ve got this. You’ve got this.

“Please, sit,” said Lambert, gesturing toward a chair in front of his desk, which was cluttered with photos, papers, and scattered sketches. The room smelled of vanilla and cloves, matching the warm, colorful furniture.

“Thank you,” you replied shyly as you took your seat. Normally, in your position at your job, you felt powerful, commanding respect and creativity daily. But now, in this space, you felt… small.

“Thank you for taking the time to come,” Lambert said warmly.

He’s thanking me?

“We don’t usually hire for such a high position, but I’m stepping away to focus on a personal project, and H is already stretched too thin. So, this isn’t really an interview; it’s an offer—and a chance to get to know you.”

You blinked, a bit stunned. Shaking yourself out of it, you managed to reply, “Yes, of course. I completely understand. But… can I ask? How did you find me?”

“Your boss is an old friend of mine. He talks endlessly about your talent, and, well… I’m stealing you from him,” Lambert said with a grin.

“Oh… yeah… I mean, Mark is great, and I’ve loved my time there. But Pleasing? It’s like a creative playground for me. Honestly, I’m honored.”

Lambert smiled knowingly and launched into an explanation of the job—the highs, the challenges, your responsibilities, the budget. You hadn’t even officially said yes, but he was already discussing deadlines and brainstorming future campaigns. It was overwhelming, but you were exhilarated. Somehow, in the middle of all this, your dream job had landed in your lap.

One Month In

“Y/N, they need you in the meeting room,” your assistant, Faye, called as you inspected samples—16 shades of pink, to be exact.

“Who’s ‘they’?” you asked, still scanning the swatches.

“H and Lambert,” she replied in her usual high-pitched tone.

“Sure, I’ll be right… wait, who’s H?” you asked, eyes widening. Could H be who you thought it was?

She just nodded, and you grabbed your iPad, practically sprinting to the meeting room. You paused at the door for a quick breath before stepping inside. “Good morning…”

And there he was—H.

He immediately stood and approached you with a warm, genuine smile. “It’s so good to finally meet you,” he said in his low, raspy voice, shaking your hand firmly.

“The feeling’s mutual. I was starting to think Lambert’s ‘H’ was an imaginary friend,” you joked nervously.

Harry chuckled. “Sorry I haven’t been around much. I’ve been in Italy for a while, but I’ll be in London for the next couple of months.”

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"Two months later, we kissed for the first time in Lambert’s office. Sorry, Lambert, if you’re seeing this—I promise it was just a kiss," you said with a shy smile, hoping to win over your boss in case he ever watched this.

"We started texting every day," you continued, leaning into the camera as if sharing a secret. "He used to send me a selfie every morning, and I was just over the moon every time." Your voice softened, a dreamy smile spreading across your face.

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FLASHBACK

You woke up to the familiar ping of your phone. It was 7:30 AM, and Harry’s name lit up your screen with a picture of him holding a cup of coffee and a simple "Morning ☕. Don’t forget the samples today!"

You couldn’t help but grin at the message. How could such a small thing make your entire day brighter? You replied with a selfie of your own—bed hair and all—typing, "Morning! Samples are ready. How’s the coffee?"

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Back in the present, you chuckled at the memory. "I don’t know how it happened so quickly, but I fell for him completely. He made even the smallest moments feel like the biggest deal."

"What do you think made Harry fall for you?" Drew asked, his tone genuinely curious.

You hesitated, biting your lip in thought. "I don’t know if it was one thing," you admitted. "But I think it was how we balanced each other out. He’s... larger than life in so many ways, and I think I grounded him."

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FLASHBACK

It was a particularly chaotic afternoon in the studio. Harry had been bouncing between meetings and photo shoots all day, his energy starting to wane. You noticed the way his shoulders slumped as he walked past your desk.

“Hey,” you called out, holding up a cup of tea.

He stopped, looking at you with a mix of surprise and gratitude. “Is that for me?”

“No, it’s for the imaginary friend Lambert keeps talking to,” you teased, handing it over.

Harry chuckled, taking the cup. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“I know,” you replied with a wink, feeling a flicker of pride at the way his expression softened.

First Date

You arrived at Harry’s place with butterflies in your stomach, a small box of macarons in hand. The walk from the bike stand to his house had given you just enough time to psych yourself up, and now you stood outside the door, adjusting your jacket nervously.

The door opened before you could knock. Harry stood there, barefoot and wearing a soft cream sweater with sleeves slightly too long for his arms. His smile was instant and warm. “Hi,” he said, stepping aside to let you in.

“Hi,” you replied, holding out the macarons. “Thought these might go well with dessert or something.”

His eyes lit up. “You brought dessert to a pasta night? You’re already winning me over.”

The house smelled incredible—garlic, fresh basil, and something else warm and inviting. The kitchen was open and bright, with bowls of ingredients scattered across the counter. A pasta machine sat proudly in the middle of it all.

“Is this where the magic happens?” you joked, pointing at the setup.

“Absolutely,” he said, walking over to roll out a piece of dough. “I figured we’d do this part together. Homemade pasta tastes better when it’s a team effort.”

You laughed, slipping off your jacket. “Are you sure you trust me with this?”

He handed you a small rolling pin and an apron. “Only one way to find out.”

For the next hour, the two of you worked side by side. Harry showed you how to feed the dough through the machine, laughing when it got stuck and you both had to wrangle it out together. You took turns sprinkling flour on the counter, and at one point, he smudged a bit on your nose with a cheeky grin.

“Hey!” you protested, trying to retaliate, but he dodged you effortlessly.

By the time the pasta was cut and ready to boil, you were both a little flour-dusted and very much at ease.

Dinner was simple but perfect—pesto pasta with a side of roasted tomatoes and a bottle of wine. You sat at the dining table, which Harry had set with candles and a small vase of wildflowers.

“This is amazing,” you said, twirling your fork in the pasta. “I didn’t think you’d actually be this good.”

He leaned back in his chair, pretending to be offended. “I’ll take that as a compliment, even though I’m choosing to ignore the surprise in your tone.”

You laughed. “No, really. This is... perfect.”

As you reached for the roasted tomatoes, your fork slipped, sending a small drop of sauce onto your light dress.

“Oh no!” you exclaimed, glancing down at the stain. It was right on the front, glaring and impossible to ignore.

Harry froze, looking concerned. “Do you need a napkin? Or—”

But you just waved it off, smiling. “It’s fine. It’s just a dress”

He blinked, then let out a laugh. “You’re sure? must be expensive”

“It's okay" You dabbed at the stain with your napkin half-heartedly and shrugged. “No sense in crying over spilled... sauce.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Most people would be freaking out.”

“Well, I guess I’m not most people,” you said playfully.

For the rest of the night, the stain stayed there, but it didn’t matter. Harry found himself admiring how little you cared about it—how relaxed and unpretentious you were. It wasn’t just refreshing; it was magnetic.

At one point, as the conversation turned to childhood memories, he caught himself thinking: Yeah, I could get used to this.

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Back in the present, you smiled at the camera, recalling that night. "That first date was... easy. It felt like I’d known him forever, but also like I was discovering someone entirely new. And he was just so... kind. It’s funny—he was trying to impress me, but really, he didn’t need to do anything at all."

Harry, now sitting across the studio, interrupted with a teasing grin. "I worked hard on that pasta, you know!"

You chuckled and rolled your eyes "He used to tell me that I made him feel calm," you said, your voice growing quieter. "And I think he gave me confidence—like, the real kind that sticks."

Drew leaned back in his chair, looking pleased. "That’s beautiful. Any final words for this session?

You smiled, glancing toward Harry, who was now watching you from across the studio, his headphones hanging around his neck. "Yeah," you said, your tone lighter now. "It’s been a wild ride, but I wouldn’t change a single thing. Except maybe… I’d have said yes to dinner sooner."

From across the room, Harry laughed, his voice carrying over. "I wasn’t that bad, was I?"

You turned back to the camera with a mischievous smile. "Let’s just say persistence pays off." You held up your hand again, showing off the engagement ring, the studio chuckling as Drew called out, "And cut! That’s a wrap for this session"

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General Taglist: @hermionelove @mads3502

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