#like I’ve seen it but I don’t see ENOUGH of it

[cupidsworstcrime]

mermaid!john price x f!reader

smut <3

cloaca & hemipenes , double penetration

AN: for the love of god, do not fuck in salt water, chlorinated water, or any wild bodies of water. bath tubs are fine as long as its soap/additive free and your tap water is SAFE. this has been your sex safety psa.

The moonlight cast ripples across his glistening scales, blues and greens shifting like oil on water. John lay half-submerged in the tide pool, propped up on his elbows as he watched you with a calm, knowing gaze — the kind that said he’d seen this look before. That blend of curiosity and frustration.

“I just…” You trailed off, eyeing the smooth, glistening plane of his lower half. “There’s nothing there, John. I want to—hell, you want to—but how the fuck do we even…?”

John chuckled low in his chest, voice thick with salt and gravel. “You humans are so linear,” he teased, reaching up to gently tug you closer. “You think if you don’t see a cock, there’s nothing to work with.”

You flushed, but allowed him to pull you down to straddle his tail. His body was warm beneath you, radiating heat even through the seawater.

“I’ll show you,” he murmured, his voice a low hum against your skin.

His fingers guided yours lower — past the human half, down to the smooth slit just above the place where his tail began. The skin there was softer, more sensitive. You hesitated.

“There,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “That’s where you start.”

You touched him gently, and he shivered — not from cold, but from sensation. The slit twitched slightly under your fingers, and as you pressed more confidently, it parted just enough to reveal—

“What is that?” you breathed.

John’s smile widened. “Cocks,” he said. “Two of them. One might be enough for you… but you’re welcome to try both.”

Heat rushed through you. “That’s unfair.”

“You wanted to know,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Now let me teach you the rest.”

You stared.

It—they—were swelling, slowly unfurling from the slit beneath his abdomen. Twin shafts, slick and flushed deep violet, tapered and ridged in ways that made your breath catch. The sight of them pulsing slightly, twitching under your gaze, was mesmerizing… and daunting.

“There’s no way,” you breathed, shaking your head as heat pooled low in your belly. “John, I can’t—both of those…? That’s not possible.”

He chuckled, the sound deep and lazy, like waves hitting the shore. “Love,” he said, voice warm and unbothered as he leaned back on his elbows, “you don’t have to take both.”

Your eyes snapped to his. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

He grinned now, lazy and wicked. “One’s just backup. You’re not a sea nymph, you’ve got limits.” He paused, then added, teasing, “Not that I mind seeing you try.”

You swatted his shoulder, but the tension in you was already giving way to something else—arousal sharpened by curiosity and the thrill of the unknown.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing,” you muttered, fingertips ghosting near the base of one shaft. He inhaled sharply, hips twitching.

“You’re doing fine,” he murmured, suddenly softer, more serious. “Just follow what feels good. I’ll guide you if I have to.”

You swallowed hard, heart thudding. “You sure?”

John caught your wrist, brought your hand to his length, wrapped your fingers around the thicker one. “I’ve been dreaming of this,” he said. “Let me make it good for you too.”

You sank down onto him slowly, thighs trembling against the smooth edge of his tail. His hands gripped your hips with a reverence that made your skin flush, guiding you with infinite patience as the first of his hemipenes filled you.

God—he was thick, ridged in a way that caught with every inch, and even though you were soaked, stretched, aching—you couldn’t stop the breathy whimper that escaped your lips when you bottomed out.

“That’s it,” John groaned, voice rough with restraint. “Takin’ me so well, love. Look at you.”

You tried—really tried—to keep your eyes open, but the moment his second shaft brushed against your clit, slick and warm, your head lolled back.

The friction was unreal. With every shift of your hips, that second length rubbed perfectly against your front—hot, hard, pulsing with your rhythm. You could feel the pulse of his arousal in both shafts, the one buried inside you and the other grinding against your slick folds.

“Fuck,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders for balance. “John—God, it’s too much—”

“No it’s not,” he husked, thrusting his hips up shallowly to meet your bounce. “You’re doin’ perfect. Taking all of me like you were made for it.”

His praise washed over you like heat from the sun, dragging another moan from your throat. You rode him faster now, pleasure curling tight in your belly, body flushed and overstimulated. The drag of his ridges inside you, the friction outside—it was dizzying, relentless.

“You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me,” he groaned, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, the other gripping your ass. “So fuckin’ beautiful like this. Full of me, riding me like it’s the only thing you’ve ever needed.”

You were stuttering now—his name, broken little cries, breath caught in your throat.

John held you through it, gaze locked to your face, and when he felt you clench around him, he groaned low and deep, pulling you down and grinding up to make sure you felt every wave of your release.

“That's it,” he whispered, breath hot against your cheek. “Let go, love. I’ve got you.”

You were trembling.

Still riding out the aftershocks, your body felt boneless, hot, soaked in a haze of pleasure so thick you could barely think. John had softened his grip, letting you roll your hips at your own pace, chasing that slow, grinding friction of his second shaft rubbing against your clit.

But then—you shifted your weight back, just a little. And the head of that second cock, still slick with your arousal and his precum, pressed against your entrance.

“Wait,” John rasped, his voice suddenly tighter, “you don’t have to—love, seriously—”

But your brain was swimming. You needed more. Your body was humming with overstimulation, desperation coiled like a spring inside you. You whined, breath shaky as you shifted again—and the second tip breached you.

John swore under his breath, hands tightening reflexively on your hips.

“Christ… you’re really gonna try, huh?” His voice was low, strained, not mocking—more like awe-struck. “You’re soaked enough, but—fuck, sweetheart—both?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just kept going—inch by inch, sinking down with trembling thighs, your body clenching and adjusting, stretching wide around the second cock. It burned, but it felt so good too—so impossibly full. Your jaw went slack, a broken sob of sensation ripping from you as you finally sat flush against him, both shafts buried deep inside.

John was frozen beneath you, his eyes wide and blown-black with lust and disbelief.

“Holy hell,” he breathed. “You’re unreal, you know that? Fucking—look at you.”

You were already shaking again, overwhelmed, teetering on the edge of another orgasm just from the stretch and pressure alone.

“Don’t move,” he warned, though his voice was shaking. “You move—I’m not gonna last.”

But you couldn’t help it. Your hips gave a tiny roll, and the way both lengths shifted inside you made you cry out—helpless, ruined.

“Fuck!” John growled, head thrown back. “You’re gonna break me, love. Gonna fucking—ah, fuck, that’s it…”

And you knew, in that moment—watching him unravel beneath you, gasping and swearing and worshipping every inch of you—that you’d gladly break for him.

You couldn’t stop grinding.

Both of him still inside, you rocked in small, shallow circles—your thighs trembling, walls stretched around him so tight you could barely think. The second cock burned in the best way, and you could feel every twitch, every ridge of him moving with your body.

Your hand slipped between your legs, fingers messy with slick, searching for your clit as your moans turned breathless.

But John was faster.

He caught your wrist with a groan, voice thick and frayed. “No, love,” he murmured, almost scolding. “Let me.”

You barely had time to whimper before his thumb slid into place, broad and rough and just right, circling your clit in slow, reverent motions.

“Jesus, you’re shaking,” he breathed. “You’re fucking—look at you. Stuffed full, makin’ those pretty sounds, and still greedy for more.”

You cried out, body clenching hard around him. He moaned with you, hips rolling up gently—just enough to drive both shafts deeper without breaking the rhythm of his thumb. You were close again, unbearably close, your body already beyond limits you hadn’t even known you had.

“Didn’t think you’d be able to take both,” he whispered, lips brushing your temple. “Didn’t think I’d get to feel this. You, like this—mine, yeah?”

You nodded helplessly, mouth slack, hands gripping his chest like he was the only thing keeping you from floating away.

“God, you’re perfect,” he growled, grinding up into you. “So fuckin’ perfect, takin’ me like this. You make me feel—fuck, sweetheart, you don’t even know.”

You whimpered his name again, and he shushed you gently, circling his thumb a little faster.

“Let go for me,” he whispered. “Come on, love. Be good and cum for me. Let me feel you fall apart.”

You shattered in his arms—clenching around both of him, crying out as your orgasm crashed through you like a wave breaking against rock. He held you steady, groaning deep in his throat as your body milked both shafts, his own release following seconds after with a ragged gasp.

The tide surged around you both, warm and heavy, but the only thing anchoring you was the weight of him inside you—and the way his hands never stopped holding you like you were something precious.

You were barely aware of the waves lapping around your thighs, or the way your body was still clenching faintly from the last tremor of release. Everything felt thick, heavy—like the world had narrowed to the stretch of your muscles and the warmth of his body beneath yours.

But John wasn’t still.

You felt him shift—heard the low rumble in his chest, more growl than breath—and then his nose was pressed to your wrist.

He inhaled deeply, holding the scent in his lungs like he needed it to survive.

You blinked slowly, barely lucid. “John…?”

He didn’t answer. Just dragged your hand closer, nuzzling into the palm before pulling your wrist toward his mouth. Not to kiss it—but to breathe in again, as if memorizing you by scent alone.

Then he moved—arm around your back, dragging you flush against him as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

You gasped softly, still sensitive, your body jolting with the sudden closeness. But his grip didn’t ease. He was scenting you, openly and greedily—rubbing his cheek along your skin, nosing behind your ear, his stubble scraping gently.

“Smell like me already,” he murmured, half-wrecked, voice low and thick. “But not enough. Not yet.”

He pressed his face into your armpit next, and though the spot was damp with sweat and sea spray, he groaned like it was ambrosia. The sound rumbled against your skin, his tongue darting out to taste—not for pleasure, but to mark, to know.

“John,” you whispered, dazed. “What are you—”

“Want to,” he said, voice husky, lips brushing your collarbone. “My kind—we scent our mates. Memory lives in the skin.”

You shuddered in his arms, boneless and breathless.

“You’re not going anywhere yet,” he whispered, bending his tail to lay heavy over one of your ankles, anchoring you in his arms. “Not after this. Gotta make sure the sea remembers you belong to me.”

Then he nosed under your jaw again, breathing you in like you were holy.

The sand felt colder under your bare feet than you remembered. You stumbled a little, half from exhaustion, half from the slick, sore ache between your legs. Tugging the top half of your wetsuit back up over your shoulders was a task in itself—your arms trembled with effort.

You winced as you took a few slow, careful steps. “Jesus,” you muttered, “you broke me.”

Behind you, in the shallows, John chuckled—a low, rough sound that carried over the tide.

“C’mon now,” he teased, resting his arms on a half-submerged rock. “You’re walkin’ just fine. Bit wobbly, but that’s on you, love.”

You turned just enough to glare at him over your shoulder. “You had two dicks inside me, John.”

He only grinned wider. “And you took ‘em like a goddess. Thought you’d be proud.”

You flipped him off half-heartedly, biting back a smile.

But as you reached the edge of the dunes, something about your limp made you wince and laugh at the same time. “God, if I’m this sore after that, I don’t even wanna think about what else you’re hiding down there.”

That’s when his grin shifted—sharp, knowing.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, eyes gleaming under the moonlight, “wait till you see my ruts.”

You blinked. “Your what?”

He didn’t answer.

Just winked, pushed off the rock, and dove backward into the dark, silver-lit sea—his tail flicking up behind him once before vanishing into the deep.

The waves rolled in, soft and unassuming, like nothing had happened.

You stood there, suit half-zipped, legs aching, heart thudding hard in your chest.

“…Ruts?”

[soeyekonic]

— ✩♬ ₊˚. comfortable ⭑ D.A

˚⟡˖⋆ synopsis on a rainy sunday wrapped in hoodies, shared cereal, and slow kisses, you and daniela find comfort, not in grand gestures, but in the quiet kind of love that feels like home.

disclaimers: daniela avanzini x fem!reader. this was a request and i hope i did justice to it 😣 all fluff. just all cutesy and domestic yk?? i wanted to get this out quickly before i forgot so i didnt proofread…my apologies if there are typos or grammar mistakes 🥀😣

currently playing: comfortable - h.e.r

rain taps gently on the windows, slow and persistent like a song on repeat. outside, the world is gray and blurred — trees bending slightly in the breeze, puddles forming like little mirrors on the sidewalk. inside, the appartement is warm, quiet, dimly lit by a soft lamp in the corner and the flickering glow of the tv, which is playing some 2000s rom-com you’ve both seen at least ten times.

you aren’t really watching it.

daniela is stretched across the couch, one leg over yours, body tucked into your side like a puzzle piece. she’s wearing your hoodie — that soft brown one she always steals — and a pair of loose shorts that have seen better days. her hair is unbrushed, wild curls spiraling freely over her shoulders and down her back. she hasn’t bothered with makeup, not even lipgloss. and still, somehow, she’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

you’re half-draped in a knit blanket, shared between you like a truce. her toes are cold where they press against your thigh, but you don’t mind.

you haven’t moved in a while. neither of you seems inclined to.

“baby,” she murmurs, not looking up from her phone. “is it bad that i want cereal for dinner?”

you tilt your head lazily, looking down at her. “you had cereal for breakfast.”

“and lunch,” she adds, grinning as she locks her phone and tosses it onto the coffee table.

you raise an eyebrow. “at least let me make you something real.”

“but your pasta involves actual effort,” she pouts, nestling further into your side. “and i’d have to sit up.”

you smirk and shift your arm around her waist, pulling her in until your chests are pressed together. “you’re getting lazy.”

“i’m getting comfortable,” she corrects, nuzzling her nose against your shoulder.

the word lingers in the air. comfortable. it sounds exactly like what you have. not just in this moment, but in every way.

you run your fingers through her curls, detangling slowly and gently like you’ve done a hundred times before.

“i like you like this,” you say.

“messy?”

“real.”

daniela hums, eyes fluttering closed under your touch. “you used to only see me when i was all done up. hair flat-ironed, makeup perfect, some overly coordinated outfit.”

“you looked like you walked out of a fashion editorial.”

“i was terrified of not being enough,” she says softly. “of you seeing me and thinking, ‘oh. never mind.’”

you pause your fingers in her hair.

“dani,” you say, heart clenching a little. “that could never happen.”

“i know that now,” she murmurs. “but back then… i was trying so hard. and now we’re here. i’m in a hoodie that smells like you, my curls are a mess, and i haven’t worn real pants in three days.”

you laugh gently, brushing her hair behind her ear.

“and i’m more in love with you now than i ever was back then.”

her breath catches, barely. she looks up, meets your eyes. there’s something unspoken in the look — something soft and grateful and full of quiet wonder.

she leans in, pressing her lips to yours. it’s not a kiss filled with heat or urgency — it’s slow, sweet, unhurried. like she has all the time in the world to love you.

when she pulls away, she rests her forehead against yours.

“i don’t think i’ve ever felt this safe before,” she whispers. “like i can just be. and you’ll still be here.”

you close your eyes, letting her words sink in like sunlight through skin. “i will. always.”

there’s a long pause as you just breathe together. the movie keeps playing in the background, unnoticed. outside, thunder rumbles low and distant.

eventually, daniela sits up, stretching her arms over her head, hoodie riding up slightly. she yawns, blinking blearily.

“okay,” she announces. “i’m going to attempt to make cereal. i will brave the kitchen for the love of honey nut cheerios.”

you reach for her hand. “let me come with you. you need a spotter in case you trip over your own socks.”

she looks down at the offending avocado socks and gasps. “rude! these are limited edition.”

you both shuffle to the kitchen, barefoot and drowsy. the lights are still off, and the pale late afternoon gray seeps through the windows like soft smoke. daniela opens the cabinet, pulls out the cereal box, and hands it to you like it’s a sacred ritual.

while she gets the milk, you start lining up two bowls side by side — but she nudges you with her hip.

“no, no. one bowl,” she says. “we’re doing this romantic movie style.”

you grin. “lady and the tramp but with cereal.”

she gasps. “we should make that a tradition. every sunday. one bowl, shared spoon, pajamas optional.”

“optional?” you glance at her oversized hoodie and bare legs. “that implies you own actual clothes.”

she shrugs dramatically. “not when i live with you. your wardrobe is my wardrobe now. i’m basically a very cute, well-dressed parasite.”

you nudge her lightly with your hip. “you’re lucky i like you.”

“mmhm,” she says, spinning in a slow, sleepy circle before curling back into you, bowl in hand. “you love me.”

you kiss her temple. “that too.”

back on the couch, you curl up again — the two of you tangled together, sharing bites between soft laughter and quiet sighs. the storm outside grows louder, the wind brushing against the windows like a lullaby. daniela rests her head on your shoulder again, chewing slowly.

“isn’t it wild,” she says after a moment, “how easy this feels?”

“what do you mean?”

“i spent so much of my life thinking love had to be hard. like… passion and pain and drama. like the more it hurt, the more it meant something.”

you nod, understanding. you’ve both had those relationships. the kind where you confused chaos for connection.

“and then i met you,” she continues. “and it’s just… slow. and quiet. and soft. and right. it feels like home.”

you don’t know what to say to that, except: “you’re my home too.”

daniela turns the spoon in her hand thoughtfully. “i want to grow old with you. just like this. sunday rain and cereal. hoodies and quiet kisses. all of it.”

“you will,” you say. “i’m not going anywhere.”

she smiles. you can see it, even without looking.

then, softly, almost shyly: “marry me someday?”

your heart skips. “what?”

daniela shrugs one shoulder, not looking directly at you. “i mean, not today. but yeah. i want it to be you.”

you set the cereal bowl down and gently tilt her face toward yours.

“it’s going to be me,” you say. “every time. every lifetime.”

daniela kisses you again — not because it’s dramatic or perfect, but because it’s natural. easy. because she wants to. because you’re hers.

later, as the storm outside quiets and the light shifts to soft evening gold, you both drift into a nap, still curled on the couch. the bowl forgotten. the tv still playing.

and the world — messy, loud, overwhelming — feels very far away.

here, in this little apartment filled with rain and love and avocado socks, there’s only you and her. and it’s enough. it’s more than enough.

it’s comfortable.

a/n: i fear it’s getting easier to write fluff. i kinda like it now

[firelilyfox]

Cooldown

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Summary: You are having a migraine and Bucky is happy his bionic arm can do something good.

Words: 1k

Warnings: fluff, migraine, dating Bucky, couple kissing

_______________________________

„Have you seen her today?“ Bucky asked looking for you in the living room. 

Yelena shrugs. „Nah, she haven’t been around all day. But I’ve heard Sam talking to Ava about her having a nasty brain thingy.“ 

„A brain thingy?“ He repeated in confusion and a little alarmed. He’d known that Yelena takes things kinda easy but if y/n had a bullet in her head or something she wouldn’t be this … chill, right? 

„Yeah … like the thing that comes when you are stressed. What is it called?“ She takes a big bite out of the apple in her head searching for the right words to describe it. „A migraine!“ 

„Ah shit. That’s not good.“ Ava takes a sharp inhale in empathy. „Sucks. She must’ve get the real bad ones if she is up there all day. Poor thing.“ 

With each word Bucky gets more nervous about your wellbeing. He had headaches before and bad ones too, but he’d never knew the difference between that and a real migraine. The only thing he knew was that people told him they were way more painful. 

„What do you do to make them go away?“ 

Ava raised her eyebrows. „Make them go away? Ha. Buck you are just to cute!“ She laughs but Bucky wasn’t in the mood for jokes and his expression made it pretty clear that he wasn’t to be fooled around with right now. „Well, you do nothing. You just let them pass.“ 

„So she is just at the mercy of time to pass by?“ 

Yelena chuckles. „Look at you. All worried about your woman.“ 

A slight warmth creeps up his neck and he could feel his cheeks getting warmer too. „She is not my woman.“ 

„Aw cut the shit, Barnes.“ Sam walks in with a big cheeky smile. „We all know you are down bad for this girl.“ He pats Bucky on the back. „And the walls are thin, ya know.“ 

„Alright, alright. Enough“, he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighted in surrender. These people will be the death of him. „So what can I do to help her?“ 

„Make sure she drinks some water!“ Ava called. 

„Turn out all the lights. They hurt.“ Yelena adds rising the apple in acknowledgement. 

„And be quiet. Noise is just as painful as light. Especially if it comes from you.“ Sam laughs and gives Bucky another brotherly pat on the shoulder. Bucky flips him off immediately. He had a mission now, so he wouldn’t waste anymore time to talk to this knuckleheads. Bucky wanted to see his girl and make sure you get everything you need. 

The door clicked softly behind him. Your room was all dark except for a little gap in the curtains that let a bit of the sunset in. With a few long and soundless steps he made it over to the window and tucked the curtains tightly together to make sure not one inch would let any light in this room. 

„Mh… Bucky?“ You whimpered so silent he almost clutched his chest. Your pain was clearly hearable in you voice. 

„Yeah it’s me, doll“, he answered careful to not be too loud. „I wanted to check on you. The others told me you got a nasty migraine.“ 

Bucky stepped over to the big kingsized bed that was a big mess of pillows and different blankets. You curled up in the middle like a lost puppy. It was hard to see anything to clear but he could make out your silhouette. He sat down on the edge of the mattress. 

„I got you some water and painkillers just in case. Ava said they don’t work but I though maybe …“ 

„Can you stay? Please.“ You asked and reached blindly for this bionic arm. „I think I could need that right now.“ 

„All you want, doll. Of course.“ He didn’t hesitate and kicked his shoes off to snuggle up behind you. His armes opened wide in an invitation for you to hide away between them. But you had something different in mind. 

„Give me your hand“, you demanded weak. He obeyed without question and reached out his right hand. „No the other one, please.“ 

„What for?“ Bucky asked in confusion but still did as you told him. 

You took his bionic hand in yours and laid it on your forehead. A silent sigh of relief left your mouth. „That’s nice. God i feel like I’m burning up. You have no idea how much i needed you right now.“ 

Bucky chuckles softly. „If that’s what you want, doll, then I am always at your service.“ He places a soft kiss on your cheek while gently massaging your temples and offering you the much needed cooldown. „I’d do anything for you.“ 

„Anything you say?“ You ask with a smile in your voice. 

„Just say a word and you got it.“ 

„Kiss me, please.“ 

„Would that make the pain go away?“ Bucky asks amused and pushed himself up on one elbow. 

You slightly turned your head in his direction. All you could see was his pretty face in the darkness, only touched by the minimal light behind the curtain. „No but it would me help forget it. So will you help me forget?“, you ask sweetly. 

„Yes ma’am.“ 

You could feel his lips touching yours and this time Bucky was the one who sighted in relief. Gently tasting you as if you were the only thing important in this world right now. His cool bionic hand never looses the contact to your skin, worshipping you, protecting you from any harm. And it really worked. The headache slips almost completely in the background of your consciousness. There is only Bucky and his lips on yours. His warm hand on the side of your hip, gently pulling you closer to him. You let your hands wander up his muscled arms, over his strong shoulders and find his defined back. He let himself sink more on to you, followed the pressure of your hands pulling him down to you. 

Bucky pulled away, leaving the two of you a little out of breath. „Did you forget the pain already?“ He asked with a husky voice. 

„You’re a very good kisser.“ 

„That’s too much of praise. I would not say that my mouth can magically heal a migraine“, Bucky shakes his head with a little smile. „You should rest now. For real this time.“ 

You sighted in surrender. „Fine. You’re probably right. But you will still stay with me… right?“ 

Bucky placed a little kiss on the tip of your nose. „I wouldn’t leave you even if my life depended on it.“ 

[storyweavingspider]

I’m ngl there’s a lot of things that *suck* about being a visible/openly trans woman, even in one of the safest cities for trans people in the US.

But at the same time, my visible presence has done so much to make others feel safe or seen. just by existing.

Sometimes it’s as simple as another trans woman seeing me at the metro station and giving me a nod of acknowledgement, that we both exist in that moment.

Sometimes it’s queer/trans kids swarming me in a bookshop because they’re so excited to see someone older and like them; that I’m confident enough to go out wearing what I want and be loud (visibly and otherwise) and here and it gives them hope for when they’re older.

Sometimes it’s their parents seeing me and them asking me how best to support and protect their trans kid, because they see how things are going in the world and they don’t want to hurt or mess up with their kid.

Sometimes it’s an egg with her family in a store looking a little too long with a little too much longing, and seeing the realization in her eyes that one day that’ll be her.

Sometimes it’s someone who’s been out for thirteen years privately telling you that you’re the reason they decided to come fully out, that seeing you fighting and speaking up and existing gave them the courage to do it too.

Sometimes it’s someone coming out at work because they heard their coworkers using your correct pronouns even when you aren’t around; that they came out by saying “You know Anonsee? I’m like them.”

Existing in public and being visible can be terrifying or risky, but if it’s something you feel confident enough to do, your very presence can make a huge difference. Each of these stories are actual experiences I’ve had, and I’ve had literally hundreds more since coming out.

You may be someone else’s lighthouse, keeping them safe and calling them home.

[brainrotbee]

Edwin and Charles watched from afar as the trio of boys set up their machinery.

“Paranormal investigators,” Edwin said, the words bitter in his mouth.

“Yeah,” Charles sighed. He adjusted his grip on the jar of tiny gremlins. They collectively bared their teeth in agitation at him. “And we can’t complete the banishment ritual in the presence of the living.”

Edwin pursed his lips. “Precisely.” He very much wanted to be rid of the gremlins. They had been terrorizing every motorbike in London, though was more annoyed about the new scratch across his face he was sporting because of the little devils. He’d assumed this building would be abandoned and thus the perfect place to banish them but he was unfortunately mistaken.

“How do we get them out of here?” There was an impish grin on Charles’s face that meant he was likely itching to throw a firework at the investigators.

“Let’s see what they are doing first.”

They approached as an investigator reached into a dark bag and pulled out a small device. “EMF reader,” he announced proudly. “If this place is haunted, we’ll know.”

Edwin scoffed. He had little patience for pseudoscience. Ghost’s electromagnetic energy was very low for the most part. EMF readers weren’t sensitive enough to read such levels. Energy spikes were almost always due to external factors; declaring every one as evidence of ghostly activity was fallacious.

Charles circled around the investigators and stopped next to Edwin. He set down the jar of gremlins and placed a hand on Edwin’s. “Right, you stay here and I’ll-”

The EMF reader beeped loudly and the investigators all jumped. Charles frowned. “That was weird,” he noted. “Those things usually don’t work.” He looked back at his hand, still on Edwin’s shoulder. Oh no. Mortification filled Edwin’s body. Ghost’s energy was low for the most part. The exception to the rule was during strong emotions, like the intense fondness Edwin was currently experiencing for Charles. He closed his eyes, hoping the other boy didn’t figure it out.

Charles did no such thing. He removed his hand and observed the beeping stopping. Then he placed his hand back on Edwin and the dreadful beeping resumed. “Oh.”

Edwin wanted to sink through the floor. He technically could but that wouldn’t help matters. “Don’t,” he said curtly. Charles grinned.

“Don’t what?” he asked innocently. He took a step back (causing the cursed beeping to stop once more) and looked Edwin up and down. “Hmm. I wonder what’ll happen if I…”

He cupped Edwin’s cheek and planted a kiss on the opposite one. Edwin swore he felt himself blush, even without the blood to do so, and his embarrassment was only amplified by the loud noises coming from the EMF reader.

“Bloody hell,” one of the investigators exclaimed. “I’ve never seen a reading this high in my life.”

Charles grinned, his face centimeters away from Edwin’s. He brushed a thumb across Edwin’s cheekbone before backing away. “We don’t want to break it, do we?” he explained with an evil grin on his face.

“Do shut up.”

[teaboot]

in WHAT universe is rising of the shield hero less of a dissapointment than spy x family? ppl glaze sxf a bit too much but theres few anime worse than Incel Isekai 20472.

anyway. if you want something actually good, frieren, odd taxi, and my roommate is a cat. havent watched ascendance of a bookworm yet but i hear incredible things.

Oh yeah no ROTSH felt like ABSOLUTE dogshit episodes 1-5ish, I have no idea why I kept watching cause the MC was so cringe but I’m enjoying it quite a lot now! (I was actually checking my inbox before catching the next ep, lol)

I’m actually really happy with how they showed the MC’s immaturity and flaws and all the stupid and confusing common isekai tropes in a realistic light- And I’m kinda sorry you didn’t keep watching too ‘cause it absolutely lays bare all that stupid “chosen one” crap about halfway through s1. You stop cringing at the awful stupid incel asshole shit E3 or so and start GENUINELY LIKING him, which is wild!

It’s not perfect media obviously- I kinda REALLY don’t like some of it- but it focuses a lot on personal responsibility and thoughtfulness and working within the context of your environment, learning to heal relationships, and the importance of diplomacy and communication.

What I REALLY like is the central theme that being a hero doesn’t mean everything you do is correct- but that people WANT TO BELIEVE everything you do is correct, so being a symbol isn’t so much a ritzy ride as it is a HUGE responsibility that one shouldn’t be eager for.

Also, I don’t want to give any spoilers, but I’m at a point now where they’re starting to touch on the idea that there’s a difference between fighting for an idea and fighting for PEOPLE, and I’ve never really seen that done well before so between that and the twist here that’s being foreshadowed I’m genuinely SUPER EXCITED to see where they’re going with it.

Also- even WITH all the “pretty girls love the hero” trope- if you watch long enough you’ll notice how they PLAY with the trope without investing in it. There’s genuine respect between the characters, and several times the MC makes it clear he sees some of them as family, that he’s not into kids and it’s creepy when others are, and there’s no fanservice panty shots or surprise “oops I’m naked” shit. It really does show by example how a REAL good-hearted protagonist should- or would hopefully- realistically act in the circumstances of an unrealistic isekai type series. There’s been pretty much zero actual romance or any interest in romance shown by the character after episode 1-2. (At least as of s2e1)

And I love that! It’s incredibly character-driven. It feels like the MC genuinely might fuck up, that there are real stakes, that the correct path is unclear, and I want to see if what I’m hoping for will happen. The MC is selfish and closed-off and heartless sometimes and TOTALLY has a cruel and pragmatic streak, and the narrative takes full advantage of that to force him to confront those issues. Some of his vices are even advantageous, as they would be in real life!

Spy X Family didn’t do anything for me. It appeared to be what it said on the tin. I never got any real sense of stakes or depth or personal development, or of reoccurring thematic elements or symbolism or overlying message, or any kind of statement that was poignant or meaningful. It came off as a fun story, but not anything exceptional or different.

I couldn’t bring myself to care much because it was pretty clear that the good guys were right and they were gonna pull something off and have a happy ending and live a cute little family life with a mom and a dad and a daughter and a dog. It was never surprising or curious and I never felt emotionally intrigued or invested or attached.

They’re both enjoyable, but I like Rise of the Shield Hero more because it’s been proving me wrong in exciting ways and making me think about why I feel the way I do, and I like that in a series.

Spy X Family is fine, I don’t think it’s BAD, it just didn’t scratch the itch for me personally.

If you watched like 15 eps and hated it the whole time that’s fair but if you stopped at e2 I’d super recommend giving it another shot!

[brokenheartwithheartbreak]

Wait. Wait a dang minute. I have a theory.

So I know one of the discussions I’ve seen floating around is ‘why Theo’. What made the DDs specifically go after this one 9 year old boy, what made him special. And here’s my little take on it.

What made Theo special? Nothing. We know the DDs target kids in bad situations - see; Tracey, Josh, Corey, etc - kids who can disappear for days at a time without anyone raising any red flags, and from that we can assume Theo and Tara’s parents were maybe not great too. We also know they’ve been playing at making chimeras/trying to make The Beast for quite a number of years.

So who’s to say Theo wasn’t just one of another batch like the S5 chimeras? Ten years earlier, starting with younger kids, maybe, and that being The First Chimera is being the first chimera that survived. Why? That’s the fun part. There’s any number of explanations; because he was stubborn, because he’s a survivor, because there was something slightly different in his genetic makeup that unlocked the next puzzle piece in the DD’s jigsaw Frankenstein, because he refuses to die and it adds just another layer to the nuance of parallels between him and Scott. Normal nothing loser kid becomes Something Else and the support system they have in the aftermath structures their entire life.

And the best part is Theo probably doesn’t even remember, just knows that once he was a Success, the First, but that wasn’t quite enough and the Doctors moved on and he’s spent the rest of his life chasing the feeling of being important in the worst way possible.

Something about the idea of Season 2/3 Scott looking at his baby pack at the time with that sweet summer child vibe they had before The Horrors started Happening and going ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you guys’ and then the scene cutting to a sixteen year old Theo murdering some guy because he’s spent seven years being moulded into a weapon to be aimed and fired because he might not have been good enough for The Beast but he was still an excellent tool for furthering the cause.

[slutforwoo]

☆18. I still wanna jump him☆

previous|masterlist|next

☆ written part below!! ☆

were you most likely going to regret this? absolutely. you knew that the minute you responded to his text message. it’d been 2 weeks. 2 weeks since he found out, and you’ve been avoiding him like the plague.

has it been hard as fuck? yes. considering your friend groups mingled a bit. but you managed, you weren’t going to talk to him til he came to you. after all he told you to leave him alone. so you did.

you walk towards the lake, leaves and branches crunching under your footsteps as you get closer. finally you see a tall figure as you get closer to the lake. it’s yunho, with something in his hand? a box?

“yunho”you say as you finally reach where he was waiting, sitting on the bench that was just a couple of steps away.

“y/n.. thank you for um agreeing to talk”he stumbles over his words a bit, clearly nervous about this.

“well i’ve been waiting til you wanted to talk yunho”the sign leaves ur chest. “so. what are we here to talk about?” you ask. acting like you didn’t know exactly why you’re here. you just need to have him admit why you’re here.

“we need to talk about the other day..”he trailed off slightly “I shouldn’t have ran off and lied. I was just caught severely off guard. I didn’t know how to process it. I mean y/n i’ve seen you in a very intimate way. and I didn’t even know it was you. I talked to you.” he rambled. “I just. I was in a shock okay? I didn’t.”

“yunho. I understand but you didn’t even let me explain. you ran out on me, you told me to leave u alone. I wanted to explain. but reality being, I don’t need to yunho. you know exactly why I do this” you said looking up at the man standing in front of you. “I do this to pay my rent, help my parents, pay my tuition. you think I enjoy this?”and you locked eyes with him. “I mean sure I like doing the things I do but it was a last resort” you sigh

he didn’t see it that way. quite frankly when he found out, none of that had crossed his mind. he was just in shock and ignored you instead of talking to you.

“y/n look im sorry. and im sorry because I did tell san”he whispered that last part.

you’re eyes go wide as you fill with slight anger. “you told san?” the question leaves ur mouth as a whisper.

“I’m sorry.. I needed to have someone help and I couldn’t tell mingi or hongjoong because they watch you and well. I didn’t wanna tell jongho”the apology is rambled together. and this time, you turn to look at yunho and you look him in the eyes.

“I really should beat ur ass for telling him you know… but I won’t, because at least you didn’t tell the others.” and your eyes land on the box in his hands. “what’s that?”you ask

yunho takes a deep breath and with shaky hands he hands you it. “I just got you some weed and new rolling try and grinder as an i’m sorry” he says, rubbing his neck awkwardly.

you fight the smile, as you take the box and open it. and sure enough there’s a bag of weed, a black and red gorey rolling tray and matching grinder. he also added pink joint papers. “are u trying to buy my forgiveness?”you question, raising a brow.

“n-no I just”he began to stutter before you cut him off.

“yunho im kidding. I understand why you reacted the way you did. you didn’t know but to be fair it’s not like I knew you were watching my shit”

he lets out a sigh of relief, “I know and after san talked to me I kind of came to that realization. I really hope you can forgive how I acted y/n. I shouldn’t have and i’m sorry” his voice was slightly trembling.

just like that, any anger and frustration you had towards him melted away slightly. you genuinely just wanted him to apologize so you could talk again. especially considering you liked him. and this time you couldn’t deny it anymore.

“I forgive you yuyu. but pull some shit like that again and I will have my friends jump you and i’ll beat your ass myself you got that?”you spoke.

the anxiety washed away from yunho’s body as he let out a small laugh. “I got it don’t worry I don’t plan on doing something like that again” he smiled down at you.

god there it was, the smile that made you feel butterflies every time you were with him.

“just one question though” he said locking eyes with you. “who do you use for ur streams?” he ask with a genuine curiosity.

you freeze looking at him “um well. you can’t say anything okay? because eventually you and ur friend group will find out. but it’s seonghwa and wooyoung” you said trying to read his face as his jaw dropped

“no fucking way? that’s why you all hide your face-”he’s stunned he’s been watching ur friends fuck you this entire time. and he’s been getting off on it???

“didn’t expect that one honestly” he says

“they’ve been very helpful but, i’ve always told them they’re welcome to stop at anytime. like when seonghwa eventually tells hongjoong he likes him. he’ll be cut. and same for whenever wooyoung finds someone” you say taking some of the weed from the bag and putting it in the grinder to roll a joint.

yunho wasn’t shocked honestly, it made sense that they’re help you and thenw when they find someone it’s just immediately over. but how the hell did u never catch feelings?

“how have you not caught feelings for either of them? I mean you guys are like very intimate”

you laugh “you think I can pull seonghwa away from hongjoong? that man has been yearning for years for him. he’s gay yunho. wooyoung on the other hand he. just. yea no. not ever happening. I love him as my friend though” you say shrugging as you started to roll. “plus I like someone so it wasn’t gonna happen” you say.

oh you like someone. yunho felt his heart sink. he was too late there was no way he had a chance with you.

“oh you do?” he said trying to hide the disappointment in his voice. and it made you smile a bit. this man really was oblivious and clueless.

“I like you. yunho” you said, locking eyes with him.

what? there is no way he heard you right. you. like. him??? out of all the people who call at ur feet. you want him?

when you see him freeze you begin to regret what you just told him. and when he notices the words just blurt from his mouth.

“I like you too”

p☆rnst☆r tag list

@roxhanah @sunnysidesins @spenceatiny18 @kookieswithjung @kcharlyy @bloomyroses @jiminssluttyminx @fairy-jojo @oceanside-view97 @domfikeluva @mountquokka @frecklypotato @bambbiisworld

[oikarma]

sometimes the fall kills you 𝜗𝜚 ln4, mv1

summary: (19k) it begins the winter of ‘28. you know this is how ghost stories start. a season, an apostrophe, two end digits, and the death of something.

part one / part two

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

notes: this ended up so much longer than i expected, so this is part one only ☹️ freaking tumblr would not let me post my 1000+ blocks. max is literally not in this, sorry for the clickbait, but reading this is important to understanding the next part where he comes in.

lando is a manipulative and unstable person in this fic. his and yn’s relationship might seem romantic or alluring, to have someone so attached to you, but it’s not healthy at all. from what i’ve seen lando is a sweet person and speaks out about mental health, this fic does not claim to represent him in any way. his behavior here is a figment of my imagination.

anyway, this is the first fic i wrote in google docs, i bled, sweat, and teared my way through it, please be nice. i’m sorry in advance. hope you enjoy!

18+... fingering, blowjob, half-choking, unprotected sex, suggestions of oral (smut is in a specific section, i've marked it in bold, please scroll past if you're a minor)

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Most days, you feel like the shittest boot-licking piece of trash ever thrown away. It stems from your phone, what all the preaching psychoanalysts tell schoolchildren. Don’t compare yourself. Humans weren’t meant to see their own faces. Fuck that. Mirrors are an age-old invention. Every goddamn thing on this planet is a comparison. You know what they won’t admit: the problem is you, in every lifetime.

So. There’s you, and there’s Lando Norris, Formula 1 world champion, certified ladies’ man since his early twenties and maybe the owner of the most beautiful face you’ve ever seen, right down to his perfect nose. There is no overlap in your venn diagrams, save for the fact that you carved out a piece of him and fit yourself there, like you were born to. You didn’t mean it. But, like you already said, you were born to.

It begins the winter of ‘28. You know this is how ghost stories start. A season, an apostrophe, two end digits, and the death of something. The death of what, exactly?

You’re getting ahead of yourself. 29 is hardly old—it doesn’t show on Norris’s face, not yet. It is too early to say “middle-aged,” contrary to popular belief. It is also too early to become a sugar daddy. Then again, standards don’t apply to him. He’s 29 and rolling in cash. It would not be a stretch to say he’s in his prime.

This is not how you find him in the winter of ‘28. The man slumped over a table at a dingy bar in Bristol is nothing like the Lando Norris the world knows. You don’t even recognize him when he’s a bit more sober, only noting that bleary-eyed and slurring somehow suits him. He’s well into the two-digit rounds when your shift begins. Your co-worker shrugs helplessly, tells you to keep an eye on this one (poor thing, drunk out of his mind), and drops the keys into your dumbfounded hands. Consolation has never been your strong suit. You’re allergic to pity, incapable of giving it or swallowing it quietly. The only move you make to help him is to water down each passing drink, more and more, before the ratio is unmissable. By that point, you’re not sure if he can tell the difference between piss and what he’s ordered. Maybe he can, but he’s not drinking anymore.

Now he’s slumped forward, forehead pressed to the sticky wood. His fingers are loose around a glass he’s forgotten how to lift.

“Hey,” you call, leaning over with the rag in hand. “We’re closing soon.”

Nothing.

You sigh and toss the rag on the counter. When you get closer, the smell hits you. Maybe you weren’t close enough, before, in your attempts to stay out of his single-minded drinking. You catch expensive cologne, drowned under sweat and whiskey. Up close, he’s younger than you thought. Late thirties? You might know that face.

“Hey, man.” You tap his wrist, careful not to provoke any sudden movements. Fuck, you’re tired and you don’t want an angry, stubborn man to start a bar fight now. “Time to go.”

His head lifts slowly. It’s too heavy for his neck. This is the first time you see those ridiculous eyelashes, the sharp jaw softened by stubble, the mouth parted. He’s halfway between a laugh and a cry. You’ll get very familiar with those features, in the months to come.

“Where’d she go?” he slurs, blinking up at you like you have the answer. “Where the fuck did she go?”

You freeze for a second. No, this is bad. A sleepy man is okay, as long as he’s not causing trouble. A crazy, inebriated man is a little more than you can take right now. “Who?”

He lets out this bitter little laugh. “My mum,” he mutters, keeling back over and miraculously not splitting his skull in half. “Dead. Just gone. S’fucked, yeah?”

You exhale. The bar is empty. It’s just you and a guy with a dead mom fraying on your counter.

“Okay.” You walk around, crouch slightly, resting a light hand on his shoulder. “Come on. You can’t stay here.”

He flinches under your touch but doesn’t pull away. Just mumbles, “did you know…did you know she kept every helmet I ever…” His words dissolve into a dry laugh. They then evaporate into silence. You manage to get his arm around your frame, hoisting him up with more effort than you thought you would need. He leans into you, a sandbag with no intention of helping, murmuring nonsense as you steer him toward the door.

“C’mon, champ,” you mutter under your breath, only half-mocking. You’re not cruel.

Outside, the cold air hits his face. It must be enough to jolt his senses a little. He sways, blinking hard at the streetlights like they’ve just been invented.

“Where—” he starts, before bursting into more giggles. “Where am I supposed to go?”

You exhale. This man, half-draped over you, a stranger whose grief is soaking through your clothes, a spilled drink of something you shouldn’t know about. You don’t know yet that his name is Lando Norris. You don’t know yet that—no, you’re getting ahead of yourself again. At this moment, your priority is not having a dead man and a murder investigation in your name.

At this moment, all you know is you need to get him into a cab before he collapses on your doorstep.

“Home,” you say, and hope to God he remembers where that is.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Two nights later, he walks in, a reassurance that, yes, he did remember where home was.

He’s so different that you almost don’t recognize him, if not for the same cologne, honey and saffron that wafts into the air. It oozes confidence and allure, just the way the man that wears it does. He does now, at least, with a crisp white shirt (loose, but precise enough to show that it’s been tailored) and a watch that probably costs more than all your student debt combined.

You watch him from behind the counter, heart sinking into your shoes. Of course. Because God forbid one night of decency go unpunished.

He slides onto a stool (right in front of you, of course) and leans in with this easy, practiced charm that makes you want to punch something. It’s so fake, so unlike everything you know about him. He has no right being able to compose himself. You hate rich douchebags who act like they have no problems; this man’s signature is halfway onto that list.

“Evening,” he says. “Miss me?”

You snort before you can help it. The audacity. It’s a wonder he remembers your face, considering he’d forgotten what lamps looked like. You think he’s pathetic. Pity, as you’ve already said, isn’t in your dictionary. He’s a poser who pretends he’s not sad.

“Wow,” you deadpan, draping the rag over your shoulder. “Back to slum it with the peasants so soon? We’re honored.”

He smiles with all his face, from his mouth to his eyes, from his laugh lines to his immaculately set teeth. There are no canine fangs in this man’s mouth, but his grin still comes off sharp and pleased. He was hoping you’d bite.

“You’re quick. I like that.”

You arch a brow. “What do you want, fancy boy? Another blackout? You know, I usually charge extra for babysitting drunks, but I’ll make an exception for you.”

He smiles again, this time with a laugh. You hate the way you notice the way his fingers through his hair, the effortless grace of it.

“Came to settle my tab.” He reaches into his pocket—wallet? You don’t see clearly—and places a black card on the counter. To him, it’s nothing. “And maybe buy the bartender a drink for her trouble.”

You glance at the card, then back at him. You know how to look helpless, how to mold yourself to what a customer wants. You also know how to look unimpressed, in an attempt to ward off this preening pretty boy. “I think you’re overestimating how much I care about your conscience.”

Not once does his smile falter. “Oh, I’m not here to clear my conscience.” His eyes flick over you. Not in that greasy, leering way you’re used to. It’s as if he’s cataloging you for future use, pulling you apart in his head. “I just don’t like owing people.”

You push the card back toward him. Your fingers tap the bar once. “Then consider us square. You lived, I didn’t get vomit on my shoes. We both win.”

You see his eyes widen, just for a moment—you’ve surprised him—and then the grin snaps back into place, looser now. This is a game he’s decided he wants to play.

He leans back on the stool, thumb brushing his bottom lip. He’s savoring something. You don’t know what. “Alright,” he says to himself. “Square, then.”

You nod once, already turning away.

“See you around, bartender.”

You don’t look back. You won’t look back. You’re walking away, carried by your feet and better judgement. There’s a hook under your skin. You know, with a sinking in your chest, that he’ll be back. You don’t even know his name, but you know that much. Not because he owes you, not because he should.

Now, you’re interesting. And men like him never let interesting go.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You’re halfway through a paper when your laptop freezes. You stare at the spinning cursor. It’s the montage people talk of when they’re about to die. It is, in its own right, a death sentence.

“No, no, no,” you whisper, fingers hammering at the keys. Please, please, let it save you. The library around you is packed. Someone two tables over is crying, not-so-quietly, into their sleeve.

You drag your hands through your hair, tug hard at the roots, blink down the burn in your eyes. Coffee-stained hoodie, cracked phone screen, empty energy drink cans rattling in your bag—who’s going to give in first, your body or your mind?

Understandably, you’re a little too occupied to care about who’s around you. They’re all tired and equally as demotivated, so you think. Your chest gives a sick lurch to inform you otherwise.

Leaning against the archway across the room is the devil, arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other. He wears a dark jacket and a faint smirk.

No, you think wildly, almost laughing. What the fuck? This is not happening.

But it is. Your drunken spoils, in the flesh. He pushes off the wall and strolls toward you. You still don’t know his name.

“Didn’t peg you for the overachieving type,” he says when he reaches your table, voice pitched low enough it curls right under your skin.

“Jesus Christ,” you hiss, slamming your laptop shut. It’s already broken, might as well end its misery now. “Are you following me now?”

He raises both hands. “Relax. I’m giving a talk here.” He tips his head toward the auditorium doors down the hall. “Motivation, hard work, all that crap they pay me for. But you,” he adds, eyes flicking over the mess of your table, “you’re making us all look bad.”

Your chest is tight, your breathing ragged. You’re not sure if it’s rage or shame or exhaustion laced in your bones. Probably all three. “Look,” you snap, shoving papers into your bag, “why don’t you stick daddy’s money up your ass and find your way home. Go harass someone who gives a shit. Maybe someone with money, so they’ll be more sympathetic than me.”

When you lurch to your feet, he’s suddenly right in front of you. You see the lashes again, long and tantalizing, about to pull you to your death. You’re going to suffocate on his cologne.

“Burning out, sweetheart,” he murmurs. There’s no mockery in his voice now. “You should pace yourself.”

You shove past him hard enough your shoulder clips his arm. Asshole. You hope he trips down the stairs and chips his veneers. You know exactly why he’s here—it’s not the first time you’ve seen a man cracked open and raw on that barstool, trying to drown themselves in grief and whiskey. Men like him don’t let anyone keep hold of that kind of power. So yeah, you’re overworked, underpaid, and too close to your deadlines.

He’s going to be pulling on that string for a while. He’s going to enjoy dragging out your inevitable unraveling.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The next day at work, it’s quiet. You’re restocking glasses behind the bar. Your eyes are gritty from no sleep, brain still fried. Right now, you’re trying to figure out how the hell you’re going to make this month’s rent. Bartending is great when people give good tips. Today it’s hell.

Your manager taps your shoulder, frowning. “Hey, someone left this for you.” You turn and take what’s in his hands, an envelope with your first name on it. It’s handwritten, a surprising gesture of humility compared to the numbers on the check inside.

You stare at it for a long, long time. Long enough that your hands start to go numb. It’s made out to you. Enough to clear everything. Rent, loans, student debt…fuck, it’s enough to buy you a new car, too.

There’s no note or explanation. Although you’ve never seen his handwriting before—from Lando Norris, the check says, and this is how you finally get his name—you know somewhere across the city, Lando Norris is grinning like a Cheshire cat.

You find him outside a hotel, and obviously, it’s the most expensive one in town. You did a little research on him when you got his name. He’s from here. So he has a house, probably, and he’s at a hotel anyway because the cash burning his pocket is oh-too-much to bear. He’s stepping out of a sleek black car, sunglasses pushed into his hair, scrolling lazily through his phone. The world doesn’t touch him. He practically tosses his keys at you.

“What the fuck, man?” you burst out, voice sharp enough to turn a few heads.

Lando looks up. “Afternoon to you, too. I thought you were the valet.”

You stop in front of him and jab the envelope toward his chest. “You’re not a mafia boss, you know that, right? You can’t just—you can’t just throw money at people like they’re strays and then disappear.”

His brows lift slightly. “Didn’t realize helping was a crime.”

“Helping?” You bite back a laugh. “I know what you’re doing.” Your fingers tighten on the paper, knuckles white. “You want me to owe you. You want me tied to you. You think if you pull hard enough, I’ll snap, and—and what? You’ll own me?”

You see his eyes darken at the suggestion.

“Sweetheart,” he says. He’s talking to a scared cat, pushing off the car, closing the distance between you in one easy step, “you already owe me. You just haven’t admitted it yet.” 

He grins again, now with all his teeth, and says it so casually it makes your head spin: “I want you to be my sugar baby.”

“You’re insane,” you choke out, heat flooding your face. “You’re insane. They need to put you in a psych ward. You can’t say that to people you barely know—”

Lando tips his head slightly. He’s a cat watching the mouse try to run. “Why not? I always say what I want. You’ll figure that out soon enough.”

“Jesus Christ. You can’t just buy people. You can’t—”

“Can’t what?” he cuts in smoothly, like he always does. He seems advertent to letting you finish your sentences. “Help you? Save you some time? Give you a way out before you collapse in that library corner you’ve been camping in for weeks?”

You glare at him, but your chest is tight and you can’t force the words out.

“You’d be surprised,” he murmurs, smile slipping softer now, almost gentle. “What people are willing to let me buy.”

For one furious, helpless second, you want to slap him. Or start crying. Or do something, something that’ll make him feel out of control. What you do is step back, trying to muster venom, voice cracking on the words: “Go to hell, Norris.”

“Take your time, sweetheart.” He winks and hands the actual valet, who’s snuck up behind you two, a nice wad of money. “You’ll come around.”

The check burns in your fist, even as he vanishes between the golden hotel doors.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You crash through your apartment door at midnight, still tasting the metallic buzz of panic on your tongue. It might also be blood. You have a nasty habit of opening cuts on your lips.

The envelope goes on the counter, torn halfway open, the check peeking out, mocking you, taunting you. You slap a hand over your face and groan into your palm. What the actual hell is happening?

Your phone buzzes.

mara(malade) holy fuck

mara(malade) u alive? shift was hell

You practically sag with relief. Mara, your coworker—ex-roommate (now she’s got a bit more money of her own), bartender, chaos magnet, saint. You fire back a desperate come over please bring wine before you can overthink it. Twenty minutes later, she’s on your couch, a bottle of grocery store rosé cradled like it’s a baby.

“So,” she says, fumbling around for a bottle-opener, “what’s the emergency? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or committed tax fraud.”

You shove the check at her. She squints at it, reads the amount, and lets out a low whistle. “Damn, girl. Who’d you rob?”

“Lando Norris,” you blurt, and immediately regret it.

“You wish.” You don’t laugh, a sign something’s wrong and this is not a joke. She looks up, finger pointing accusingly. “Fuck me. Lando Norris as in Formula 1 driver, millionaire, owns-half-of-Monte-Carlo Lando Norris?”

You throw your hands up. “I don’t know about all the rest, but yes, Lando Norris!”

Mara lets out a snort of disbelief. “Okay, back up. Why is Lando Norris writing you a check that could wipe my student loans and buy me a new liver? Did you save his life or something?”

“I—” You collapse onto the couch, pressing your knuckles to your mouth. “He was drunk at the bar. Like, blackout. I stopped him from, I don’t know, choking on his own tongue? And now he thinks I’m some charity case or—”

Mara raises both brows, an impressed little smirk tugging at her mouth. “Babe, respectfully…why you?”

Your head jerks up. “Excuse me?”

“I love you. Don’t get me wrong,” Mara says, hands raised, “but he’s…him. And you’re.” She gestures vaguely. “You’re, like, you. You’re brilliant and broke and working three jobs and I know you, and no offense, but you have no chill. What do you have on him? Are you blackmailing him? Did you see him cry in the bathroom?”

Your mouth opens, then closes, useless. 

“Oh my God,” Mara cackles. “You did.”

You groan, dragging the sleeves of your sweatshirt over your face. “This is a nightmare.”

“Nightmare? This is the plot of every bad Netflix movie I’ve ever binged.” Mara unleashes the rosé with a nice pop. Hardly one for decorum, she takes a sip right out of the bottle. “So. Are you gonna cash it?”

You think of Lando’s smile—smug, that’s the best way to describe it—and the way he looked at you. To him, you were a puzzle he adored having his hands on. You think of the way your stomach twisted when he leaned in close. He already knew how you’d break.

“I don’t know.”

Mara’s grin fades. “Careful, babe. Guys like that, they don’t just give. They take.”

You know. God, you know. 

You spend the next hour pacing the apartment, a lunatic. Mara refreshes your instagram every other minute. She says it’s bad for you, but in your state, maybe she should be doing it instead. The current report: “Nothing. No messages, no tags, no random follows.”

You check the bar’s security footage on your phone and it’s just his blurry back slipping into a car.

You Google him (why did you Google him, why, it was normal the first time and now it’s dangerously close to stalking) and end up falling into a YouTube spiral. Lando’s podium interviews, Lando’s champagne-soaked parties, Lando’s Monaco apartment tour, and Lando’s something with his trainer that makes your stomach do an ugly little flip. Somewhere between the videos, Mara falls asleep on the couch, too tired to be your better judgement. But his number? His email? A way in? You have nothing. Now you’re the desperate one. You should stop, really.

“God, you coward. You can just drop a check on someone’s life and walk away? What are you, Batman? What am I supposed to do with this, frame it?”

You curl forward, forehead pressed to your knees. You laugh under your breath in that shaky, half-hysterical way that’s closer to a cry. You’re not even sure what’s eating you alive more—the fact that he did this, or the fact that some awful part of you wants him to show up again, wants him to walk back through the bar doors like it was just some normal Tuesday, like this hasn’t cracked open something huge and stupid and terrifying inside you.

He doesn’t, in that infuriating way of his, and you can’t find him.

When you fall asleep on the couch at four in the morning, the check is still there on the table, its stupid smooth paper whispering you’re already in too deep, sweetheart, every time you roll over.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Lando doesn’t plan on showing up again, that’s the thing.

He tells himself it’s done. Box checked, debt cleared, one good deed in a life otherwise soaked in champagne and carbon fiber and a mile-long string of bad decisions. Hey, he’s a marginally less shitty asshole. He’s sitting on the balcony of his hotel suite when it starts gnawing at him. 

You didn’t cash the check.

He knows because his assistant flagged it. That’s the kind of man he is now—detached, insulated, always three degrees removed from the mess he makes. He sends the money, someone else watches. He screws up, someone else cleans it. But you didn’t play the part.

He hasn’t gotten a thank-you (you told him to go to hell, actually) letter. He hasn’t gotten any gratitude, not even for the money (you told him to stick it up his ass). You didn’t even try to contact him. He leans back in the chair, tipping his head toward the sky. He lets out a slow exhale. There’s a bitter curl of something in his chest, and it has nothing to do with grief or guilt. It’s irritation.

He can’t stand that you saw him wrecked, sprawled across that bar, drunk out of his mind, cracked open and human. He can’t stand that you walked away. Now you’re out there, a loose thread in his neatly stitched life, and it’s driving him fucking insane. So yeah, he’s going to give it a few more days and then he’s going to go back. He hasn’t any intentions of apologizing or explaining. This is for him only. Lando Norris has never been the type to walk away without solving the goddamn puzzle.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

His patience pays itself over in gold.

You cashed the check. Of course you did.

He knows the exact day, in fact. His assistant texts him with a one-line update (“it cleared this morning”) while he’s halfway through an espresso and a team meeting he hasn’t listened to in twenty minutes. For a moment, Lando just sits there, thumb running along the rim of his cup, that devilish smile peeking out. You finally cracked.

Now he gives it three days before he shows up. He does it quietly, just him at the edge of the bar.

Your head jerks up when you see him, eyes wide. Lando feels it like a hit of adrenaline, clean down his spine.

“You.”

“Me,” he agrees. “Been a while, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that.” You’re rattled. “I didn’t—I only cashed it because—”

“Relax. No strings, remember?”

Your jaw works, teeth catching on the inside of your cheek. “Why are you here?”

His smile tilts with his head, so lopsided it might seem innocent. “To see you.”

“You don’t even know me, asshole.”

“But I know enough,” Lando says, lowering his voice. He knows your name, he knows your situation—well, he cleared all that—, and he knows you’re nervous. You’re breathing too fast. He leans on the bar, eyes half-lidded. He loves watching you scramble for ground. “You’re working two jobs. You’re barely sleeping. You think you can handle everything by yourself, and you hate that you can’t. “You’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop since the day you cashed that check.”

He hears you gulp. He waits a bit longer, two heartbeats, maybe.

And then, with a wicked little grin, he says, “So. How about dinner?”

“Dinner?”

“Dinner,” Lando says again. You’re sharing a secret. “You eat, don’t you?”

You flounder. When you get riled up, it wakes something inside him. Maybe that’s why he’s been coming back, not just because he needs to do charity, but because you entice him.

“I’m not your little project,” you snap. “You wanted me to take the money, I took the money, will you please just leave me alone instead of trying to…” You don’t want to finish the sentence. You can’t even find your arsenal of vulgarity.

“Seduce you?” Lando supplies lightly. “Mmm. We’ll see, won’t we?”

Before you can throw another insult, before you can spit him out, he’s sliding a card across the counter, tapping it once with his finger. You’ve seen this film before. You know what you should do next: push him aside, push all of this down so you don’t think about it. You’ve done it before, can’t you do it again?

“Tonight. Seven. Wear something dangerous.”

Like the shitbag he is, he just walks away.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He came back and haven’t stopped thinking about it since. In your defense, it’s only been a few hours. Your shift ends and you half-stumble home. You shut the door to your apartment, sag against it, and press your fists to your eyes, hoping you can squeeze Lando Norris out of your skull.

You’re not a project. You’re not his charity case. You’re not going to whore it out for more money. Greed is dangerous. You’re satisfied. Do this one thing and let it go.

Your bank account is whole for the first time in a year. The past-due notices are gone. The constant panic is still there, but now it’s now less mechanical notices and more an unspeakable Brit.

Mara’s on your couch when you finally topple over. She’s digging into a bag of chips.

“You’re a mess,” she announces. “Also, is it true Lando Norris tipped you a down payment on a house?”

“Not a house. Not—” you’re muffled by the pillow that your face sinks into.

“Babe,” she says through a mouthful of salt and vinegar, “do you have any idea how hot, rich, and deeply emotionally unavailable that man is? He must really hate what you saw.”

“I don’t know!” you groan. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know—”

You don’t tell Mara about the card he left. You don’t tell her that it’s still in your jeans pocket. You don’t take it out. If you do, you’re worried it’ll manifest into a contract with the devil, one you are a little too eager to sign.

You shouldn’t have worried so much, in retrospect. Now you’re face-to-face with Lando, your fear of the card is replaced by a constant need to fidget with the napkin. It’s brutally wrinkled. You’ve been twisting it in your fists since the appetizers.

Lando, of course, looks completely at ease. The glass turns slowly in his hand. You’re half-convinced he’s heard your every thought and is simply waiting for you to confess them.

“I can’t believe I came,” you mutter.

“You say that like I put a gun to your head.”

You scowl. No one’s looking at you, but you still feel eyes crawling over your skin. Maybe it’s just him. “You left me a check.”

“Mm. So I did.”

“Enough to clear my loans. Rent. Half my fucking soul.”

He leans in across the table, his halfway unbuttoned shirt dipping down in a way that strains you to keep your eyes up. “You’re welcome.”

You bristle. “You think this is charming? Is this how you get girls? Buy their dignity and then flash them a smile like they should be grateful?”

Lando’s brow arches. It’s not in surprise, because he was waiting for that, too. “Sweetheart—”

“Don’t.”

“Fine.” His mouth twitches. “Darling, if I wanted to get laid, I wouldn’t have picked the most hostile bartender in Bristol. You think you’re the first woman who’s ever told me to fuck off?”

It stings. “So why me?”

“You’re interesting.”

“Right. Like a bug.”

“No. Like a puzzle. One I want to take apart with my teeth.”

What the fuck? For a second, all you can hear is the soft click of silverware, someone laughing across the room. Did he just say he wanted to take me apart with his teeth? You were stupid for coming here. You’re going to beat yourself up about it later.

“I’m not a puzzle,” you snap. “I’m a person. A tired one. Who works too many hours and hasn’t taken a proper day off in months. You don’t get to walk in and play white knight just because you’re bored.”

“Who says I’m bored? Maybe I just liked the way you looked at me that night.”

You go still. “That night,” you say carefully, “you were a wreck. You were just another wreck. I had no idea who you were.”

He smiles, almost genuinely this time. “Exactly.”

You pick at the edge of your plate, push around your roasted carrots. They’ve offended you.

“I don’t want to owe you,” you say finally.

“Like I said before, you already do.”

He doesn’t smile. “You cashed the check. You came to dinner. And you’re still here. With me. Which means a part of you wants to know what happens next.”

You’re going to choke on all of this. “What do you want from me?”

All his smiles are wicked. This one is particularly knowing. “Honesty? Time. Your attention. Eventually, your mouth. But I’m patient.”

Egotistical, much? Demanding, much? You’re compiling a list of unflattering words to describe him in your head. It makes the issue feel a bit more manageable. He stretches out like a man completely at home, and says, “you think I’m dangerous. You’re not running. Either you’re stupid or you’re curious.”

You don’t have an answer. At least, not one you can say out loud. You finish your drink in one long, burning swallow and stare at the man across the table who just might end your entire life and make you beg for it.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Now, the flowers. You come home from work, fingers raw with cold. Your shoes are damp with spilled beer—another asshole; this one couldn’t even tip well—only to trip over a box sitting outside your apartment door. You stare at it for a full minute before crouching down. It’s ridiculous, a bouquet four times the size of your head and more colorful than any plants you’ve seen in your life. You think they might all be roses, but you don’t know your flowers very well.

The card is small, white, blank except for a few words:

For the tired girl.—L

You know that handwriting. You’ve seen it on the envelope that decided your fate. You don’t take them inside. You leave them in the stairwell, daring the universe to care.

The next night, he’s waiting. Not at your door, no, that would be obvious. He’s at the bar, same corner stool.

“Figured you’d show up.” Your voice is flat.

“Did you?”

You slam a glass into the rack a little too hard. “Didn’t figure you were the type to stalk.”

“I’m not.” Lando’s long legs kick under the bar. His designer coat is thrown over the adjacent stool. To him, it’s nothing. Probably sent for free, for exposure. “You left the flowers outside.”

“And?”

“And I don’t like wasting effort.”

At least he’s honest. “So what? You’re here to monitor your investment?”

“I’m here,” Lando murmurs, “because you’re the first person in months who hasn’t wanted something from me. Well, until you cashed the check.”

“Fuck you.”

He says, “careful. You might make me fall in love.”

You whirl on him. “Why me? You could have anyone. Any rich little hanger-on, any girl looking for a payday. Why this?”

“Sweetheart, we’ve already had this conversation. What are you drinking after your shift?”

You shake your head. “Not happening.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is bad news. You are bad news.”

“And yet here we are.”

Lando Norris loves giving things, like they might buy your interest. First the card, then the check, then the card again—fuck, you shouldn’t have used it—and now a piece of folded paper. What now, marriage papers?

No. On it is a string of numbers. His number.

He tugs on his coat. The smile he flashes you a smile so uncaring it makes your knees weak.

“Call me. Or don’t. Either way, I’ll see you soon.”

You don’t touch the note for the rest of the night. When you lock up hours later, it’s gone. You know exactly where it is: folded in the bottom of your bag.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

you you’re fucking insane

Delivered. Read.

Lando and you kept the number

You bite down on a curse, drop your head back against the fridge. Why the fuck did you text him? You’re crazy and deserving of whatever comes next, that’s what you are.

you what do you want

Lando a lot of things

Lando you’re at the top of the list

You huff under your breath, disgust growing under your ribs. You should end this here. You should block him, delete the number, set your phone on fire for good measure. But it won’t do anything, you decide. If he truly means to mess with you, it will do absolutely no good. He’ll show up at your job. He’ll do something about the very generous amount of money he gave you, even if he said “no strings attached.” You owe him, that’s the ugly truth.

you go bother someone else

Lando a few things, sweetheart

Lando you texted me first you’re so much fun when you’re madand besides. no one else keeps me entertained like you.

you i’m not your fidget toy

Lando not yet

You actually breathe when you hear he’s gone. Thank god for that millionare job he’s got, driving in circles. It’ll keep him out of your hair for a good amount of time, according to the information you’ve got online. Racing is a very demanding schedule, and now winter’s drawing to an end, he can’t afford to waste his time on you.

You work the bar in peace. You go home in peace. You wake up, no trace of him in the corner booth or at your barstool or leaning against your car with that maddening smirk. You’ve only seen Lando Norris a few times, yet every time you do, your heartbeat goes up like you’re about to die.

Of course, good things never last. His texts start coming a few days after he’s left your life.

Lando do you miss me yet

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts.

you i didn’t even notice you were gone

Lando liar

You toss the phone facedown on the couch. The next morning, there’s a knock on your door. When you open it, there’s a courier with a fucking bouquet. It’s the second one, somehow larger, more obnoxious. There’s no card this time.

You snap a photo and send it to him.

you seriously?

Lando what kind of asshole would i be if i left you alone completely

The next night, it’s a box, no flowers this time, just expensive chocolate you would never buy yourself. You don’t even like sweets. You text him anyway.

you stop

Lando make me

You grind your teeth. You tell yourself not to engage, but you can’t resist sending a:

you you know, i really wish i could

You don’t mean it with any connotation. You just wish he’d shut up and fall off a cliff or something. Then all your debt would be miraculously cleared. 

By day four, you’re jumpy, checking your phone when you swore you wouldn’t. Waiting for a message that makes you want to scream.

Like clockwork:

Lando you thinking about me? be honest

You flop down on your bed and exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for a week. You’re not supposed to want this. You hate him, you really do, and you know that’s true to a certain degree. When he comes by, your fists clench and you try to look anywhere by him. His name brings irritation, gets under your skin, and then it turns into something else. You heard someone say once that hate and love aren’t very different things. Bullshit. Hate and want, more so. That feeling, that despisement, is intoxicating.

Lando i’ll be back soon, sweetheart

You scream into your hands.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Mara nudges you. You don’t need to look up. He’s back.

This time, you have a response prepared. You smile coquettishly, the way you do when you need good tips. You aren’t privy to swaying your hips a little, maybe angling yourself so the curves of your waist are more enunciated. “Did you cry on the plane or after you landed?”

Oh, he’s glaring. You love that. It makes it easy to maintain your perfect picture of innocence, so eager to be happy. “Oh, sorry. Did you not want anyone mentioning Monaco?”

“Funny.”

You reach for another glass. “Did Oscar at least send you a thank-you basket for letting him win?”

Lando’s jaw flexes, a tiny tic. “You keeping up with the races now, sweetheart? Or just the standings?”

You grin. “Just the losses. Yours, specifically.”

Every inch of him is coiled tight. His shirt is rumpled and the sleeves shoved up. You notice how his throat his exposed, like he dressed in a rush, like he couldn’t stand being away from this city another second. Away from you. You’re flattering yourself. Maybe Monaco really did suck and he was so, so, sad he had to live in a million-dollar penthouse that he came back to this city. 

“You know,” he says, “I could’ve stayed in Monaco. Big party tomorrow. But no. I flew home.” His eyes flick over your face, unapologetic. “Guess why.”

Dry as sandpaper, you say, “miss your favorite bartender?”

“You make a mean whiskey sour.”

“I also make a mean ‘get out of my bar, you gosh-darned cunt.’”

He chuckles under his breath, but the sound isn’t fully natural. Lando’s holding something back “You’re good, you know that? Gosh-darned cunt, really?”

“At what?”

You see his knee bounce. “At getting under my skin. You rile me up like you’re trying to start something.”

“Maybe I am,” you say.

“Careful.”

“Is this the part where you try to scare me?”

“No.” His composure is back. He knows something—at the very least, he thinks he knows something. “This is the part where I wonder how long you’re going to pretend you don’t want me.”

Heat licks up your spine. You hate him. You hate how good he is at this. What would it be like, you wonder for a moment, to be rich and good looking and cocky as a man with a two-inch dick.

“You’re right, Lando. I want you so bad I’m shaking,” you say, voice husky. You let your eyelids lower, as if you’re staring at him in a post-orgasmic haze.

His expression changes.

Then you smile a toothy grin. “For a restraining order.” The snort that bursts out of him might be a little impressed.

“You’re insufferable,” Lando mutters, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“And you’re still here,” you shoot back.

He slouches back on the barstool.

“Fuck, you drive me insane.”

You turn so he can’t see you biting your lip to keep from smiling.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The texts are still a thing, something to keep your wits sharp while Lando’s out of town. Getting to bicker and not having to see his face? The gods made this arrangement just for you. To be fair, you haven’t asked for anything aside from what he gives you of his own free will. He never says the words “sugar baby” anymore, but there’s an unspoken agreement that he pays. You can afford some of it, sure, but investments are better. You still have the rest of your life to spend money.

Your phone lights up on the counter. For one second, you consider ignoring it, you really do.

Then you swipe, anyway.

“Hello,” you say, with that voice you only use with him, like you’re about to fall asleep from how dull he is.

“Thought you’d never pick up.”

It’s great he can’t see your face. Your stomach dips, traitorous, and you are absolutely not bored by him.

“What do you want?” you mutter, pressing the phone between your shoulder and ear as you scrub harder at the countertop.

“Relax,” Lando says. “I’m not asking for your soul.”

“I think I already signed it away,” you quip.

There’s a pause. You can hear the faint sound of city traffic behind him, the rustle of fabric as he moves. You can picture it too clearly: his fingers at his collar, half-distracted, grinning to himself because to him, this is all a game.

“I need a favor,” he allows.

Your laugh is mean.  “Oh, do you.”

“Don’t get excited, sweetheart. It’s not that kind of favor.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

You often send him chuckling, as he does now. “You’re really something.”

“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m going anywhere near your little circus. Whatever it is, I’m sure you have a dozen girls on speed dial who’d jump at the chance.”

“Sure,” Lando says smoothly. “But they’re not you.” Too cheesy. You won’t give it to him. Still, that lands somewhere you don’t want to admit. You pace behind the bar.

“Look, I’m not some accessory. I thought we already agreed on this. Fuck it. Dinner, okay. If you want to text me, I guess you can have that, asshole. If you have to show up at work, okay, but anything aside from that…”

“Calm down.” His voice dips, completely unriled which only makes you angrier. “It’s just an event. Monaco. Black tie. Tomorrow night.”

You stop pacing. “Tomorrow? Monaco, like, France? Which son of a bitch crashed into your car and gave you a concussion?”

“Mm,” he says. You can hear him smile. “It’s a shame you’re going to say no. Especially since I already had the dress sent over.”

“You what?”

“Check the door.”

You lunge for it, yank it open, and there’s a hotel courier on the stoop of your bar. The garment bag in their hand, something out of a fever dream. You whip back around, phone still pressed to your ear. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe. But you’re still on the line, sweetheart. I had my assistant email the plane tickets.”

“My god. This doesn’t mean anything,” you manage.

“Of course not. See you tomorrow.”

You wave away the courier weakly (they say no need for tip, it’s been covered) and toss the garment bag onto the barstool like it’s radioactive. Mara looks up from her ramen, mouth full, eyebrows shooting into her hairline. “Is that a dress? Please tell me that’s not a dress. Shit, that bag looks expensive.”

“It’s a dress. Kill me.”

Mara sets her wrinkled noodle cup down. “Okay, back up. Shit. You’re going to have to explain. You had a couture gown delivered to your workplace?”

“I didn’t say yes. I didn’t say no. I, fuck, I don’t even know what I said. He just called. I guess he knew I was still at work and sent it here instead.”

“Oh, he called.” Mara clearly wasn’t listening. It was valid, because you would’ve been very invested in your noodles too. “And you picked up. Shocking.”

“I was caught off guard, okay?”

Mara leans back, arms crossed. She’s settling in for a show. “Mm-hm. Off guard, even though you have his contact. And what exactly did our emotionally unstable sugar daddy.”

“He’s not my—whatever, he wants me to go with him. To this stupid black-tie thing. In Monaco—Mara, I’ve never been outside the country, and he wants me to meet more pissy millionaire with egos just like his? Goddamnit, I’m a blasted idiot. I should’ve hung up.”

“And now you’re here,” Mara finishes, “having a full-on meltdown over a man you keep calling a pissy millionaire, but whose name you’ve Googled so much your phone probably thinks you’re a fan account.”

You shoot her a betrayed look.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, not sorry at all. “Just, are you sure you’re not into him? I don’t know, if you really hated it, you’d be gone.”

You throw a dirty, soaking towel at her. She catches it easily and puts it down. “Fine, fine. But listen, babe. You don’t have to go. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, even if you think he’s hot.”

“I hate you,” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mara says, reaching over to ruffle your hair. “But you are going to text me photos once you get dressed. If you’re going to dance with the devil, baby, you might as well look smoking doing it.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

At some point, after pacing the suite, after staring too long at the ocean view, after wondering what the hell you were even doing in Monaco, the dress ended up on your skin. Now you’re cursing again, fingers fumbling at the clasp behind your neck. It’s a bit worrying how well the dress fits you. You’d be more worried if you had a spare thought. Currently, you’re occupied with trying to get this fucking clasp doe.

There’s a knock at the door. You wonder who it could be, because the hotel people usually announce themselves. One culprit.

“Lando, if you come in here—”

The door swings open. How the fuck does he have a key?

“Relax,” he drawls, stepping inside like it’s his suite, his eyes sweeping over you in one slow, sinfully amused pass. Well, he did order the room. Maybe he had a spare he didn’t bother letting you know about. “I knocked.”

You scowl. “Get out.”

But your hands are still twisted up at the clasp and he sees it. 

“Need help, sweetheart?”

You spin halfway, trying to yank the zipper yourself, but it only slips lower, baring more skin, making you hiss under your breath. “No. Go away.”

He’s already crossing the room. There it is, that cologne, honey and saffron, so inebriating you almost close your eyes to savor the smell. It makes your pulse spike. You know that body heat amplifies the notes. Lando Norris is warm and right next to you.

“Stay still,” he says. His fingers brush yours, gentle yet firm, easing you out of the way. His knuckles graze your nape and your breath hitches before you can bite it back.

“I hate you,” you mutter, as his fingers work the clasp. You wonder if he’s done this many times before. The answer is probably yes.

“Mm,” Lando hums, mouth too close to your ear. “You keep saying that.”

He lingers, too long, his thumb ghosting over your bare skin. Your chest tightens; your hands flex at your sides.

“You think this is charming? Bursting into my room when I’m trying to change?” you snap, half-turning toward him. “Is this how you—”

He cuts you off, his eyes flicking down. “You’re beautiful when you’re pissed off.”

“Fuck you,” you breathe.

“Not yet.” Lando smirks. His voice is gasoline, about to set your insides—everything, really—on fire. You shove at his chest. He doesn’t move, but the contact jolts both of you. One hand is still on your back, holding you like he’s about to dance.

“You’re such an asshole,” you whisper.

“Guilty.” He lets go then. “I’ll wait downstairs. Ten minutes. Though I think you look ready.”

“And if I don’t come?”

Lando’s already at the door. “Oh, you’ll come.” His voice is absolutely certain.

You tell yourself you’re only going down because you need to tell him to his face you’re not doing this. That’s it. That’s the only reason. When you step into the elevator, your palms sweaty, you already know you’re lying to yourself.

The car is waiting outside (probably his, judging from the custom initials ‘LN’) with, you note, tinted windows. Lando’s hair is raked back. 

“Took you long enough,” he says, opening the door with a theatrical little flourish.

“Fucking wanker,” you say. There’s no malice behind it.

The door closes with a soft, expensive thunk. You press yourself against the far side of the seat. You can still feel the heat of him even across the car, the subtle glance he steals when you cross your legs, the way his hand ‘accidentally’ finds your thigh instead of the gear shift. 

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” You want to wipe that smirk of this face. “Like I can’t decide if I want to ruin you or worship you?”

There’s a thought you have often when it comes to Lando Norris. What the fuck? You, who cusses every other sentence, have more decorum than this man. And he’s saying all this with a straight face. It might be sincere, if you didn’t know him any better. You dig your nails into your palm. “You’re such a fucking nightmare.”

Lando looks away from the road. He’s way too confident to be driving safely. “Maybe. But you’re still in my car, wearing my dress, going to my party. You can tell yourself whatever you need to, sweetheart, but you already chose.”

You stare out the window, jaw tight, watching the glittering coastline smear past in a blur of gold, watch it turn into a cathedral of money and ego. Crystal chandeliers, champagne fountains, women in dresses you’d need a mortgage to afford. Well, now you have a willing bankroller, maybe you don’t.

Lando doesn’t so much escort you as claim you. His hand remains at the small of your back, hot breath brushing your ear as he murmurs names you don’t recognize, introductions you don’t want. You slip away from him the moment he’s distracted by some sponsor, ducking toward the balcony again for air. As it turns out, you’re not alone.

“Big crowd, huh?”

You turn, startled, and find a brunette against the railing, glass of water in hand. His tie’s loose, hair slightly mussed like someone’s been messing with it all night. His smile is easy, genuine, the kind that makes your shoulders drop without meaning to. You let out a breath. Lando gets you all tense.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “It’s a lot.”

Alex chuckles. “First one?”

“Does it show?” 

“Only a little.” He grins. “But you’re doing fine. Better than I did my first one. I tripped over a server. Champagne everywhere.” 

Your laugh is genuine, this time. That makes the first nice person you’ve met all evening.

“I’m Alex, by the way.” He offers his hand and you shake it, thankful for the small, normal gesture in a night that’s felt anything but.

You introduce yourself and he brightens. “Oh, you’re with Lando tonight?” he asks lightly, with only curiosity. “How’d you two meet?”

You freeze for half a second—how do you even explain that? That he crashed into your life like a hurricane, arrogant and infuriating, with a check big enough to clear your debts and a smirk that’s been haunting your sleep ever since?

“Long story,” you hedge, a little helpless. “Sort of accidental.”

Alex chuckles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Sounds about right.” He nudges your shoulder gently. “He’s not all bad, you know. A menace, sure, but not all bad.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re too nice.”

“Well, someone has to balance him out. You okay, though?”

Hell no, you want to say. Your mouths are already forming the words, before you smell that goddamn cologne. It’s like the electrical smell that precedes a storm, a warning. You turn and there’s Lando. 

His eyes flick to Alex, then to you. “Making friends without me, sweetheart?”

Alex winks. “Just keeping her company, mate.”

Lando’s mouth falls into a frown, before he catches himself. “Right.” His gaze cuts to you. “Come dance,” he says, and it’s not a request.

You glance at Alex, completely helpless. He just squeezes your arm gently. “Go on. He’s useless without you.”

He leads you into the throng of people, fingers pressing into the silk at your hip. “Why’ve you been hiding?”

You twist, glaring up at him. “I wasn’t hiding. You dumped me for the wolves.”

“I was making the rounds.”

“And now what, you want a medal?” you snap. God, your heart is about to give out, as his thumb strokes a slow, deliberate line against your side. He spins you into him, just like that, the room tipping for half a second. His chest brushes yours. You feel the hard line of his arm at your back.

“Tell me,” Lando says, “how many of them have come over tonight? Kimi, Charles, George…they’re all wondering what you’re doing with me.”

“Makes sense,” you mutter, “so am I.”

“You’re not a model. You’re not anyone’s plus-one. You’re not chasing some influencer deal.” He lists them, all while keeping his eyes on you. “And you’re the only one in this room who actually wants me to fuck off all of the time.”

“Where’s this going, Norris?”

The edge of his thumb grazes your jaw. “Don’t lie to me. You think I don’t see you looking? You think I don’t know why you stayed?”

You snap, “I stayed because you booked me a goddamn plane ticket. And you keep showing up. And you don’t let people walk away.”

He leans in until there’s barely any air between you. You can’t breathe without inhaling every bit of him. “Neither do you. Couldn’t leave me without getting the last word, could you?”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“I know. You like to tell me that a lot.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Inside the suite, it’s all hush and gold.  You sigh, dig your thumbs under the straps of your heels, and nearly groan when they drop to the floor. God, why did you tolerate them? Your feet are crying with relief. 

He clears his throat.

Lando.

He has one hand braced above his head, elbow to the doorframe, watching you with a kind of feigned indifference. You can tell it’s fake because his searching eyes are anything but lazy. There’s a flush high on his cheekbones, from champagne or the night air or maybe just arrogance. His curls are mussed in that artful, infuriating way that makes you want to bury your hands in them and tug until he curses, letting out a guttural sound in spite of himself.

Fucking hell. It’s obscene, really, how beautiful he is. How sculpted his mouth is, the flash of gold at his throat, though gold isn’t the right word when you look at his tan skin. You should not be noticing any of this. You should not be noticing how his shoulders fill out that jacket or how his chest looks under the thin black shirt or how his lips parted, just slightly, when you caught his gaze.

“Why are you still here?”

He pouts. “Missed you.”

“You barely even know me.”

He pushes off the door, saunters in. “That’s the thing. Don’t know you, but I do know you’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like a trophy.”

You shake your head. “‘Course not. Trophy’s a little too nice to describe you.”

“You’ve been pulling away.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “No I haven’t.”

“Come on, you can do better than that.”

“You can’t just fly me to Monaco, drop me in a five-star hotel, and expect me to—”

“To what?” His voice drops. “Want me?”

Your throat clicks when you swallow.

“Don’t.” You sit on the edge of the bed. “You don’t get it, do you? You walk into a room and it bends around you, like you’re a fucking messiah. I’m just trying to keep my head on straight.”

And then he’s in front of you, crouching, one hand on your knee. Lando’s always had beautiful eyelashes. You’ve known since you first saw them that they would be the end of you. Now, they frame his eyes, those mesmerizing pools of light. They never stay one color. They might actually be clear, only reflecting what you want to see in them. He looks at you like you’re the moon, the stars, the sun. 

His fingers are warm. Solid. For a moment you wonder what it would be like if you stopped fighting this, if you leaned in, if you let him win.

“I don’t want you to keep your head on straight. Not with me.”

“Maybe I should’ve been nicer to you.”

The adoration lingers in his eyes, but there’s a glint. “Oh, I like you mean.”

God help you, you want to kiss him. You want to shove him back on the bed, crawl into his lap, see if his mouth tastes like champagne or heat or both. You want to know if his hands shake when they touch skin or if he’s always this sure of himself.

All you can do is whisper, “Are you staying?”

His fingers curl a little tighter around your knee.

“Unless you tell me to go.”

You’ve never seen him so compliant to your wants. It does something to you. You’ve been demanding to him, always swearing, always telling him to go fuck himself. Still, he’s patient in a way that makes you ache, beautiful in a way that makes you furious. 

You might owe him a moment. Just one, you swear to yourself. Just this once.

You pull him by the collar. He’s shocked, lips forming a perfect circle before they crash into yours with the urgency of someone who has waited far too long. Honey and saffron. Honey and saffron. You’ve associated it with him so long you’re certain someone wearing the same cologne is enough to make your knees buckle in public. His mouth is soft and prying, bringing out a soundless intake of breath from you. His mouth melds to yours.

Lando’s lips part, his tongue teasing against yours. You pull back, just enough to catch your breath, but he follows, his lips trailing down your jaw, then your neck. It’s like he can’t get enough.

You grip his shoulders, trying to steady yourself. It’s useless. Everything about him is a magnet, pulling you back in. You see him in his euphoric haze, his lowered eyelids. He makes a noise like a whine when you leave, as if he physically cannot bear being separated from you, and you think you might actually drown in want. 

“Lando,” you whisper. God, your senses. Your head feels light, dizzy with the taste of him.

“Mm, sweetheart?” His voice is rough, his thoughts are elsewhere.

Just once, you told yourself. Just once. 

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You’re still half-wrapped in the robe you swore you’d only wear for five minutes after your shower, hair damp, skin bare and a little too aware of itself. But it’s so comfy, like being wrapped in a cloud, and you really can’t bear to take it off.

The door flies open once more, only seconds after you hear the buzz of an accepted keycard. Lando Norris is hardly a gentleman. He doesn’t even knock! 

What he is, however, is a vision of casual, expensive sin—white tee hugging his shoulders, curls damp like he’s only just come from his own shower—okay, those are places your thoughts absolutely should not be going. He smiles. He knows exactly how pretty he looks standing in your suite.

“What are you doing here?”

“Good morning to you too.”

You glance at the clock. “It’s noon.”

Lando gives a loose, one-shouldered shrug. “You looked like you might sleep all day. Figured I’d save you from the crushing boredom.”

You narrow your eyes. “Wait. Why did you even book the hotel for longer? The event is over.”

For a second, you swear he’s surprised you noticed. “I wanted to show you around. Monaco’s wasted on you if all you’re seeing is room service menus and the inside of a suite.”

You fold your arms tighter, suspicion prickling up your spine. “Are you serious? You could have just texted.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I wanted to see your face when I said it.”

Your pulse jumps. Stupid, traitorous heart. You still need to talk to him about that whole kiss last night. Is now a good time?

He pushes off the doorframe. “You coming or not?”

Once more, the everlasting train of no, I really shouldn’t, what the fuck? You should remind him you’re not some prize to be paraded around, not some girl in his endless rotation of models and influencers. You’ve done that many times now. But it doesn’t matter. The real problem is, he knows you’re not, and it’s why you’re still standing here.

“Fine,” you mutter, grabbing your bag. There’s probably some sunscreen (expired, years old, from the last time you saw the light of the sun) and a water bottle in there. “But if you start acting like you own the place, I’m leaving you on the yacht or whatever ridiculous thing you have planned.”

“I’ll do my best. Deal.”

As you brush past him to the closet, you feel his fingers ghost lightly over your back. It’s nothing overt, just enough to set your skin humming, a sensation that’s only amplified when he pulls away.

“By the way, you look good in that robe.”

You nearly trip on the marble floor. Fuck. And he’s gone, before you can have him answer any of your other questions.

The café he drives you to is perched on the edge of the cliffs, all whitewashed stone and trailing flowers. Below, the sea stretches blue and endless. It’s so stupidly picturesque you almost laugh when you get out of the car.

He notices. “Yeah, yeah,” Lando says with a crooked grin. “I’m disgustingly good at this.”

“You? No, you probably have an assistant on speed dial for this kind of thing.”

He presses a hand dramatically over his heart. “Sweetheart, you wound me. You think I need help to be this charming?”

Inside, you settle at a little table by the window. He orders for you without asking (of course he does) and the worst part is, he gets it right. When the waiter leaves, his eyes flicker to yours.

“So. About that kiss.”

You busy yourself unwrapping the sugar packet. Hey, you were going to ask about it. He keeps beating you to the punch. Fucker. God, you want to punch him. “It wasn’t a thing.”

“Oh, wasn’t it? Didn’t feel like nothing to me. Actually, didn’t sound like nothing to me either.”

You flush, scowl at your coffee. There’s a foam design on it, swirling hearts, little stars, and you have an itching suspicion that’s not the way they make all the coffees. “I was, well, I don’t fucking know, man. I was tired, it was late, you were being—”

“Devastatingly handsome? I recall being on my knees for you, too, if that helps.”

“A pain in the ass.”

Lando’s grin widens. He sets his foot against yours under the table, light and shameless. “You know, you can just admit you like me. We’re past pretending, sweetheart. You’ve already travelled the globe just to be with me.”

You kick at his ankle half-heartedly, to which he recoils, then returns. “In your dreams.”

“Oh, you have no idea what’s in my dreams.” His voice drops. You have to look away because, honestly, you don’t trust yourself enough to keep making rational decisions.

“You’re such a fucking menace.”

Lando’s foot nudges yours again under the table, a teasing little tap that makes you jolt. “Relax, sweetheart. You’re safe with me.”

“You’re lucky this is good coffee, or I’d have thrown it in your face by now.”

He grins, all teeth and trouble. “You like me like this.”

“Fuck off.” You kick his ankle harder, but it’s not much of a deterrent. His leg just shifts, stretching out under the table, and now the toe of his shoe is tracing up your calf. “Christ, Lando.” You squirm in your seat, swatting at his knee under the table. That’ll stop him. No, it doesn’t. It only enhances that shit-eating grin.

“What?” he says innocently. “Just stretching my legs.”

“Stretch them in your own damn space,” you hiss. There’s no bite in it, not really, not when your skin feels hot where his foot brushes yours, not when he’s watching you like that.

“Tell me you didn’t think about it last night.”

You scowl. “Bullshit.”

“Mm.” His foot hooks lightly around your ankle. “Didn’t deny it, though.”

You groan and drop your head into your hands. “For fuck’s sake, you are relentless.”

“You’re cute when you swear at me.”

You flip him off without lifting your head.

“Adorable,” he says, chuckling.

After you have another cup of coffee (it really is that good, you wish you could bring it back to Bristol), he finally gets you to leave. “So, tell me. You’re wearing all this, and we’re on a beach in Monaco. Aren’t you hot in that?”

“What do you mean?” you ask, trying to sound unaffected, though you can already feel the heat creeping up your neck.

“I mean, that dress. You’re practically suffocating in it. You should’ve gone for something lighter. You know, something a little more practical for the heat.”

His gaze traces over every inch of you. “It’s a fucking dress, not a snowsuit, Norris,” you say, feeling that faint heat rise between your legs from his words alone. 

Lando steps closer to you, matching your pace, his shoulder brushing against yours. You want to push him away, to keep some distance. “I don’t know, sweetheart. You’ve got all these layers on. Don’t you want to take them off?”

The way he says it, so casually, so confident…you freeze.

Lando sees you hesitate. “What, you can’t handle the heat? I could help you cool down, you know.”

“No, we are not shagging in a public space.”

“Uh-huh,” he hums, and his hand brushes yours. “Who said anything about shagging? You’re not fooling me. I can see it in the way you’re walking.”

“Don’t,” you warn him.

“What? Don’t what? Don’t call you out for being so hot and bothered? You’re practically begging me to notice.”

You can’t stop the sigh that escapes your lips, not when his words are like a drug running straight through you. You step away from him slightly. Like all the other attempts you’ve made to clear yourself of his presence, it’s futile. He’s there, his voice in your mind, the ghost of his touch on your skin. He’s still right there. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You trail behind Lando as he unlocks the door to his apartment. You already bumped into two other drivers, one you don’t know, the other who looked like he belonged in a museum. Some French name, you forget. His girlfriend was also exceedingly pretty.

You don’t know what you were expecting, maybe sleek bachelor minimalism or cold, show-off money. But it’s surprisingly cozy. There are a few race helmets. The scent hits you next, nice laundry detergent layered with leather, engine oil, and beneath it all, unmistakably him. Sweet like honey.

Lando drops his keys into a bowl, sauntering off toward the kitchen. “Want something to drink?” he calls over his shoulder.

Your eyes wander. There’s the massive racing simulator near the window. It’s absurdly expensive, obviously. Framed photos of him on podiums, some with friends you half recognize (Max, you think his name is, Lando’s best mate.) Some are just his grinning face in a champagne shower. Photos, photos, trophies…a small handbag, perched on the back of the couch.

Next to it, delicate sunglasses, definitely not his. They’re too small to cover his face. And a hair clip, one of those pearly ones, girly and pink, resting on the coffee table like it belongs here.

You frown, fingers brushing the edge of the bag without thinking. “Uh…Lando?”

“Yeah?” 

You pick up the clip, turning it over in your fingers. “Whose stuff is this?”

For the first time, there’s a pause. He stills in his movements. Then, “Oh, uh, Magui’s.”

You blink. You repeat, “Magwee?” 

He pokes his head out of the kitchen, a bottle of water in one hand. “She’s a friend.” Lando’s tone is light, breezy. “Mostly PR.”

“Mostly?” you repeat.

“Why? You jealous, sweetheart?”

You scoff, dropping the clip back onto the table. “No.”

“Mm. Could’ve fooled me.” 

The handbag. The sunglasses. That hair clip. Now it’s flipped onto the other side, you see gems spelling out ‘Magui.’ Magui. Who the hell is Magui? More accurately, what the hell is Magui? Who even names their kid Magui? Is it short for something? Marguerite? Magnolia? Some cool European thing?

You watch Lando move casually back into the kitchen, one hand braced on the counter as he opens the water. You cross your arms, aiming for indifference. “Whatever. It’s not like we’re a thing anyway.”

His brow twitches. You almost miss it, because then he’s sauntering toward you. “Not a thing, huh?” he murmurs.

“Exactly.”

“Hmm. Funny.”

“What’s funny?” You glare at him.

“That you care so much for someone who’s not a thing.”

You answer, too quickly to seem casual, “I don’t care.”

“Sure, sweetheart. That’s why you’re glaring at a hair clip like it killed your cat.”

You open your mouth, splutter, “I don’t even have a cat—”

Lando plucks the clip from the table and twirls it between his fingers. “She’s just a friend,” he says, “we have fun at events. She knows the game.”

The game. Right. You know exactly what game. And yet, the thought of him with someone else—all golden skin and quiet smiles and easy laughs, God, you can imagine her already—punches straight through your stomach.

“Good for you.”

“You know, she always said I should bring someone to the next Grand Prix.”

“So?”

“So…” He flashes a slow grin. “Guess I already have someone, don’t I?”

“Lando, I have a job. A real one. With hours and a boss and everything.”

“Sweetheart, you don’t need a job. You have me.”

Your heart trips, stumbles, tries to right itself. “No, not really.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you.” He stretches, shirt riding up to reveal a cut slice of abs, just to be a menace. “When’s the last time you took a real break? You deserve one.”

“When is it even?”

“Miami. I’ll take care of everything.”

“Hell no. I already followed you to Monaco. I got to go back, I have assignments due. Absolutely not.”

“Please,” he drawls, sinking onto the couch and one knee brushing yours. “You’d look so good on my arm. You can do your work when we get back to the hotel, baby. It’s not all day.”

You try not to feel your insides go liquid. “I hate eagles.”

“What?”

“Miami. Eagles. I don’t know.”

His eyes crinkle as he laughs. “You would’ve loved Logan.”

You pull a cushion onto your lap, hugging it to your chest. “Is there another one? Somewhere…less Miami?”

“There’s always another one. But you might have to stay longer.”

“Whatever. Okay. This one.”

His whole face lights up. “Yay,” he says, and it’s so cute your heartbeat picks up. He brushes his fingers over your wrist like he can’t help himself. You hope he doesn’t realize.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

“Baby.”

You ignore him.

“Baby.”

You click aggressively on your document. It’s crazy that planes have WiFi. Thank god Lando’s rich, you can’t imagine how much it must cost to get this good of a connection.

“Sweetheart.”

You sigh, yanking one headphone out. “What, Lando?”

He’s sprawled across the leather seat across from you. He has one socked foot propped on the table and his hoodie looks very comfy. You’ve been working for two hours. Come nap with me.”

“Some of us have to pass our classes.”

“Some of us are world champions.”

You roll your eyes. “Go flex that on someone else.”

He does, apparently. Miami hits you like a slap in the face, like it’s annoyed you’re taking up so much of its mistress’s time, the mistress being Lando. You can tell he loves this place. You do not. You’re not going to miss the heat, the flashing cameras, the chaos outside the airport. Lando’s security team pushes through the crowd as reporters yell his name. 

“Who’s this? Lando, is this your girlfriend?”

“Miss, what’s your name? Are you coming to the paddock, too?”

You’re stunned into silence. Lando’s arm finds itself around your waist, pulling you into his side. “Alright, that’s enough, guys,” he says coolly. He wears a practiced smile as he steers you through the crowd. He’s probably done this thousands of times. You barely remember how you get to the car. 

“Breathe,” Lando coos, brushing his thumb over your knuckles.

You shoot him a flat look. “You owe me so much coffee for this.”

So, you’ve never watched Formula One—aside from that one time Mara sent you a video of someone passing Lando—but this looks a lot more stressful than that clip. Speaking of Mara, you pick up your phone and dash a quick message:

you bloody hell i hate this place

She doesn’t see it. She’s still sleeping, which is much nicer than your current situation. Cameras flash in your face. Women with glossy hair and model-long legs float past in designer dresses and tiny heels that shouldn’t work on gravel but somehow do. You grip the pass hanging from your lanyard so tight your fingers ache.

Lando’s hand is still on your lower back, an anchor you can’t leave. To be honest, you don’t want to. He’s the least irritating thing at the moment.

“Smile, sweetheart. You’re with the coolest guy here.”

“That is so debatable. We walked past Florence Pugh five minutes ago.”

“I said guy.” He grins, one-handedly signing a cap handed to him, posing for a photo, laughing with a sponsor. Lando looks perfectly at ease here. The attention craves him.

You just want to disappear.

“Hey!” a voice cuts through the noise. You turn and nearly crash into Alex Albon, beaming, casual in his shirt. “Hey, hey. Haven’t seen you in a bit.” There’s a gorgeous woman next to him, who he gestures at and says, “This is Lily.”

“Hi Lily, hi Alex.”

You hear someone say “Babe!” and it’s sure as hell not Lily, because her mouth hasn’t even opened yet. Your head snaps up. A girl with sun-streaked hair and model cheekbones walks up and kisses Lando’s cheek.

“I’m Magui,” she purrs, eyes flicking over you dismissively. She’s already decided you aren’t a threat.

“Oh. Hi,” you say, because what else is there? You hear yourself, how flat and awkward you sound, and you want to punch a wall.

Lando glances at you, a little smirk tugging at his mouth. “You know Magui. Magui, careful, this one tends to cuss.”

This one. Not your name. Not even a soft tease. Just…this one. Magui laughs like she’s heard this joke before and tucks herself closer to him. You’re going to lose your mind.

When the clock ticks closer to the start of the race, you’re left largely to your own devices. There’s no Lando to latch onto now.You try not to look for Magui—you try—but your eyes keep flicking toward where she disappeared into the swarm of PR people. The lights go out.

It’s chaos into Turn 1. Lando’s there, starting in fourth (or something, maybe you heard wrong) carving his way through like a man possessed. P3 by lap 10, P2 by lap 25, and you can hear his engineer crackling through the headset:

“Let’s bring this home.”

Lap 40. P1.

P1.

You know, it would be a lot more interesting if you understood this a little more. P1 is at the front, you know. Everyone’s glued to the screens, to the track. You’re just worried he’s going to crash. Fuck, these cars are loud. And fast, but you already knew that. By the last ten laps, the whole McLaren garage is on its feet, the mechanics shouting, banging on the pit wall. 

When the checkered flag waves, it’s like the world explodes. The crowd is screaming. The McLaren crew goes ballistic and you’re just frozen, stunned, chest so tight it hurts.

P1. Miami winner. 

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The champagne is still stuck to him after the podium spray. His cheeks hurt from smiling, his throat’s raw from shouting over the team radio (“fuck yeah, well done, team!” Or, more accurately ‘f***yeah, well done team!) because the FIA censors everything. You know, he almost slipped in a few more expletives, thanks to your bad influence), and there’s only one thing that could make his day better. Lando’s eyes dart through the crowd. Everyone wants a piece of him. Everyone but you.

Where the hell are you?

A hand wraps around his arm. “Lando! Oh my god, you were insane out there!” Her arms are around his neck, perfume sugary-sweet. She presses a kiss to his cheek, laughing for the cameras, pulling him in like she belongs in this moment. He stiffens.

“Magui,” he says quietly, trying to peel her off. He’s still looking for you and she’s blocking half of his line of sight. “Not now.”

She just giggles and loops her arm tighter. She’s basking in the spotlight, it’s too late to get her to snap out of it. Lando’s patience snaps like a wire.

“Magui,” he barks. It’s sharp enough that she flinches. “Did you say something to her?”

Her eyes go wide, faux-innocent. “What? Who?”

“You know who. Where the fuck is she? Did you say something to her? Did you screw this up?”

Magui’s lips part in a little gasp, that wounded look she pulls out when it’s convenient. Hell, the cameras are going to love this. “Lando, I didn’t—”

He swears under his breath, before yanking her limbs off him. He twists on his heel to scan the crowd again. The garage. Check. The gates. Check. The pit lane. Check. All the people chanting his name, all the cameras flashing. Normally, he loves it. Right now, none of it matters. None of it means a damn thing if you’re not here.

I just won Miami. Why the fuck aren’t you here?

He kicks at the ground.

“Maybe she left,” Magui suggests from behind him. Her voice irritates him, a little stab between his ribs.

His fingers twitch. Is he panicking, right now? His breath shallows, oppressed by the noise. His mind is a whirl. Did you see something? Did Magui corner you? Did you think you weren’t wanted here? That you didn’t matter? He can’t breathe, it’s like your presence is the only thing keeping the rock off his chest, and now you’re gone its plunging, weighing him down and—

You. His whole body kicks into motion before his brain can catch up.

There you are.

He hears someone yell his name, probably for an interview, maybe for a photo, and he ignores it, almost knocking over a cameraman.

He only wants you.

You looked pretty overwhelmed, shoved forward by the crowd but still somehow trying to disappear. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, and then you’re in his arms. Lando buries his face in your hair, the scent of you cutting through all the smoke. His fingers tremble a little where they clutch at you. He was going insane looking for you. “I couldn’t fucking find you. Jesus, you.”

He pulls back just enough to see your face. His large hands cradle your jaw. 

“I just won Miami,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “And the only thing I could think was where the hell is she—” Lando surges forward, hungry, desperate. All these people and he just wants you to anchor him. 

You flinch back, hands on his chest.

“Lando,” you whisper, lips just brushing his. “no. Not here. I don’t want…”

He readjusts, placing a small kiss on your forehead. “Okay. Okay. Not here.”

“Mate!” You’re not seriously leaving, are you?” He hears Max holler. You back off instinctively.

“I don’t know,” he says, glancing back at his best friend, then at you. “My girl—”

Max whistles low, “Didn’t know we were calling her that yet.”

Lando flips him off half-heartedly, before pulling him into a quick hug. “Shut up.”

He side steps toward you, but you beat him to it, pushing off the wall, sliding in beside him, and you’re trying so hard to be relaxed but he can read it all over your face: the tight shoulders, the too-wide eyes, the quiet little “ugh” under your breath when another cluster of reporters swarms over. “Hey, hey.” Lando ducks his head to you. “You good?”

You sigh. “Fucking hell, man. Sure. Let’s go. I’m a bartender, I’ll make drinks for your cocky ass or something.” You wave a hand. Your eyes flick to the cameras and your mouth pulls tight again.

“That’s why I keep you around, sweetheart.” Before Lando can say more, the media hits.

“Lando! One quick word!”

“Lando, what changed after quali?”

“Who’s the mystery girl, Lando?”

“Will you be celebrating together tonight?”

“Is this your girlfriend? Are you confirming?”

You freeze. You’re plastered to his side. Lando leans into the mic with a smirk, his arm around you. “You’ll have to wait for the documentary, mate.” He’s still grinning when he steers you out of the crush. Obviously, a win brings a hell lot of adrenaline; but this, this right here, with your fingers knotting nervously into the hem of his sleeve?

This is what’s making him dizzy.

Lando’s enamored with how you lean on him, how your trust in him is something sacred. It’s something earned, something he has carved slowly with every word and every action. From pity to hatred to tolerance to…well, you kissed him, didn’t you? There’s a sweetness in the way you depend on him now, even if you can’t do it without cursing him and his mother, too. 

He doesn’t want you to slip away, to ever feel like you could. It’s simple, really. Lando just wants to keep you close and needing him. Because you don’t, not all the time, not like all the others. He’s earned this. 

To hell if he’s going to let it go.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

There’s plenty for him to focus on at the club, with bodies packed tight. There’s bass rattling his chest and too many drinks being passed around. Lando’s friends are out there, hollering, getting wasted, but he can’t look at anything but you.

You in that dress, that little black thing that glimmers every time you move. It rides scandalously high on your thighs, straps slipping just barely off your shoulders like they’re exhausted from the fight to stay up. Your skin practically glows under the club lights. You’re flushed from dancing, laughing, drinking. God, the way you laugh with your head tipped back. Lando swears it’s rewiring his brain. He’s never seen you so carefree before. Usually, you’re all sweet behind the bar, testy when its necessary, but that’s all to make the customers happy. You’re happy right now and its out of duty to no one.

“Jesus Christ,” Lando mutters, eyes glued to you. He doesn’t even hear Max at first.

“Mate.” Max elbows him. “You coming or just gonna stand here having a religious experience?”

“Fuck off,” he says jokingly. His eyes never leave you.

He’s not even drunk, not really. He’s had one, maybe two drinks, something shoved into his hand after the podium. And there was another raised in a messy toast when Max pulled him into a corner, but Lando feels wrecked.

Every inch of his skin is hot. He can’t stop touching you, can’t stop following you with his eyes. It’s like his body has locked onto yours, marking his territory. As usual, a palm on the small of your back. His fingers like to graze your wrist when you reach for a drink, almost like a nice bracelet. The way you fit under his arm, the way you lean into his space without even thinking about it, it’s all setting him on fire.

His mind is a mess:

You smell like vanilla and summer.

You feel like absolute sin pressed up against him.

He wants to ruin you. Desperately wants to pull you into a dark corner and shove you against the wall, mouth hot and desperate on your throat, hips pressed so tight you’ll feel him in your bones. He wants to peel you out of that dress, watch it pool at your feet while you look at him. Wants to sink his teeth into the curve of your shoulder, leave marks no one else can touch, can claim. He wants to leave them there for the whole world to see.

But more than that, more terrifying, is this ache in his chest. It’s not just lust, unfortunately. Lust is easy to deal with. If he just wanted to get in your pants, it would’ve ended that second time you met, when he was sober and at the bar. He wouldn’t have bothered to keep hounding you.

It’s the way you look at him like he’s just Lando, not the man on every billboard. It’s the way you call him out on his bullshit, the way you refuse to laugh at his terrible jokes, the way you chew on your straw when you’re tipsy and overthinking. It’s the way you make him feel seventeen again, half-drunk on adrenaline and dizzy with wanting. The way he turns clumsy and nervous and utterly gone for someone who could shatter him with a word.

And when you come back from the bathroom, eyes lost until they land on him, when you light up like the fucking sun just because he’s looking at you…Lando feels his knees damn near buckle.

“There you are,” you tease, somewhat out of breath from dancing, “thought you were supposed to be the life of the party. Disappointing.”

“Yeah? You gonna dance with me, sweetheart, or just torture me from across the room all night?”

Your mouth comes dangerously close to his ear. “You look thirsty.” You press your drink into his hand. “Try not to choke.”

“You’re fucking killing me.”

“You love it.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I really do.”

“You know what I keep thinking about?” His fingers trail up your spine, making you shiver. “How fast I could get you out of this dress. How good you’d sound falling apart for me. How bad I want you right now.”

He feels your body react to the words. “Lando,” you warn, “behave.”

“Not a chance, baby.”

Max whistles as he passes, wiggling his eyebrows. “You two gonna come to the afters, or are you skipping straight to dessert?”

“I’m a bartender, Max, I am the afters,” you laugh, shaking your head. Then, lower, so Max doesn’t hear, “c’mon. I owe you a dance.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

(SMUT STARTS HERE)

You step into the elevator, your heels clicking against the polished floor. Lando follows, eyes hungry, already deprived of what he’s been begging for the entire car ride. You know you’re going to regret holding him off. Well, it’s going to be enjoyable on your part.

“Did you plan this, or are you just cruel by nature?”

You turned your head away, as not to distract him from the road. Who’s flustered now?”

His fingers slid a little bit higher. “You want me dead? Well, you’ll get your wish if you keep acting like this.”

The car jolted forward. Lando’s hand tightened instinctively on your thigh. God, his hands were too close to your core. You meant to shift away. If he knew how wet you are, it’d be the end of your ego and dignity. 

“Lando.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he rasped, “I know, I know.” But his hand was still there, his thumb tracing idle, maddening circles against your skin.

The elevator dings, and the doors open to reveal the plush hallway. It doesn’t matter that you’re not inside the suite yet. Lando’s decided it’s close enough to get started, plump lips on yours. He tastes like the last drink you mixed for him and you feel a flush of pride at that. He’s what you make him, isn’t he?

Your arrogance doesn’t last very long, because he smirks against your mouth when he draws out a lewd moan. Fucking hell. Lando’s hands roam your body, shoving you against the walls as the two of you stumble to the door. Hopefully, you’re not causing too much of a commotion for the neighbors. 

“Lando—” you choke out. He has a special reaction to his name, a brief moment of lucidity, and the door is finally open. He spins you around, pushing you against the door in order to close it.

His fingers find the hem of your dress, hiking it up to reveal your bare thighs. 

“Lando!” you hiss again, “what are you doing?”

There are no more questions out of you, though, because you’re rendered to brief whimpers as his fingers brush against your entrance. He’s shoved your panties aside in the haste to get to you. Almost as an afterthought, he loops two fingers around each side and pulls them down your legs. You step out of them and allow him to resume.

He’s back at your folds, fingers sliding up and down the wetness, almost in preparation. Having collected enough lubricant, he dips inside, curling up to hit that sweet spot. It’s astounding, really, how easily he did so. As if he knows you already, inside and out. You sigh, your head falling back against the door, gaze falling away from him. In, out, in, out. You hear nothing but your own ragged breaths and the sound of his fingers pumping against your slick.

He doesn’t like that. Lando's other hand wraps around your throat, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. He angles his hand so he grasps you under the jaw. You can only keep your head up now. “Eyes up here, sweetheart,” he growls, his fingers picking up pace. 

Your hips buck against his hand, body begging for more. 

"Such…a fucking asshole," you pant.

Lando chuckles, his thumb finding your clit and drawing his name, over and over, like that’s enough to bring you to exaltation. 

Then he stops, the cruel thing he is. Lando pulls out his hand, leaving you empty, legs bare to the air around you. His fingers are dripping, and he makes sure you watch him as he takes a taste. “Mm. Sweet. Well, come on, sweetheart. Can’t have our first time be against a bloody door.”

God, you’re trembling. You have to hold your thighs together, desperate for friction, desperate for something to be where he once was. He’s ridiculously calm about all of this. You’re the one panting for more, he’s the one in control.

Lando watches as you stand before him, your body flushed with arousal. You know he can see your nipples, hardening under the dress’s sheer fabric. You didn’t wear a bra tonight. Bold choice. He’s noticing now, by the growing bulge in his pants.

"Clothes off," he commands. “I want to see you."

You hesitate for a moment, then your fingers fumble for the dress and yank down the flimsy material in one go. Lando's gaze never leaves you. He sits on the edge of the bed expectantly.

"Come here.”

You obey. You look at him, swollen lips, dark eyes, and wonder if he’s about to kiss you again.

“On your knees.”

Oh.

The words sink in. Want tightens, low in your belly. You drop, hands brushing the floor for balance, a shiver curling up your back as the cool air hits your skin. 

How long has it even been since you’ve given a blowjob? You can barely remember, and that sharp flicker of panic slices through your arousal. What if it’s not good enough? What if this isn’t enough to hold him here?

No. You can’t have that. Now that you’ve finally let yourself give in, you’re going to make the most of it. Make him happy. Make him stay. God knows what you’d do without him, now you’ve gotten used to him. It’d be like trying to give up an addiction once you’re already useless without it.

You lift your eyes, fingers brushing lightly over his waistband. The way he looks at you—half-wild, like you’ve undone something inside him—makes the nerves fade a little. You work his belt loose, the sound of leather sliding through metal too much to bear. It only makes you think about what that belt would sound like against your skin. Stop daydreaming. He’s right there.

Above you, Lando’s breath hitches. When you glance up through your lashes, his hand is flexing at his side as a way of holding himself.

“Fuck…” he grunts, “baby, get on with it. Please.” His eyes are pinned to you, disbelieving. Like your mouth on his cock is something he’s wanted too long, and can’t quite believe he’s finally getting. You ease him free, feeling the weight of him in your hand. Bigger than what you’ve had before, definitely. You’d say six and a half, seven? Seven and a half? It’s hard to compare when your mind is so foggy.

“Look at you.” His thumb brushes your cheek, lingering at the corner of your mouth and prying open. “So fucking pretty like this.”

The praise hits you hard. Wetness pools again. Fuck. Such a tease. You let him guide your pretty mouth to his hardened erection, and lick at it, just a bit. You his breath punch out a muttered curse, his hips jerking just slightly.

“Jesus—”

You move slowly at first, widening your mouth and taking in him, bit by bit. You find your rhythm, your tongue tracing delicate patterns, learning every twitch of his body. Every choked-off sound that spills from his throat is a sign that you’re doing good, a beautiful sound you’re going to be replaying the next time you’re alone in your room. His fingers thread into your hair, tight enough to sting. For a second you wonder if he’s going to pull you back, but he just holds you there. 

You try something new. You lick a slow line along the underside, feeling him twitch in your hand. His thighs tense on either side of you, the muscles jumping as he swears again. 

“Fuck, baby,” Lando groans, his hair teased with sweat that trickles down his neck. He’s golden, even now, a god in your palm. All yours to toy with. You have no doubt that if you asked for anything right now, he’d give it. His chest heaves, a flushed pink creeping down his body. He’s not even undressed yet and you can only dream about what’s under that shirt.

When you take him deeper, hitting the back of your throat, his whole body jolts. You hear a choked sound breaking out of him. The sound reverberates through his whole body, and in turn, through yours. 

“Look at you,” he pants. You’re drooling a little from his sheer girth and he wipes it away. “So good for me, fuck! So good, baby.” You bob your head up and down, ignoring the urge to gag, trying to take his whole length. That does it.

“Shit—shit—baby—” His fingers yank hard on your head, wanting even more of you, wanting to fill you all the way, so nothing can ever come between you two. “Fuck, sweetheart, I’m—wait—”

He comes in your mouth, hot and salty. You have to move your head back so you don’t choke on all of him. You’re sure some of it makes it out of your mouth, drips onto your chin. He doesn’t mind. Lando drags you up roughly.

You’re dizzy, drunk on him. On the taste of him in your mouth, on the way his hands grip your hips like he’ll die if you move even an inch away, on the broken sounds that slip out of him like he’s never been this unmade.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice shaking, mouth grazing your jaw, your cheek, your temple like he’s blessing you with every kiss. “No one’s ever—”

And you realize it’s not even about sex, not anymore. This arrangement? Fuck, all the little details are lost in every moment you spend with him. He murmurs mine, mine, mine between half-kisses like a prayer.

“God.” Lando says, burying his face in your neck, breathing in your scent. Really, it’s mixed with his, the culmination of whatever the hell this is. “You’ve fucking ruined me.”

You’re ruined right alongside him, nails digging into his shoulders, thighs weak, lips parted. This hasn’t even started yet. No desperate, gasping stretch of bodies fitting together. You’ve only gotten the slightest taste of him, he only the slightest of you. There’s so much you don’t know yet, so much to discover.

“Come here. You’re mine, yeah? Say you’re mine.”

Your hands clutch at his shirt. “Yours.”

The sound he makes at that nearly undoes you both.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Now it’s hours later. You’ve lost track of time. His shirt’s somewhere near the minibar, your dress is long discarded. The sheets are twisted, dirty, pulled halfway off the bed. Lando’s asleep. His arm is locked tight around your waist. Unconsciously, his head is still in the crook of your neck. You can feel him, his breath hot against your skin, and judging by how ragged he sounds, someone’s having fun in his dreams.

His fingers keep sliding over your skin, as if the act calms him.

“Baby, baby,” you whisper. You can’t do this either. Might as well get him up, let him have the real thing. “Baby.” You turn around and the loss of contact is enough to wake him. His eyes flutter open, dazed, beautifully clear.

He croaks your name, the one thing he’s certain of. His lips graze yours, then your shoulder. 

You’re drunk on him. The warmth of his skin, the way his hands know exactly where to go, the softness under all that cocky charm. You haven’t left the room in days. Neither has he. You reach back, threading your fingers through his messy curls, and Lando groans, pressing his mouth to the side of your neck. 

There’s a knock at the door. You both freeze, blinking at each other. You’ve forgotten anyone else exists.

“I’ll—I’ll get it,” he says, voice hoarse. Lando scrambles into sweatpants, hair sticking up wildly. You admire the view, the way his chest peeks out under the hastily buttoned shirt. He opens the door just enough to grab the tray, mumbling something to the waiter you can’t hear, and then he’s kicking the door shut again. He’s grinning like an idiot.

“Saved the day,” he says, collapsing onto the bed beside you. “Hero.”

The food goes mostly ignored. Fries are stolen between kisses; champagne is knocked over onto the carpet, bubbling and forgotten. He feeds you a piece of a burger with his fingers, his thumb brushing your bottom lip, asking for permission. You allow him, swallow the food, and yet his thumb lingers. His eyes are wide and pleading.

God, you’d do anything for him.

You glance up at him through your lashes, and the look on his face nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. Hours after his last orgasm, his pupils are once again blown wide, lips parted slightly. Slowly, you part your lips and let his thumb slip inside, just a little, your tongue barely grazing the pad.

The sound Lando makes is low in his throat, instant. His free hand fists the sheets, knuckles going white.

“Fuck,” he rasps, eyes flicking from your mouth to your eyes and back again. “Sweetheart…”

You pull his thumb deeper, hollow your cheeks a little, tongue brushing lazy circles over the tip. Your teeth grazing just enough to make him flinch and tighten his grip on the bed. You know exactly what it’s doing to him.

“So pretty for me, all for me.” he says. When you finally release his thumb with a soft, wet pop, his control snaps. His hands are on you in an instant, dragging you into his lap, kissing you open-mouthed, messy.

You can feel him, hard and aching beneath you. Lando’s not the only eager one here. You roll your hips, trying to find the right feeling. You rise up just enough to tug his sweats down, both of you breathless with laughter and gasps, trembling with how bad you need this, need each other. He’s perfect, red and angry, glistening with pre-cum.

Of course, this is no longer the first time. Your bodies know each other, have found the map to ecstasy. You sink onto him in one smooth plunge, swallowing him whole. Lando curses low and sharp, head falling back against the pillows. 

You move slowly at first, a teasing roll of your hips. You spell his name, starting with the ‘L,’ a long roll downwards, then jerking to the side. It has him nearly sobbing beneath you, but you can’t stay slow for long. He bucks up into you, chasing every drag and slide. You hear his skin on yours, a slapping noise that reverberates around the room, his voice underneath you, pleading, praising, cursing. You bounce in his lap, legs on both sides of him.

And when it’s over, when you’re both boneless and shaking in the sheets, Lando’s hand slides lazily up your spine, caging you close. He starts, “oh, sweetheart, you’re—” but the words fall away. 

You’re both still catching your breath when his phone, forgotten on the nightstand, starts to buzz insistently. 

Lando groans, trying to ignore it, but it keeps buzzing.

Finally, he gives up and blindly grabs for it.

“Hello?” He winces. “Oh. Hi, yeah. Yeah, I know.”

You watch him, propped on one elbow, smiling as you stroke a hand down his chest. You draw little hearts on his abdomen, watching him breathe sharply with every ticklish sensation. He shoots you a helpless look as your hand wanders lower.

He says again into the phone, “I know I can’t stay in Miami forever…yeah, okay, okay, I promise.” Lando throws the phone to the side. “I can’t, technically, but I can bring you around, yeah?”

“Don’t talk about work,” you feign a yawn. “It’s boring me.”

“Oh yeah? Does this bore you?” he drawls, before shifting further away from you, towards the end of the bed. You raise your eyebrows, unsure of where this is going, before he pulls one of your legs across him, sitting you firmly on his face. “Relax, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

His tongue laps at you and you squeal.

(SMUT ENDS HERE)

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You’re hunched over your laptop on the hotel balcony, knees tucked to your chest. The blue glow of the screen painting your face. Hot air sticks to your skin, plastering your hair across your forehead. Your inbox is overflowing, your Google doc blinking a half-finished sentence back at you, and every five minutes your school portal pings another notification. One of your professors has flagged your last assignment as ‘significantly late.’ You close the tab fast. That might make it less real.

Inside, the room is still dark. Although it’s nearly noon, blackout curtains are drawn shut. Lando’s sprawled across the bed, scrolling aimlessly through his phone. He looks peaceful, like he doesn’t have a single deadline to his name. He probably doesn’t.

“Come back to bed,” he calls, not looking up.

You shake your head. “I need to finish this. I’m behind.”

Then: “Behind on what? You’re on vacation, sweetheart. You’re with me.”

“I still have work,” you say, and a little bit of temper makes its way through to your voice. “Just because you hauled me off to another country doesn’t mean my life disappeared.”

You hear the sheets rustle. Then he’s there, barefoot and warm behind you, crouching down so his chin rests on your shoulder. He kisses just below your jaw, softly, and the resulting absence only deepens your craving.

Lando murmurs, “you’re always working. Even when you’re with me.”

You stiffen. “That’s because I have a degree I need to get. I can’t afford to screw this up, Lando.”

His arms slip down, under your arms, around your waist, and he nudges the laptop closed with one finger.

“Hey,” he says, “no one’s asking you to screw anything up. But you’ve been so stressed. You haven’t smiled properly in days.” His lips brush your collarbone. “Don’t you want to just breathe for a second?”

You hesitate. You want to say no, because breathing for a second is not going to help you get anything done. You want to say this is important. But Lando has a voice of silk, wrapping around your ribs, and the laptop is already closed. He shifts so he’s in front of you, and now his hands are warm on your thighs, slowly maneuvering upwards, upwards.

“I can help you. Just take a break. Come lay down with me. We’ll get someone to handle whatever you’re behind on. I’ll make some calls. Easy.”

“You can’t just make calls to fix my classes.”

“You’d be surprised,” Lando says. It’s a joke, but not really. “Baby, you don’t need to kill yourself over a few grades. You have me now.”

“I like working,” you say. It sounds weak.

He kisses you again, on your cheek. Both your hands are in his. “You like overthinking.”

“Come on. Ten minutes. No school. No stress. Just me.”

Ten minutes of heaven. Ten minutes turn into twenty, thirty, and you’re in Lando’s bed for at least an hour before you check the clock, maybe longer. He’s in the shower. Your phone buzzes on the pillow beside you.

mara(malade) babe you can’t be dying on me

mara(malade) hellloooo?

mara(malade) ANSWER MY FT

You answer, flipping the camera up too fast, revealing the luxurious headboard and the messy room behind you. There’s evidence of room service on the nightstand, a folded tablecloth under unused cutlery. Mara clocks it immediately.

“No. Are you in his hotel room again?”

You push your hair out of your face. “Yeah, just for a bit.”

“Don’t shit me.”

“I’m writing,” you lie, moving the laptop slightly to show the open doc, never mind that it’s been untouched for hours. “I’m almost done.”

“Dan told me you missed discussion again. Twice.” Dan is Mara’s boyfriend, a few years younger, and he’s in your class. What a snitch. You didn’t think he’d be watching your every action.

“I’ve been traveling. It’s not a big deal. I’ll catch up—”

Mara frowns. A little crease forms between her brows. “Babe, you said that last week. I’m just worried.”

You shift, tugging the blanket up higher even though it’s not cold. “I’m fine. I’m going home after this one. Just this race.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. I’m not going to drop everything for some guy, okay?”

You hate how Mara looks at you. She doesn’t believe you. Her eyes are tired, emphasized by the smudged eyeliner she likes to wear, like she’s already mourning something you haven’t lost yet.

Behind you, the bathroom door clicks open. Lando walks out, a towel slung low on his hips. Steam curls out around him. He sees you on the phone and mouths who is it?

You wave him off and turn back to Mara. “I’ve got to go. We’re leaving for the track soon.”

Mara’s expression doesn’t change. If anything, she looks more resigned. “Okay. Text me tonight, okay?”

“I will.”

You hang up before she can say anything else. Lando’s standing at the end of the bed now, rubbing his hair dry with another towel, bare chest still damp.

“Everything good?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. Just Mara being dramatic.”

“Come here,” he says. “Come here.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Mara’s voice had been calm on the phone, but her words weren’t. “Just come back for a little. A week. You’re slipping, and I don’t mean your mental state—God, I don’t even want to touch on that. Babe, please. You’re scared to check your grades, aren’t you?”

You didn’t answer that part. You just sighed and said, “Okay. Yeah. Maybe a few days.”

When you told Lando, he didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you for a while, not moving, and you were a little scared why you couldn’t read him. Then he nodded, real slowly. “Right. If that’s what you want.”

“It’s just a week.”

“Sure.”

You tried to kiss him before you left and he let you. His hands stayed in his pockets, though, and he turned away before you got into the car.

You feel it as soon as you land. A few hours pass with no text from him. No morning check-in, no “you up?” not even a dumb joke. You text him first. He replies and it’s short.

lan have fun with your school thing

You stare at your phone, heat prickling the back of your neck. Is he mad? He said it was okay. You try again later, sending a photo of the library, something neutral. This time, he doesn’t reply.

You lie awake that night wondering if you should’ve just stayed. If this means he’s over it. Over you.

You check your phone again. Still nothing. And you’re cold in your own bed, wondering when your own life started to feel less like yours and more like something you borrowed from him.

From your manager:

“Hope your break was fun. Let me know how many extra days you’ll be taking. If you’ll be back.”

You sit frozen in your desk chair, rereading the line over and over. You hadn’t even realized how many days you were gone. You think of Miami and Emilia Romagna as a blur of cameras, hotel sheets, and Lando’s breath against your skin. You think of how quiet it is now. How he hasn’t even texted today.

From your professor:

“Please come by office hours ASAP. I’m concerned about your last two assignments.”

You close the laptop. Everything feels loud. Your room looks like someone else’s now, dust on untouched things, half-opened drawers. You haven’t unpacked. You haven’t even told your friends much—ha! Aren’t you a regular comedian, what friends are you talking about? Mara? And maybe that one other co-worker who kept getting the same shifts as you, Lils? Mara, Mara, who has been so good to you. Mara keeps sending messages, checking in. You brush her off, saying it’s okay. You’re not sure if you believe that.

Lando hasn’t called. It’s worse without him here, without the promise that he can make it go away with a little wave of his finger. No. Fuck him. If he can’t even call, he can go with Magui and make her problems go away. You can do this. You haven’t needed him up until now—why does it have to change?

You show up to Professor Wilk’s office five minutes early. You tap your fingers against your folder, trying to remember what it feels like to be someone who’s on top of her work. Her door creaks open before you knock. “Come in,” she says. Her voice reveals nothing, but you know she’s already seen your grades. You sit down stiffly across from her desk.

“I’ll get right to it. You’ve been slipping.”

You open your mouth. No excuse comes. Nothing that doesn’t sound ridiculous, at least. Sorry, I was off on vacation with my sugar daddy. Sorry, he said he would solve it and I believed him. At least until I realized the problem was big enough and maybe I should take care of it myself instead of crawling back into his bed. Sorry.

“I know the beginning of the term was strong,” she continues, looking at your file. “You wrote one of the best first essays I’ve read this year. And now you’re missing half your citations. You left a whole section blank.”

You swallow. All she’s saying is true. “I’ve been dealing with some things.”

Professor Wilk nods. “We all do. I’m not here to punish you. But I can’t help if you won’t tell me what’s going on.”

You hesitate. You think of telling her that you flew across the world with a man who called you sweetheart before he called you anything else, who you knew first as a wreck that couldn’t get himself out of a pub. That you forgot what day it was because he kissed you like it was the end of the world, like there was nothing else he had to do. That your job is probably gone and your friends are worried and you haven’t had a proper thought to yourself in weeks. That it’s all been Lando this and Lando that and Lando please come back.

You tell her, “I’ve been distracted.”

“I can see that. I’m going to offer you a rewrite. A clean slate for your last essay. But I want to see you in my office every week until finals. Deal?”

You nod. “Deal.” Already, you’re wondering how you’re going to manage this. Lando’s not going to fly you back every week, is he? There must be limits to even his abilities.

She watches you for a moment longer. Gently, she says, “Don’t lose yourself for someone else. You’re too smart for that.”

You wonder if she knows. Not exactly who, maybe, unless she’s seen the tabloids. After all, Lando Norris isn’t exactly nobody in Bristol. But the way you look right now, tired, expensive sweatshirt that doesn’t belong to you, the faint shadow of a bruise under your collar…maybe she doesn’t have to know everything to know enough.

You leave the office quietly.

lan everything okay

You pause and stare at the singular message. There are no question marks, even though he’s asking things. And this is the first time he’s texted. Maybe three days since he responded. What does he want now?

you she offered me a rewrite

lan great

you but i have to meet w her every week

The read receipt pops up almost immediately. No reply, though, and you know what this means. He only confirms it.

lan so you’re staying longer?

you only a few more days i want to get things under control

lan ok then, sweetheartdon’t let them stress you out yk you don’t have to prove anything to them

you i know

lan come back when you’re ready

lan or just come back now

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

a/n: part 1! i have beef with tumblr, why did it make me split my beautiful story into two parts.

[katnipp]

girl if u don’t write a pt2 for the night you stopped waiting for me with a fluff ending I think I might end it all.

hold up the sign— yu jimin

genre: FLUFFF

synopsis: after breaking y/n’s heart, karina realizes too late that she was never meant to let her go—and now she’ll do whatever it takes to win her back.

warning: PART 2 of the night you stopped waiting for me

—

it ended on a wednesday.

quietly. kindly.

no slammed doors, no raised voices—just giselle looking across the kitchen island with tired eyes, stirring sugar into her tea like she didn’t already know what y/n was about to say.

“it’s not your fault,” y/n mumbled. “i think… i just needed someone. and you were there.”

giselle’s laugh was soft, understanding. a little sad. “yeah. i know.”

they didn’t even cry.

—

weeks pass. slowly.

y/n walks alone now. same bookstore. same coffee shop. she switches to tea—karina never liked the smell of coffee on her breath, and y/n never quite unlearned that.

sometimes she wonders if it was really a kiss that broke them.

or if it was everything after—the silence, the way karina never chased her, not fast enough, not soon enough. or maybe she did chase her. maybe y/n was already too far gone.

either way… she misses her.

god, she misses her.

—

karina doesn’t sleep the night she finds out.

she lies in bed with the lights off, eyes open, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. she replays everything she could’ve done differently—every call she didn’t make, every apology she swallowed, every moment she waited, thinking y/n would come back on her own.

but y/n didn’t.

because people don’t come back to places that made them feel unloved.

and karina made her feel replaceable.

she gets up around 4am, heart racing, typing the message with trembling fingers.

“i heard about you and giselle. i’m sorry. are you okay?”

she almost deletes it. almost throws her phone across the room.

but then—seen.

and then, a reply.

“yeah. i’m okay. thanks for checking in.”

karina stares at those four words for so long she forgets to breathe. she rereads them like they’re poetry. like she could peel them back and find hope underneath.

“can i see you?” she types. “no pressure. i just… i miss you.”

the three little dots blink in and out, like y/n is typing. deleting. typing again.

finally:

“okay.”

⸻

they meet on a thursday, in the park where it all started.

the same bench. the same crooked lamppost. karina arrives five minutes early and paces back and forth like a lunatic, nearly biting her lip raw.

and then—

there she is.

hood up, earbuds in, coffee between her hands. her hair’s a little longer. her eyes a little older. but she’s still her. the girl karina broke. the girl she never stopped loving.

“hey,” karina breathes.

y/n looks up. there’s a flicker in her gaze—recognition, surprise, something unreadable—but she offers a soft, distant smile.

“hey.”

karina sits down, careful not to sit too close.

for a minute, neither of them speaks.

then karina breaks. of course she does.

“i don’t even know where to start,” she whispers, voice already thick. “i’ve rehearsed this in my head a hundred times, and now that you’re here i feel like—like everything’s lodged in my throat.”

y/n looks straight ahead. “then just say what you feel.”

karina swallows hard. “i feel like i ruined the best thing that ever happened to me. i feel like i’ve been living in grayscale since you left. like i’m breathing but not really alive. i feel like… like i’d give anything—anything—to go back to that night and shove myself away from that girl before i ever let her touch me.”

y/n’s lips tighten, but she doesn’t interrupt.

so karina keeps going. unravels completely.

“i was drunk, yeah, but that’s no excuse. i should’ve seen you. i should’ve seen you. you were standing right there and i still let someone else kiss me, and when i looked up and you were gone—y/n, i’ve never felt so fucking hollow. i didn’t even chase you. i just stood there like a coward.”

her hands shake. her eyes are already wet.

“and then i came home, and you weren’t there. and i waited. i waited until sunrise. i sat on the floor by the door like you’d walk through it again if i just begged the universe hard enough. but you didn’t. because you shouldn’t have. because i broke your heart.”

y/n doesn’t speak. not yet.

karina turns to her, tears slipping freely now, raw and desperate.

“you have no idea how many times i typed out a message and deleted it. how many nights i cried into the pillow we used to share. how many mornings i stared at the mug you always used and hated myself for still hoping you’d come back. and then you were with giselle and i—I didn’t blame you. she’s amazing. she’s safe. she’s not me.”

her voice drops to a whisper.

“but i still wished it was me.”

y/n finally turns her head. meets her eyes. there’s something there now. something real. something fragile.

“karina…”

karina sinks to the ground. actually drops to her knees in front of the bench.

“i know this is pathetic. i know you don’t owe me anything. but please—please—don’t tell me that’s it. that we’re done. i still love you. so much it hurts. i love you in the way that ruins songs and makes buildings look like memories. i love you like it’s the only thing i know how to do right.”

y/n’s eyes are full now, too.

“you broke my heart.”

karina nods furiously. “i know. i did. and if i could take your pain and make it mine, i would. i would carry it forever if it meant you never had to feel like that again.”

a long pause.

then:

“why didn’t you say all this sooner?” y/n whispers, her voice barely holding together.

karina’s voice cracks. “because i thought i’d already lost you.”

“you had.”

“do i still?”

y/n stares at her. breathes. and for the first time in months, something soft flickers behind her eyes.

“stand up, you idiot.”

karina blinks. “what—?”

“stand up before i cry harder than you.”

karina scrambles up, nearly trips over herself, wiping at her face with her sleeves.

and then—y/n takes a step forward.

wraps her arms around her.

and hugs her.

not like a stranger. not like a friend. like someone who still remembers the shape of her heart.

“i missed you too,” she mumbles into her shoulder. “i never stopped.”

“just give me some more time, okay?”

—

karina can’t sleep.

not after y/n hugged her at the park. not after she felt her arms again, felt her safety again, only to watch her walk away with a soft “i need time.”

and god, she understood. of course she did.

but the thing about people who love too hard? they don’t know when to stop.

so at 1:38am, karina’s sitting in her car, hoodie half on, shaking from caffeine and emotion, texting the group chat:

karina: emergency. i need backup.

ningning: is this about y/n again

winter: of course it is

giselle: i swear to god if this is another parking-lot-stare-at-her-window mission i’m not getting out of bed

karina: no. i’m going full romcom. i need a sign. and speakers.

three minutes later:

giselle: i’m outside. bring glitter.

winter: bringing the bluetooth speaker.

ningning: i’m making a sign that says “I’M SORRY I WAS STUPID”

karina: all caps. add a heart.

by 2:10am, they’re parked outside y/n’s apartment.

winter’s blasting “still into you” by paramore from her car, windows down.

ningning’s holding a flashlight on karina like she’s center stage at a concert.

giselle’s recording the whole thing for “future blackmail or your wedding video idk.”

karina is standing on the sidewalk—sweatpants, slippers, tear-streaked cheeks—holding a glittery sign above her head that says:

I’M STILL IN LOVE WITH YOU

underneath, in smaller writing:

i’m sorry i let go before i realized you were the only thing i couldn’t lose.

she stands there like an idiot.

a very in-love idiot.

a cold, sniffling, emotional idiot.

“do you think she’s awake?” she whispers.

“she’ll wake up when you start crying,” ningning replies.

“i’m not crying.”

“you’re always crying.”

karina sniffles louder.

then—a window opens.

third floor. lights flick on.

a familiar silhouette leans over the railing.

y/n.

half-asleep. hair messy. hoodie falling off her shoulder.

“…karina?” she calls out, voice groggy.

karina’s breath catches.

“hi,” she says, voice cracking even from down below. “it’s me. again.”

“what the hell are you doing?”

karina lifts the sign higher.

“grand gesture,” she says. “and also a breakdown.”

the music keeps playing. winter turns it up. giselle waves dramatically from the car. ningning yells “SHE LOVES YOU” like a deranged cupid.

y/n squints, eyes still adjusting. “you’re insane.”

karina nods. “yup. for you.”

and then, because she is truly down bad, she starts reciting a speech like it’s a scene from a movie she’s writing with her heart on the fly:

“i know you said you needed time. and i want to give you that. but i also need you to know that i’m not just sorry for what i did. i’m sorry for every time i made you doubt how much i love you. i’m sorry for being so late. but i’m here now. and i’m never gonna stop showing up.”

she steps closer to the building.

“you can slam the window. throw a plant at me. tell me to go. and i will. but i just needed you to hear me say it out loud—you’re the one. you’ve always been the one.”

y/n doesn’t slam the window.

she disappears for a moment.

karina holds her breath. her arms are trembling from holding the sign up so long.

then—

the front door opens.

y/n walks out, barefoot, hoodie sleeves covering her hands.

she doesn’t say a word.

just walks right up to karina and kisses her.

like she’s been waiting to.

like she’s done pretending she doesn’t want to.

the music swells behind them like a cheesy soundtrack.

karina nearly drops the sign.

when they pull away, breathless, y/n murmurs against her lips:

“you’re still an idiot.”

karina smiles. “your idiot?”

“…yeah. finally.”

from the car:

“WOOOOOOOOOOO!”

“THAT’S MY BEST FRIEND”

“WE’RE BACK, BABY”

“Y/N YOU BETTER NEVER BREAK HER HEART”

“GISELLE RECORDING RN THIS IS CINEMA”

karina buries her face in y/n’s neck, laughing, crying, glowing.

“you’re gonna marry me one day,” she whispers.

y/n rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.

“we’ll see if you survive until morning.”

—

later, curled up on the couch in y/n’s apartment, under shared blankets and leftover glitter in her hair, karina whispers, “you really came outside.”

“you really held a sign,” y/n replies.

“you really kissed me.”

“shut up.”

they fall asleep with the speaker still softly playing in the background, the group chat still blowing up with memes and blurry photos.

and karina dreams in color again.

because she’s home.

finally.

—

[sushirrrry]

TRACED.

welcome to part two of harry & lily's story. thanks for the love on part one! now, here's a tiny preview to part two.

here is part one.

if you would like to be added to the taglist for part two, please reply below! <3

enjoy.

+ + +

“There’s, um… a thing on Saturday,” she said, nonchalantly. “A dinner party. At Ava’s.”

Behind her, the couch creaked as Harry sat up, setting his book down again.

“A thing,” he echoed, amused. “That sounds incredibly specific, please don’t tell me anything more – I’m overwhelmed with information.”

She rolled her eyes at his wittiness, “It’s just…  it’s friends,” she said quickly. “We do it every few months. Potluck style. It’s – I mean, it’s nothing fancy. You don’t have to come. I just thought maybe—”

He was already walking toward her when she went to pour the noodles back into the pot. “Lily,” he said, soft but certain; standing next to her now, he looked down at her. The way that this hand caressed the side of her wrist, he bit his lip at the hot touch. “I’d love to come.”

She met his eyes—those maddeningly open, green-flecked eyes that sat behind those glasses—and tried not to let her breath catch.

“I just… I get weird. Around a lot of people. You know that – I mean, even friends. It’s just… that’s actually overwhelming to me. And then having to tell them about you,” Her eyes widened at the way it sounded, “Not that I don’t want to introduce you! I do! It’s just –“

“I know.” He reached past her to grab two plates, brushing her shoulder just enough to make her heart race. “But I also know you’re not weird, and that you’re just a bit socially aware to a higher degree than most. I live to be the life of the party, ergo, why we work together.”

“That’s because you’re… not normal,” she muttered with a slightly sly tongue.

Harry grinned at her response. “Normal is deeply overrated. You’re charmingly mysterious. I’m outrageously good-looking and have very talented hands in one way or another. We make a balanced pair.”

Lily scoffed, dishing pasta onto both plates, grateful for something to do with her hands.

“Besides,” he added, tone light but sincere, “I would enjoy seeing you in your world. I’ve already conquered the tattoo shop. Your apartment. That bakery you pretend not to like but always take me to.”

“I don’t always—”

“And now,” he said, stealing a forkful of pasta before she could stop him, “it’s time to infiltrate the friend group. Win hearts. Win stomachs. Probably win you all over again, but that’s a given.”

She looked at him then, really looked—at the ease in his smile, the affection under all the teasing. He wasn’t just saying yes to a dinner party. He was saying yes to her – he was saying yes to being seen with her, which was the most encouraging part of the entire thing.

[viviansturns]

𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒔

╰┈➤ 𝒃𝒔𝒇!𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝒙 𝒃𝒔𝒇!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 fic

CALL #1: 7:21PM

The screen lights up with Chris’s face, hair sticking up like he’d just rolled out of bed. He squints into the camera, blinking hard.

“You look like shit,” you say, settling into your pillow with a grin.

He groans, rubbing his face. “You’re so sweet to me.”

“You called me, loser,” you laugh, shifting the phone so it rests against your knee. Behind you, your half-unpacked room is still a maze of open boxes and crumpled Target bags.

“Just checking in,” he says, voice softer. “Wanted to see how Big Bad Business School’s treating you.”

You sigh dramatically. “I’m living off bagels, coffee, and prayers— there’s way more work than in highschool. But the campus is nice. And my roommate’s not terrible.”

Chris perks up slightly. “Oh yeah? What’s she like?”

You chew your lip, hesitating just long enough to make him squint suspiciously. “He’s chill. His name’s Jacob. He’s doing film. Keeps accidentally leaving his camera battery in the fridge.”

Chris blinks. “He?”

“Yup.”

“Jacob?”

“Correct.”

There’s a long beat. Chris adjusts how he’s sitting, then frowns slightly. “And you’re just... cool with that?”

You arch a brow. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No, no,” he says quickly, hands raised. “I mean—sure. Yeah. Just... wasn’t expecting it. Didn’t know they had co-ed rooms.”

You snort. “You sound like my mom.”

He glares at you through the screen. “I do not.”

You smirk. “Anyway, he’s sweet. Offers to walk me back from night lectures and everything.”

Chris doesn’t say anything at first, then mutters, “He sounds too sweet.”

You laugh. “Jealous?”

“Me?” he scoffs, looking very much like someone who is, in fact, jealous. “No. I just think it's weird you’re living with a guy who’s probably secretly writing you into a screenplay.”

“Ew Chris, don’t make me think about that.”

You’re still laughing when the silence settles in,  soft and warm, just. Chris shifts on the screen, lying on his stomach with his chin on his arm, like he’s trying to be closer to you somehow.

“I miss you,” he says, quiet. Like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

You blink, caught off guard for half a second before nodding. “Yeah. I miss you too.”

He smiles, but it’s faint. Tired. “It’s weird without you. Like I’ll say something dumb and expect you to look at me like I’m an idiot… but you’re not here.”

You smile, a little crooked. “That’s tragic. Who’s humbling you now?”

“No one,” he sighs. “I’ve been getting away with everything. It’s dangerous.”

You laugh, pulling the blanket higher up your chest. “It’s weird here too. I go all day without anyone making fun of me for how I tie my shoes or whatever.”

Chris grins. “It’s not how you tie them, it’s that you bunny knot like a five-year-old.”

You flip him off, and he laughs again. But then it’s quiet.

“Wish I could see you,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“LA is really far from Boston”

“Yeah.”

“I said that Boston was home. Like ‘cause of family n shit. But I guess it just doesn’t feel like home when you’re not here,” he mumbles, not making eye contact with his phone camera.

You don’t say anything, and just watch him.

But neither of you hangs up. Not yet.

CALL #2: 11:20 PM

You’re just settling down for the night, finishing a game of mario kart with your roommate Jacon, when you get a text.

Chris: wyd?

You: Playing mario kart w my roommate

Chris: are you down for a movie night

Chris: perchance??

You smile at his request and get up, completely abandoning the video game.

“Hey? Where ya going,” asks Jacob. You look over oblivious to the fact that you just accidentally ditched him.

“Oh sorry, I just thought we finished the last game. I’m boutta have a movie night with a friend back in boston.”

“He the guy you always facetiming?” you look confused. “Um, I guess, I don’t facetime him that much.”

Jacob raises a brow, clearly unconvinced. “You do. Like, a lot. I’ve literally never seen your phone not lighting up with his name.”

You open your mouth to argue, then close it again. “…Okay, maybe a little.”

Jacob grins. “It’s cute. Go, I’ll pause our rematch somehow.”

You sort of blush and flip him off playfully as you leave, already pulling up FaceTime. It rings twice before Chris’s face pops up on the screen, dimly lit by his laptop.

“Y’know Chris, you can’t just say perchance. It’s not grammatically correct.” he completely ignores that, saying what's on his mind instead.

“You bailed on Jacob so fast,” he teases, smug. “Didn’t even say goodbye?”

You gasp. “I don’t even remember telling you his name?”

He shrugs. “Sure you have.”

You roll your eyes and settle into bed, propping the phone up against a pillow. “Okay, creep. What’re we watching?”

Chris glances at the screen. “I found this old rom-com on Netflix. It’s called Love & Letters or something dumb. Had decent reviews. Seemed like your vibe.”

You snort. “Fine. But if it sucks I’m making you watch a business documentary I need to finish for homework”

“Deal,” he says, already hitting play.

The opening credits roll, and the two of you fall into an easy rhythm, joking about the acting, mocking the plot holes, tossing little comments back and forth like you’ve done this a hundred times. Because you have.

And then about halfway through, the rom-com does what rom-coms do—it gets unexpectedly steamy.

You shift slightly under your blanket, glancing at your screen just as Chris does the same. Neither of you says anything for a second.

Finally, he mutters, “Why are old movies always so freaky?”

You smirk. “I think the regulations were less harsh on—” you clear your throat “”—nudity. But they, anything for the character development/” 

He scoffs, but his voice is a little quieter now. “Right. Super necessary. For the plot.”

You glance at him through the screen. “You okay over there?”

“I’m fine,” he says, too fast. Then, a beat later, “You?”

“I’m fine,” you echo, matching his tone.

Another pause. The movie continues.

Then, more gently, he says, “I didn’t know you… like, watched stuff like this.”

You laugh under your breath. “Chris. I’m not twelve.”

The scene seemed to stretch on forever, and Chris had the controls to skip it— which he didn’t.

You try to break the awkward tension. “So like… how was your first time? With Christina or whatever, right?”

“Oh”  He scratches his face nervously. “We never actually went like— all the way, y’know?”

Chris clears his throat, looking off to the side. “I mean. It’s not like we didn’t do anything.”

You raise a brow, amused. “Oh?”

He groans softly. “Why’d I even say that.”

You laugh. “Nope, you opened this door.”

He rubs the back of his neck, still not quite looking at you. “She… gave me a hand job once. It was—whatever. Awkward. Fast. I freaked out and said I had to go home to wash the dishes.”

You blink. “Chris. That’s so fucked up..”

“I know, Y/N!” he says, dramatically burying his face in his hands. “It was panic. My brain short-circuited. I just—panicked.”

You’re laughing so hard now you’re nearly crying. “That’s the most you thing I’ve ever heard.”

He peeks through his fingers, clearly dying inside. “Don’t make this worse for me.”

You shake your head, still smiling. “I’m not. I promise. I think it’s kind of… sweet?”

He drops his hands. “How is that sweet?”

“‘Cause,” you say, eyes a little softer now. “You cared enough to not just go through with something that didn’t feel right.”

He looks at you through the screen for a beat. “Yeah. I guess.”

CALL #3: 4:53PM

8 missed calls. That's what you woke up from your nap You shot up, heart slamming, already imagining the worst. Hospital. Accident. Fire..

Before your brain could spiral further, he called again.

You answered immediately.

“Chris? What—”

“WE BLEW UP,” he yelled, not even letting you finish. “DUDE. We—y/n—we fucking blew up.”

You blinked, still halfway between sleep and a heart attack. “Blew up like… exploded? Or fame-wise?”

“Fame-wise! Like—I don’t even know what happened! I posted that dumb-ass clip before bed and now we’re viral on, like, ten different meme pages and my phone’s lagging and Nick's literally crying. And also charli d’amelio dmed us for a collab??”

You sat up straighter. “Wait—are you serious?”

“I was just on the phone with an agent! A real-life agent! And someone else just emailed us about an apartment in LA and—holy shit, we’re moving. Like actually.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re moving to LA? Just like that?”

Chris nodded fast, hair a mess, eyes wide. “Just like that. Like—we said we’d only go if we blew up, right? Well, we did”

You could hear Nick yelling something in the background about needing to pack his entire closet, and Matt yelling back that he refuses to live in a city that bans plastic straws.

You grinned so hard it hurt. “I’m so proud of you. Like—so proud. Oh my god. My hands are shaking.”

Chris looked at you through the screen, his smile softening. “Wish you were here.”

“Soon,” you said, breathlessly. “You’re gonna be here soon.”

And even with all the chaos, all the noise, it hit you like a wave—everything was about to change. And you weren’t scared. You were excited.

The two of you calmed down for a couple moments, just sucking it all in. 

“Jesus Chris, I can’t wait to see you. I can’t believe we haven’t seen each other in 9 fucking months. That’s almost a year!”

“I know bug, and it feels like forever. We’re going to have so much fun when I get there just you wait.”

You just squeal in excitement then throw your phone across your bed. 

Suddenly, you don’t care about your upcoming business project— you’re going to see the triplets again.

HEEHEEE I CANT WAIT TO WRITE THE REUNION FIC ITS GOING TO BE SO CUTE

@sturniolosrtewsexy @sturnbrooke @emely9274 @babytomatoes21 @arianna1342 @gemzyy @namelesssav @chestersturn @ellieluvssturniolos @tits4matt @vanteguccir @luke8989 @matt-sturnioloo @glee2skkii @riggysworld @sturnslux3 @cass-sturn @auttysturnz @oopsiedaisydeer @chrismakesmewet @whore4chris @sturns-mermaid @eeyoresturnz @httpssturns @chrxsprettygirl @bernardsbendystraws @chrisbratt333 @aurorasturnz @iluvchr1s @sturniolosymphony @joanakaulitz

comment 2 be added to the taglist

[slaaverin]

I’ve seen it everywhere now, this view about JK

https://www.instagram.com/stories/pjm_lovergirl/3633861251733421758?utm_source=ig_story_item_share&igsh=ZzM4ajBiajFvZXM3

I Like this creator but they put this on today and I asked what they meant (I knew) and their answer was yes, they meant JK.

It’s absurd how people have these crass expectations of JK especially when it comes to how he acts about Jimin. Like he cannot do anything right, by their standards. Like pjms hate him, and then turn around and further that hate when he does something they don’t like ‘to Jimin. Like Jimin can’t stand up for himself. And as someone else said, it was his choice to make us aware about where JK was, and they listened together. But it was JK who told us back in December Jimin was doing good and they shower together. As I said, nothing is good enough.

I also think people have really weird expectations of someone else’s queer relationship in general. I mean Jimin has the most emotional intelligence of anyone I have seen, he wouldn’t put up with it if he was being mistreated. I fully believe that to be true.

I am glad Jimin is telling us these things, at one point I didn’t think he would given the hate he faces, and that also in 23 he was denied mostly everything about JK, he even told Fallon that he only kept in touch with J Hope and Suga, imagine how JK felt. Again that was his choice.

I don’t care that JK didn’t act like these folks wanted him to. In the moment, it was hilariously cute and funny. In reality they were giggling together in the barracks.

What more do people want seriously?

Wow I read those stories I am in disbelief

What kind of mental gymnastics these people are making like Jimin is some kind of fragile being incapable of making the right decisions for himself and taking care of himself like? I know Jimin likes to play damsel in distress but it's actually a joke not real life.

I agree with you, Jimin is emotionally intelligent and mature and if he keeps reinforcing his devotion, loyalty and love towards JK it's that Jungkook is treating him well IRL???

Once again those men owe us nothing and they have a whole private life together with events and experiences we know nothing about and Jungkook doesn't have to say anything publically if he doesn't want to. The fact we've got a whole list, hours of content, statements, acts of love, basically everything showing that JK is not only fond, but madly in love with Jimin, it is a fucking privilege

So when I see people online projecting hurt feelings (*violins playing*) like boohoo this is so hurtful, who do they think they are? Can they pretend they know what's the true nature of jikook relationship? They can't. Nobody can. We don't know them personally! We don't know even half of their lives.

As you say they absolutely choose what they tell us - and haven't they been highly generous already? - so please can they stop making up entire narratives over small interactions its not a soap opera. Jimin & Jungkook are enlisted together as we speak. Would they do that if they didn't have an actual meaningful relationship? Would Jimin enlist with him if Jungkook was hurtful? Would Jimin be laughing with JK like he does if he was miserable with him?

I swear they need to use their brains. It's madness.

It's like they take only the parts that suit them to reinforce their own fucked up beliefs and projection onto Jimin & Jungkook so they can turn Jimin the victim.

Why the members must always be victims of something?

People always repeat "let's trust the members" well it's a smokescreen bcs nobody trust them apparently to be adult and make the right decisions for themselves. Nobody believe in their character and strength and above all, discernement and judgement.

Jimin doesn't need Julia from wherever telling his relationship isn't good. I believe he can make his own conclusions about his own fucking life thank you very much.

It's downright disrespectful

Once again it's all about wrong projections...damn people need to look at themselves in the mirror. Or maybe they are simply young and lack experience idk 🤦🏻‍♀️

I guess "people" will never be happy no matter what Jungkook does. It is what it is.

If they wanna make up their little stories of drama hurt betrayal like this is some fanfic that's on them

Jimin & Jungkook have given everything, and I mean everything we could have hope for and they are not here to convince anyone.

Those who will get it, will get it and it ends there

Imagine how tired we are tho

Edit:

They did answer each other. They did interact. They were next to each other. People have nothing better to do than making up drama out of nothing.

Discussion closed

[yvesssssssss]

HEEELLLOOO!!! I love your works about Sakamoto characters😻.... may I request nagumo boyfriend x reader; where the reader is have insecurities in her body because she always overthink about the girls who likes him and always chasing nagumo and fall over heels on him. How would nagumo deal and giving reassurance with the reader. Sorry for grammar mistakes.

🎲The only one i see

—Nagumo yoichi

THIS WAS SOO CUTEE🥹 I HOPE YOU LIKE IT!💞

It had started again.

The whispers. The giggles. The girls fluttering around him like moths to a flame.

Nagumo didn’t even seem to notice—half the time he was teasing someone or slinking off on some Order mission—but they sure noticed him. The way he smiled, the way he walked, the way his hair fell just right, or how he looked good even in a ridiculous disguise.

And you?

You couldn’t help it. Every time you looked in the mirror, the doubt started gnawing at you.

Were you pretty enough? Cool enough? Interesting enough?

Why would someone like him pick someone like you, when he had girls throwing themselves at him left and right?

You never said it out loud. But Nagumo could tell.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

It was after one mission when he caught you staring blankly into your reflection on the train window. You were quiet the whole ride. Not your usual self. Your fingers were twisted together in your lap, eyes cloudy.

“Yo,” he said lightly, tapping your cheek with his finger, “you alive in there or do I need to start mouth-to-mouth?”

You forced a laugh, shaking your head. “I'm fine. Just tired.”

“Hmm,” he hummed. “That’s suspicious. You didn’t even threaten to slap me. What’s up?”

You paused, hesitant. Then shrugged. “Nothing important.”

Nagumo narrowed his eyes slightly. For someone who made a living pretending, he was terrifyingly good at noticing the truth.

“You're bad at lying, y’know,” he said, casually slinging an arm around your shoulder. “But that’s okay. I like that about you.”

You looked at him, biting your lip. His face was close, smiling like he always did. But your heart felt heavy.

“...Nagumo,” you said softly, “Do you ever get tired of girls chasing you all the time?”

He blinked, then smirked. “Tired of attention? Me?” He leaned in dramatically. “Never. You’ve seen this face, right?”

You gave a small snort, but it didn’t reach your eyes. You looked away again.

Nagumo’s smile faded a little.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “What’s really going on?”

A pause. Then, finally:

“I just… I know I’m not as pretty as the girls who like you. They’re all so confident. Perfect hair, perfect everything. And I always see them looking at you like you’re a dream.” You clenched your fists. “It’s hard not to think that one day… you’ll realize you could have someone better.”

Silence.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Shame burned your throat.

And then—Nagumo sighed. A long, dramatic, exaggerated sigh.

“Man… and here I thought you were the smart one.”

You blinked, turning your head. “Huh—?”

Before you could say anything else, Nagumo grabbed your hand and tugged you up from your seat. With little effort, he spun you around so you were standing in front of him, and he looked you dead in the eyes.

His usual grin? Gone. He looked serious.

“You listen to me, okay? Really listen. I don’t want anyone else.”

“But—”

“No buts.” His tone sharpened, eyes narrowing slightly. “You think those girls matter to me? They don’t know me. They like some version of me they’ve made up in their heads. But you? You’re the one who knows the real me. The annoying parts. The scary parts. The broken parts.”

He squeezed your hands. “And you still stay.”

Your throat tightened.

“You think I’d trade someone who sees me for some stranger who only likes the way I smile? Baby. Come on.” He leaned forward, bumping his forehead lightly against yours. “Don’t insult yourself like that. Or me.”

You bit your lip, tears stinging your eyes. “But I’m not— I’m not perfect, Nagumo. I’ve got flaws. I get jealous. I overthink. My body—”

“Your body is yours,” he said firmly, voice low and sure. “And I love it. I love you. The way you curl up like a cat when you sleep. The way you frown when you’re concentrating. The way you laugh when you try not to.”

He kissed your forehead. “You're beautiful to me. And I mean real beautiful. Not the kind that fades.”

You stood frozen, words lodged in your chest.

“And if anyone ever makes you feel less than that again,” he muttered, pulling you into his chest, “I’ll put on an ugly disguise and haunt them like a fashion ghost. No mercy.”

You let out a shaky laugh, burying your face against his hoodie. “That’s stupid…”

“It’s romantic, actually,” he insisted, wrapping his arms tighter around you. “Now, how about we go get some takoyaki and I show you off like the goddess you are? You in?”

You hesitated, then nodded, tears finally slipping down your cheeks—this time from relief.

Nagumo brushed them away with his thumbs and grinned.

“There she is,” he said. “My one and only.”

[mysticaltora8276]

Yeah, it’s something I’ve been noticing a lot of. And I don’t try to, but I have watched the show long enough to notice that there’s a big disconnect with how they treat Ncuti’s incarnation as opposed to other incarnations like say David. They fall over backwards to excuse a lot of 10’s crappy behavior. In spite of the fact that from my point of view, his behavior is a lot more crappy than from what I’ve seen admittedly small amount the 15th Doctor’s outing. And 13 also got extra scrutiny. Not as much as 15 but still a lot. It seems that if they are a hot guy, they are allowed to get away with pretty much everything. Which is funny because Matt Smith’s doctor was explicitly called out on that behavior and he did suffer narrative consequences and you did see him repent and change due to it. It seems David’s doctor gets an automatic pass because he is the “most popular doctor.” Kind of makes me wonder if people did the same for Tom Baker’s doctor.

"Belinda should have gotten mad and rejected the Doctor after what he did." Okay. What good would that do? Like honestly what could she have possibly said or done to him that would be worse than the hell he was clearly putting himself through in his own head the moment he started thinking clearly again?

It wouldn't have made her feel any better either! Rejecting him would've left her with no support. It would've built a wall between them. She'd be miserable, he'd be miserable, nobody would be happy and nobody would get better.

Instead, she informed him that what he did scared her. There was no need to moralize about it being Wrong. He knew that! He knew that when he was doing it. She expressed how she felt, and affirmed that she still cared about him.

IOW, she handled it like a mature adult who regularly deals with people in high-stress situations. That's how you should handle someone who acted out while triggered.

[queerteapie]

Please, I Beg (18+)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness/Rio Vidal/Reader

Rating: Mature

Fic Playlist: Spotify

Summary: You are happy within your little bubble with Agatha and Rio, but then someone from the outside pierces that bubble and you feel the air slowly escaping your lungs.

Tags: 18+, angst, smut, NSFW, femme reader

Reader Tags: @filmedbyharkness @agatha-rio-enthusiast @unidentable @fadedbee201923 @bigfinsquidd @katiemay-025

Masterlist | Ao3 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

Chapter Five

You don’t know how long you lie there, tangled up with Agatha, the two of you tucked together beneath the crumpled sheets. Not asleep, just savoring the quiet, the warm drift of fingertips and lazy conversation.

Agatha shifts a little, her fingers tracing slow patterns across your stomach. "So," she murmurs, voice low and content, "you were going to tell me about that ridiculous book you’re reading."

You grin, tilting your head to look at her. "The one with the chaotic witches and bad puns?"

"That's the one," she says, smiling against your skin.

You laugh softly. "It’s so bad, Aggie. I almost threw it across the room twice. But it’s weirdly charming. You’d probably love it."

She hums thoughtfully. "You’ll have to lend it to me."

"Gladly," you say, nudging her playfully with your knee. "You can suffer through the magical nonsense too."

Agatha chuckles, the sound warm against you. She shifts even closer, draping an arm across your waist, clearly not in any hurry to move.

Neither of you notices how much time has slipped past until the front door creaks open.

“Home!” Rio’s voice calls out, bright and familiar, followed closely by the shuffle of sneakers and the click of the door closing.

You lift your head, blinking at Agatha in surprise.

Agatha just smiles lazily and presses a quick kiss to your temple. “Guess the world’s still turning,” she murmurs.

“Oi!” Rio’s voice, unmistakable, full of mock outrage. “Did you two forget we exist down here?”

You can almost hear the grin in her voice.

Agatha lifts her head just enough to glance toward the door, then looks back at you with a wicked little smile. “I suppose hiding’s out of the question.”

You shift under her, rolling lazily to one side and tugging the crumpled sheet with you. “Come on, before she storms up here and drags us out of bed.”

Agatha laughs quietly, soft and almost smug, and presses one last kiss to your shoulder before finally sliding off the bed. She doesn't bother reaching for her robe, just grabs the nearest oversized hoodie from a chair and tosses it over her head. It swallows her whole, the hem barely brushing her thighs, and somehow makes her look even more effortlessly devastating.

You pull on Rio’s joggers and shirt again, a little wrinkled now, but still somehow warm from where Agatha had pressed against you.

Together, you head for the stairs, bare feet padding over the cool floorboards.

Downstairs, Rio is sprawled dramatically across the couch, one arm thrown over her eyes like a tragic hero. Nicky is perched on the coffee table in front of her, brandishing his two dentist stickers like they’re priceless medals.

The second he sees you, Nicky lights up. "Look! I didn't even cry!"

You grin, heart squeezing a little at how proud he looks. “You’re the bravest hero I’ve ever seen.”

Rio peeks at you from beneath her arm, grinning. “Braver than me?”

“Much braver,” you tease, sticking your tongue out at her.

Agatha snorts and crosses the room, ruffling Nicky’s hair affectionately. “He’s officially a superhero now. Cape and all.”

“Dentist said he’s got good teeth too,” Rio adds, sitting up and pulling Nicky into her side. “Which is suspicious, considering the number of cookies this one gets away with.”

Nicky giggles and wriggles free, launching himself toward Agatha, who catches him easily and spins him in a lazy circle before setting him back down.

The house feels full again, buzzing with movement and laughter, but the softness between you all, the tenderness still lingering from this morning. If anything, it’s woven itself deeper, an invisible thread pulling you closer.

Rio catches your eye over Nicky’s head, her grin turning just a little softer, just a little more yours.

And you realize, all over again, that you’re right where you’re supposed to be.

Lunch comes and goes in a lazy, golden stretch of time.

The four of you move easily around each other, the way people do when they’ve spent enough days in each other's pockets. Agatha picks at leftovers in the fridge and whips together sandwiches, while Rio battles Nicky over how many mozzarella sticks he’s allowed. You linger near the kitchen counter, sipping a cold drink and laughing at the playful bickering, feeling more at home than you have anywhere in a long time.

The afternoon drifts by. There’s no rush, no pressure, just a soft hum of normalcy that wraps around you like a favorite sweater.

You help Nicky build a new Lego set on the living room floor while Agatha reads beside you, stretched out with a book she plucked from your bag - the very one you’d recommended earlier. Every now and then, she nudges you with her foot, wiggling the book pointedly when you glance over. You just grin and shake your head, knowing exactly what she’s hinting at.

Later, when the sun has started to dip and the light in the house turns syrupy and warm, Nicky perks up suddenly, wide-eyed.

“Will you stay for movie night?" he asks, hopeful and bright, practically bouncing in place.

The question squeezes something tender in your chest. You open your mouth to say yes - to say of course - but then you remember. Your heart sinks a little.

“I wish I could, buddy," you say gently, brushing a hand through his hair. "But I’ve got another babysitting job tonight. I have to head out soon."

His face falls, small and disappointed but trying to be brave about it. Rio swoops in, ruffling his hair. 

“We'll save the best movies for when you can stay," she promises, shooting you a warm look over his head.

You smile, touched in that soft, aching way you always are around them.

Grabbing your bag, you sling it over your shoulder, taking one last look at this house that somehow feels more like home with every visit.

Rio steps closer, her hand warm and easy on your arm, and presses a kiss to your cheek.

“Next time, yeah?" she murmurs, before taking Nicky’s hand and steering him toward the living room. "Go pick out something with dinosaurs, kiddo. We’ll watch it together."

Their voices fade as they disappear down the hall, leaving you alone in the entryway with Agatha.

You turn back to grab your jacket and find her already there, impossibly close.

Her hands are braced on either side of you, caging you gently but firmly against the wall. Her body doesn’t touch yours, not quite, but the heat rolls off her in waves, teasing, threatening.

You swallow, heart kicking up hard against your ribs.

Agatha smiles - a slow, wolfish thing - and leans in, close enough that her breath brushes your lips. Her eyes flick down to your mouth and back up again, deliberate.

"You’re not getting away that easy," she murmurs, voice low and rough-edged with promise.

Before you can even think of something clever to say, she kisses you.

It’s not soft, not tentative - it's deep and claiming, stealing the air from your lungs and making your knees buckle just a little. Her fingers brush the side of your throat, anchoring you there like she’s afraid you might slip away.

When she finally pulls back, you’re dizzy, barely holding yourself upright.

Agatha chuckles under her breath and leans in one more time, her lips grazing the shell of your ear.

“I'll let you know how I find the book," she murmurs, voice dark with amusement and something heavier, something that promises more.

Her teeth scrape lightly across your earlobe before she steps back, cool and composed again, like she hasn’t just wrecked you with a few casual touches.

You nod, a little dazed, lips still tingling from the press of hers.

Agatha smiles, slow and wicked, then finally steps back, giving you room to slip outside and into the soft spill of afternoon light.

You catch one last glimpse of her over your shoulder, leaning against the doorframe, watching you go like she’s already planning exactly what she’s going to do next time you’re alone.

**********

Your phone buzzes against the kitchen counter where you left it, and when you glance over, you spot the group chat name flashing: The Babysitter’s Fanclub - complete with a ridiculous selfie Rio must’ve taken of herself and Agatha, both throwing peace signs and blowing kisses.

You grin and swipe it open while stirring a pot of soup for dinner.

Rio: Hope you're not giving in to chocolate demands like you do at ours. 

Agatha: Or making the parents fall for you.

You huff a soft laugh, a flush creeping up your neck. These two are going to be the death of you.

Another buzz. 

Rio: What time you done? There's a spot waiting for you between us in bed. 

You bite your lip, trying not to grin like a fool while you sneak a glance at your little charge, still totally absorbed in their cartoon marathon.

You quickly tap out a reply: "Should be finished by 8. Keep the spot warm for me."

Almost instantly:

Agatha: Always.

Your chest feels warm, a little breathless. You tuck the phone away again, heart doing that stupid fluttery thing it only seems to do for them.

But then another buzz.

New text.

Different sender.

Liv: Hey! I'm in town!! Breakfast tomorrow?? Miss you!

You blink down at it, caught off-guard.

Liv: Breakfast. Tomorrow.

Someone from outside the little world you’ve been floating in - the slow mornings at Agatha and Rio’s, the lazy afternoons tangled up in blankets and soft laughter.

The reminder hits harder than you expect.

You hesitate, fingers hovering over the screen, before pulling the group chat back up. Your thumbs feel clumsy as you type.

“Change of plan, my friend’s in town. I won’t be able to stay tonight."

You stare at it for a second before hitting send, the words feeling heavier once they're out in the open.

The three dots appear almost immediately, and your stomach twists.

And twists harder when they vanish without a reply.

You chew your lip, glancing toward the living room where the cartoons are still blaring, the normalcy of your babysitting job suddenly feeling...off, somehow. Smaller.

You hadn’t even realized how tightly you'd wrapped yourself up in them. How much you didn’t want to leave.

After a minute - or maybe it’s longer, it feels like forever - your phone buzzes again.

It’s Rio.

Rio: Change of plan?? Outrageous. Guess we’ll just have fun us two then.

Another beat, and a second message comes through, a little softer under the tease. 

Rio: Have a good time though, sweetheart. Just know...it’s not the same without you.

And just beneath it, another from Agatha, a little slower to come through. 

Agatha: Enjoy yourself. We'll keep your spot warm for next time.

You stare at the screen for a long moment, heart tugging painfully sweet in your chest.

Even from here, they feel close. Warm. Waiting. It makes your chest ache in that complicated, messy way you’re still getting used to.

You almost text back right away - miss you already, wish I was coming over - but you force yourself to wait. You don’t even know why. Maybe because some part of you is scared of what it means to miss them this much.