#what is the secret code for the boys

[respectthepetty]

I'm crazy, right?

I really wanted to focus on the colors in episode eight of Boy Next World, but I need everyone to remember that Cir was calling out Ozone's name in a parallel world, so if Ozone stayed with the mom instead of Cir, he would have died.

So now I'm worried because Ozone keeps hinting that he really understands that the mom only needs *one* son, so I think homeboy is trying to pull a switcheroo, and y'all . . .

NO!!!!

DON'T DO IT, BOO!

Because this show is going out of its way to directly state that Phu is the light of Cir's dark world.

Of any world.

And all worlds.

Because parallel worlds really do exist.

And in every single one of those worlds, Cir will have Phu to brighten his life.

And save him through his love.

So Phu will always have Cir to protect him.

But who has Ozone, y'all?!

Because even when the other Cir returned to his world, he was still blue.

He was still kind of dark.

Yet there was Phu to brighten his day.

And even when Phu was low, he still carried Cir around through his color.

He will always merge their colors even when hurting.

Because he will love Cir in any world no matter what.

So even though I want to give this show a Color Award right now for the way this scene played out, with each boy standing in their world

And Cir finally being brave enough to cross over into Phu's world after Phu told him that he loved him

(Because it's always about Cir needing to be brave enough to reach out and hold onto what he wants)

I can't shake that Jin is losing his mind reading abilities, and Cir came back to his world in the red.

Like a lingering warning sign of the secret he buried.

So even in their happiness, they are still upside down, in the red.

While the other worlds got to merge their colors and rest peacefully in the green.

So would Cir coming clean about his deep dark secret finally allow them to get out of the red and live peacefully together in the green, or does this story demand a bigger sacrifice?

Someone come tell me I'm crazy.

Please

[insomnya777]

"what if i took your call as more than just a call" but make it joel about etho finally talking to him in secret life

[k6tzie]

COD P☆RN LINKS | PT. 3

ghost: always so quiet and reserved, seeing you like this is refreshing. so humane having ur guts rearranged after doubting your lieutenants skills! dove, you're so needy. but luckily for you, you have a patient, big bf came back from prices' baby shower now u and si want a baby of ur own, but u can't wait:( doughy ass bouncing on his long cock that no one's sucked in over a year, thankfully now ur here! sharing the captains daughter with soap<3 trusting is hard for him, so once he has you, he doesn't wanna let go warm winter fuck with ur gentle boy price: once you taught olderbf!price how to make hotter videos, he thinks he's so much cooler but that old man lives within him💔i mean look how he's holding the phone! you feel a big, throbbing thing in your tummy, hopefully he doesn't press down on it D: when u took him to meet ur parents, you just looked too good not to fuck afterwards :( as much as he loves his quiet girls, he can't say no to a bubbly one night stand now can he he didn't wanna have to do this but this IS what bad girls get... dadsfriend!price taking you upstairs during the bbq. there's so many people so no one will hopefully notice ur gone... soap: totally something soap would do, fucking you levitating 😭 first time having a crush this intense, taking sneaky photos of you, drawing you in his sketchbook, leaving you little gifts anonymously - now that you gave him a chance, he's too shocked to even do anything! honestly his dream is hot gf x loser guy he's a messy boy who likes his sex quick! so so much cum dripping out, it's like your boys' in heaven filthy gym partner can't keep his hands to himself only one person can eat you this well when you're sick, soap! gaz: your drunk sex was so good, you won't forget it even when you're sober <3 appreciating that pussy with the love and tongue it deserves so wet and tight like ur ex boyfriend did nothing at all smh, must've been tiny deeeeep in ur gfs womb! pretty boy barely ever gets angry, but when price has been on his back the whole week, and now you're giving him attitude - he can't take it anymore! hot belly bulge - who would've thought from the serene, goofy guy? graves: ah, so THAT'S how you passed recruitment i see, interesting... what a baby, never been with a real woman. actually a very soft, sensual man. don't mistake him as rough cuz of how he acts at work lucky shadow of the week gets to record the barracks bunny and graves kept trying to draw milk out of you but he didn't realise not everyone just...lactates :(he can't stop rewatching this video y'all took, how your greedy pussy just swallows his dick whole :o purposely just teasing you so he can see u angry konig: an efficient way to wake up his beautiful baby✨ his cold tongue and your warm socks make an interesting contrast🤔 he caught you masturbating all by yourself and you didn't seem to reach ur full potential :( loser!konig coded, once he finally gets his rough hands on you, it's hard letting a beauty like you go ruined ur cute little panties smh, greedy big boy mean colonel punishing his secret fuck buddy after he found out you've started talking to another person💢 bonus!!: surprise ;)

@xtrrdnrypotato @livingdead-g1rl

[shhh-secret-time]

Are you people proud of yourselves? I cracked under the, not so hard to crack, pressure! I wrote a whole damn thing for Stan and now I'm gonna go work on Kyle! And I'm gonna love every minute of it!

How dare you all let me be this monster! /hj

[starkwlkr]

teenagers | hugh jackman

an: i love y’all thanks for supporting my delusions about a 55 year old man (are y’all tired of me posting hugh/logan fics yet?? lol)

Your seventeen year old daughter, Olivia, leaned her phone against the paper tower holder. You and Hugh were getting breakfast ready while Olivia did god knows what. You would see her film tiktoks and take selfies for her instagram often so you assumed she was doing that. You were proven right when music started playing from her phone.

“I think the apple’s rotten right to the core. . . “

You watched as Olivia danced to the song. You weren’t even sure what the dance was, but you found it fun. Hugh just stood there completely confused.

Olivia finished the dance the turned her phone to record yours and Hugh’s reaction. She obviously posted it to tiktok where marvel fans found it funny that you and Hugh didn’t know what was going on.

oliviaaajckmn: 1 million dollars and I’ll make mum and dad do the apple dance in their costumes

wandasmagic wolverine is so brat coded

peter3stan PLS MAKE THEM DO THE DANCE

gwenpool “thank you olivia jackman” we all say in unison

buckysarm MAKE THEM DO THE DANCE AND MY LIFE IS YOURS

Hugh was a family man, it was no secret. Something he always loved doing was bringing his kids to work. Your two boys practically grew up on the x-men and avengers set. When Olivia was on set, Hugh was basically her assistant.

“Dad, I want a smoothie!”

“Dad! You’re not holding the umbrella right!”

But that was baby Olivia. Teenage Olivia spent most of her time in Hugh’s trailer or annoying her father while he rested in his trailer.

“Liv, go annoy Ryan or Shawn. Let me take a quick nap.” Hugh mumbled. He was still in his wolverine costume using a jacket as a blanket.

“I just want to know why Thor was crying? And don’t say who’s Thor! I saw the footage old man!”

“Oh my god! Is that Loki?”

No, the god of mischief wasn’t on set of the new avengers movie. Olivia had named her puppy after her favorite marvel character. The internet found it funny that wolverine or your character wasn’t the favorite.

Olivia was currently paying you a visit on the new avengers movie. To her, it did feel weird seeing you behind the camera instead of in front, but at least you were still part of the new marvel phase.

Pedro Pascal, the new Mr. Fantastic, asked for permission to pet the miniature dachshund. Olivia nodded and smiled when Loki the dog immediately took a liking to the older man.

“This is so beautiful I think I might cry.” Olivia fake sobbed as Loki started exploring the avengers set, he almost tripped over several wires, but Olivia saved the pup from getting tangled. It reminded her of all the times she almost tripped on the camera wires when she was younger.

“Hey, mother,” Olivia greeted you with a kiss on the cheek. She wasn’t the only one giving you a kiss, Loki had jumped into yours arms ready to give you kisses. “Loki missed you too.”

“Only Loki?” You teased. “Or are you just here to get a picture with Pedro?”

“You know me so well, mom.”

[chiarrara]

ran out of tags. a lot on my mind.

jjk american au -

yuuji would be puerto rican on his mom's side, 1/4 black on his dad's side from his grandpa. not much connection to his boricua heritage but still proud of it and wanting to reconnect and claim it by the time he's a teenager. his name would be a combination of his parents names: Kari + Eugene = Jikari. but after his mom left and his dad died, his grandpa raised him and just called him Euji after his dad. He got the nickname Ji/G in middle school, and a lot of times his friends would call out to him "Yooo, G!!" as a running bit. He's from KC, grew up east of troost.

nobara would be from one of the tiny ass towns in rural Oklahoma Northeast of Tulsa and Muskogee. She's Cherokee through her mom and grandma's side, and has tribal citizenship. her dad's white, but she doesn't know anything else about him and he has never been in her life. Her mom named her Briar Rose after sleeping beauty, but she only goes by Rose because she thinks it's a stupid name. Her grandma has some cultural knowledge that she tried to pass down to her daughter, and then to Nobara who took to it a little better.

megumi would grow up in the southside suburbs of chicago. he's second generation white hispanic on his dad's side and ??? on his mom's. his name would be natalia. toji's family is mostly still in mexico where they are truly filty rich. tsumiki is half-filipino on her mom's side. her name would be... idk probably jasmine or something. megumi grew up truly bilingual as his dad speaks primarily Spanish, but even without him around, the people in his building spoke either spanish or english, so he grew up speaking a mix. tsumiki struggles more with spanish because she didn't grow up with it from a young age.

they'd all end up at the same specialty school in chicago proper. nobara wanted to leave and move to a city so applied, yuuji got recruited, and megumi was in a development program since elementary school.

[clemmmmmmmmmmmmmm]

“The monsters gone and your daddy here…”

Batboys as fathers

⸻

1. Jason Todd(ALLL girls, 2-4 girls)

• Protective but soft dad: Looks like he’d teach his kid how to hotwire a car (and maybe he does), but he’s the first to tear up during a school play.

• Reads bedtime stories with dramatic flair: Does all the voices, sometimes throws in a few expletives before quickly correcting himself.

• Rides or dies for his kid: Anyone bullies them? Jason shows up at school with the most terrifying “talk” a teacher or principal has ever had the misfortune of enduring.

• Teaches them practical skills early: Like street smarts, how to throw a punch, and the importance of carrying snacks.

• “If anyone hurts you, just tell Dad” vibes: Then he vanishes for a couple of hours. No one asks questions.

⸻

2. Dick Grayson(3 girls one boy)

• Golden retriever dad: Super involved, enthusiastic, and emotionally available.

• Dance party central: His kid knows every 80s and 90s pop hit. They have choreographed routines.

• Always has a band-aid, a snack, and dad jokes ready: And somehow manages to make even the worst day better.

• Takes a million pictures: Captures every moment — first step, first fall, even the tantrums.

• Teaches empathy and kindness first: Encourages emotional expression and gentle strength.

⸻

3. Tim Drake(2 boys)

• Anxious but dedicated: Googled “how to be a good dad” about 1,500 times.

• Coffee-fueled midnight cuddles: If the kid’s up late, Tim’s probably already awake working on something — but drops everything for them.

• Super into educational toys: Probably has flashcards and a toddler coding game by the time they’re three.

• A quiet anchor: His love is subtle but steady. He might not always know what to say, but his presence means everything.

• Raises a tiny, smart-mouthed mini-detective: And secretly loves it.

⸻

4. Damian Wayne(Twin dad, one of each)

• Surprisingly gentle (with his kid): Doesn’t trust most people with them and is always watching with eagle eyes.

• Teaches discipline, but cuddles in secret: Has a hard time being emotionally open but melts when his child hugs him first.

• Introduces them to animals early: His kid is on a first-name basis with most of the zoo. Also knows how to feed a bat properly by age five.

• Mini-me energy: His kid is probably as stubborn, blunt, and deadly smart as he is.

• Takes parenting as a sacred duty: He’ll raise a warrior, yes, but one who understands mercy and love.

⸻

5. Bruce Wayne(girl)

• Trying his best: He has no idea what he’s doing, even though he has so many children

• Overprotective to the extreme: GPS tracker in their shoes, private security at the playground — you name it.

• Teaches with stories: Lessons often come through stories about “a friend” who was also a vigilante and made mistakes.

• Rare but meaningful vulnerability: Those quiet, late-night talks where Bruce opens up just a little are life-changing.

• Sees being a father as redemption: He’s determined to give his child the safety and love he never had.

⸻

[timmydraker]

CW: use of R word

Tim who, as much as he doesn’t want it to be true, is a poster boy for typical Neurodivergence. He’s more logically thinking that emotionally and needs obvious signs of someone’s emotional state that he can put together to understand how he should respond to help them.

But that’s not what bothers him because that doesn’t bother his parents.

Instead it’s his passion, though not in technology and detective work as they quickly found use for that in their business, but for bugs.

Ever since he was a kid Tim has been enamoured by insects and arachnids and even fungi. He would only read books that talked about bugs or had one on the cover, but since it helped him learn to read at a steady pace his parents didn’t mind.

At least, not at first.

When Tim got into coding just so he could make his own little web-journal for all his bug finds, they were happy he was learning how to organise and structure at just six years old, but when he only did those things regarding bugs…

Tim had his first panic attack when he watched his father pick up his terrarium filled with Diapheromera Femorata (Stick bugs) and chucked it into the bin. The glass shattered as the corner his something hard and he was forced to watch his bugs struggle to navigate the glass and rubbish, most of them injured.

His mother had gagged when she saw them and demanded the whole bin be burnt with the bugs still inside.

Tim had been so heart broken, but mostly confused. His parents traveled the world to dig up dirt and old items that were mostly the same yet they didn’t like bugs?

When he asked one his Nanny’s she gave him an answer that he would never forget, “Well, you see… only those people like bugs, y’know? The… special ones, like re-“

Tim never even let himself think of the last word she spoke and from then only forced himself to only focus on his computer work. He still loved photography but now he took photos of skylines and trees, not the beautiful beehive a few yards behind his house or the spider webs that sat between branches like art works. He took photos of Batman and Robin and for a long time that was enough to make his longing bearable.

If he still followed several pages and articles about bugs either a secret email account, that didn’t matter.

His parents were happy with him even if they still made remarks about his ‘stupid little fixation’.

It’s when they are going over the paper work for Bruce to be Tim’s legal guardian while they weren’t home with Tim’s older brothers hanging around as moral support (bodyguards) that his parents mock him.

Janet is signing some paper with a stupidly expensive pen and chatting to no one in particular when she says, “You’re all lucky we killed this nasty little bugs of his so you don’t have to deal with them.”

Everyone else in the room freezes, beside Jack who huffs a laugh and adds, “Good thing we did, he’d probably be more of a retard otherwise- talking about ‘habitats’ and bloody spiders.”

All of the members of the Wayne family are dead quiet as Tim sits there with a clear look of disassociation coming into his eyes. Alfred has a calm look on his face that tells all who know him that he’s furious and Bruce is strikingly similar.

Jason looks ready to attack and Dick isn’t even moving to stop his brother or calm anyone down.

Damian is holding onto Titus’s collar like a lifeline but seems to give the hound some kind of silent order as the usually calm dog begins to growl low and dangerous.

Jack and Janet tense and stare at both dog and master, Jack ordering him to control his dog.

Bruce stands, letting Titus growl and taking the half signed papers and throwing them in the bin, “I changed my mind, I will be taking you to court for full custody of my son. Leave my house now so I may obtain a restraining order.”

Janet genuinely flounders for a moment and begins to shout about outrage and audacity but when Dick sees that Tim is starting to cry he stands up and reminds them that he is a cop before moving to pick up his second youngest brother and leaving the room.

Tim doesn’t hear much else, only muffled shouting and the sound of a door slamming.

He distantly realises he’s in the family room, not the one they use to have guest but the real one with beanbags and a snack draw, and is being cradled by his brothers. Even Damian is beside him, holding onto his hand tightly as they wait for Bruce and Alfred.

Tim sobs into Dicks chest for Alamos a whole hour before settling more, Bruce coming into the room and Jason and Dick reluctantly hand him over to he can be held by their father.

“Tim, chum, it’s alright. We’ve got you.”

The boy in question shakes his head, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t talk about the bugs I promise-“

Bruce squeezes him tighter and kisses his head, “I don’t want that. What I want is to hear about your bugs.”

Stunned, Tim looks up at him with confusion and barely gets his mouth to move enough to ask what he means.

Dick coos from beside him on the next couch and runs a hand through his hair lovingly, “My sweet baby brother we love you, and you love bugs! So of course we want to hear about it. I’m so sorry we didn’t know how they had been treating you but it was wrong. There’s nothing wrong with you, I swear it.”

Tim sniffled, nodding absentmindedly. They gave him a moment for their words to sink in before Damian spoke up, “Timothy, I demand you tell me about your bugs.”

Jason makes a noise and elbows Damian as if to tell him to shut up, probably thinking the other was being rude, but Tim knows his brother well and just smiles. “I can do that, Dami. I… I don’t think you’ll be very interested though.”

Damian scoffs, “I will ignore that statement as it implies I would waste my time with something I don’t care for.”

Bruce smiles at his youngest and holds Tim’s hand, “I agree. Could you maybe tell us about why you like them? Or your favourites?”

It takes him a moment to respond, but when he looks at all their open expressions and gets an encouraging nod from Alfred, he stutters out a response before gradually gaining confidence as they ask genuine questions to his facts and descriptions.

They each make an effort to ask him about bugs, Jason asking a few times if he wants to check out some books that he knows use bugs as symbolism’s and Dick asking if he can tell him the difference between insects and arachnids several times. Damian and Bruce are both a bit more subtle with their support at first, but after a month Tim enters his room to find a giant terrarium with several different sections so he can have multiple bugs that might not get along with each other.

Bruce and Alfred don’t even make any comments or give disapproving looks when Dick and Jason reveal they each got a tattoo of the bug that Tim said he associates with them.

[theonottsbxtch]

MAX VERSTAPPEN MASTERLIST | MV1

codes: ✦ angst

ONE SHOTS:

miss you baby | gf!reader summary: while max may be an aggressive on track, there is one thing that most don't know and that's how much of a love sick sap he is for his girlfriend. his whole world revolves around her. and when she's not around, he feels it a lot. so when she couldn't make it to brazil, the only thing he could do was pout, until...

mi novio, max verstappen | mexican!reader summary: how crazy of a thing would it be to introduce your long term boyfriend to your mexican family during christmas out of all times?

baby, baby | fiance!reader summary: max's performance is waivering a tiny bit, and people are confused at how the 3x world champion is struggling. but little do they know. it's because of a little one.

forever and always | military!max summary: if max had to count how many people had stuck with him his whole life, he'd only have to lift a pinky. there was only her, always her who stuck beside him, even when he went off to the military.

don't wanna be saved | mob boss!max summary: she'd gotten good at escaping her past, at covering up her tracks. but when a good looking single father with enough money to end her problems comes for dressage sessions for his daughter, she struggles to hide her secrets. and one thing she doesn't want, it to be saved.

my peace | bestfriend!max summary: growing up, max wasn't allowed friends. but she had managed to sneak into his life. no matter how many times jos told him he didn't deserve her. when he wanted the world to go quiet, only one person could do that, and that was his best friend.

my birthday, my love | gf!reader summary: it's understandable to forget a birthday, especially when you're a formula one driver. but next never would. he's too good for that.

marne la vallee | war deserter!max summary: the war took so much out of people and it took so much out of max, that's why he fled. fled south to france, where he met her. the woman of his dreams. but not everything is fair in love and war.

teen idle | stranger!reader summary: the pressure of being a driver and becoming generational talent wasn't easy, which is why max liked the idea of going incognito sometimes, meeting people who didn't know his name, or recognise his accent. he liked it when life was quiet.

serve | tennis player!reader summary: she'd heard it all by now, how max was nothing but a distraction. and while she was good at shutting out the noise, sometimes it was good to shut them up for good.

SERIES:

the princess and the driver | princess!reader summary: her whole life all she's known is duty and how to be the perfect princess, but sometimes she yearns for freedom. and to her, that freedom came in the form of a boy by the karting track with a twinkle in his eye and a soft accent.

part one | part two | part three | part four | completed

whats left behind | barrell racer!reader x bull rider!max summary: when max had the chance to make it big, he took off and left his small town and girlfriend behind in the rearview mirror of his truck. he made a name for himself but now he's not quite sure he's happy with that so he comes back. but if there is one thing the town doesn't forget, it's their grudges.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | completed

preacher’s daughter | catholic!reader summary: her family was the perfect picture of what a catholic family should look like, everyone but her family knew what happened behind closed doors, until max found out. until max did something about it.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | final part | completed

99 problems | single dad!reader summary: max, multi wdc owner, multi millionaire, mul- father? that wasn't supposed to happen. nor was having an 18 year old dumped on his door step. max isn't used to this, he doesn't know how it works, so is it bad if he lets him live a little? part one | part two - completed

foggy memories | spy!max summary: all his life, all max can remember is working as a spy for this agency. he's one of the best in his field. he goes in, extracts the information and gets out. until he finds himself compromised, by a girl who feels all too familiar, who tells him that maybe his life he'd constructed in his head wasn't real.

part one | in progress

match made in hell | driver!reader summary: she had everything, wins, championships, a fiancee. but one text message makes that all crumble. and suddenly the man she thought loved her his whole life is her sworn enemy? and now her track enemy is her lover? what was going on.

part one | part two | part three | completed

[respectthepetty]

Elyes/Elias gave Pat head, so I forgive him for all his rich boy antics.

Elyes is a giver . . . of forehead kisses, blowjobs, and problems. He is multi-talented.

He is also light. Even though he is still grumpy, he is the lightest he has been after having sex with Pat.

So, of course, this Black Brooder has to ruin it by being mean and distant to his Happy Human secretary since he cannot sort out his feelings.

He demands to see Kim and puts back on the black like its armor, yet he takes it off and hands it to Kim once it's clear Kim is there for sex.

And he shows up to grab his drunk Happy Human who, just like Elyes, has shed his jacket and color throughout the night.

Both of them are lost in whatever is happening between them. Pat is grey. Elyes is light.

And the mood is just right for head . . . kisses? Kisses on the head! And tears.

Nothing happens, and Pat wakes up in a different grey shirt because not having sex only makes everything murkier.

But just like before when Elyes stayed the night, he remains light.

Well, at least until he gets back to work.

He is upset that Pat didn't stay home, and that Pat is interviewing a person who will probably become his replacement.

Because no matter how light these other boys are, none of them can replace Pat.

And I think that pisses Elyes off; therefore, he must brood.

Pat has always been the balance Elyes needs, but now that the line between them has been crossed, neither one of them knows how to act.

Is this a moment to bite off each other's heads, to give head kisses, or to give head? The Wattpad BL doesn't know and neither do the characters.

So Pat is going to quit in an effort to distance himself from the man who is making his world darker.

And Elyes is going to brood about it.

[insomnya777]

hi i just want to say i reallllyyy love your smalletho superhero au on ao3 it's amazing and aughhhh im so so insane about it and i cant sayy anyyythinggg to my friends cause ofc theyre twitter people and i have to be insane about your fic alone *sad face*

i love love love the amount of taylor swift titles btw

(also id go insane if you name a fic after false god or i can see you lyrics just a thought hehe)

awwww thank u so much omg! i lovelovelove naming things after songs i love (which is why there's so much taylor and olivia rodrigo LOL) and omg ive been thinking about lyrics from i can see you for a while now actually!!

[trivia-yandere]

a favor (1 ½)

your life gets even more complicated when your secret with professor kim is found out by two classmates.

word count: 4.390

warning: dub-con, coercion, dirty talk, blackmail, alcohol intake, substance intake/smoking, degradation, semi-public sex, oral sex (f/m), fingering, jackson wang party bc we need to bring those back, oral sex, threesome, unprotected sex, deep throating/face-fucking, tit fucking, cum swallowing, cumshot/facials,

part one

Your hips sway along to the deafening music. Alcohol flows through your body and you’re feeling more than content. The flickering colorful lights are an added boost to your serotonin and at the moment, you didn’t care about anything else.

You’ve managed to fix your grade - even if Professor Kim got your failing grade up to a C, stating in the email he sent that you’ve improved greatly and there’s still room for more improvement. You had an idea what “more improvement” meant, but showing your father the new grade you had assured him that you were doing better.

You’re unsure how you feel about Professor Kim now. After the class ended, you and he continued with his game. You’ve completely ruined the panties he had given you, soaking them entirely with your arousal and cum while Jin had coated you in his own cum. It was a long, shameful walk of shame you’ve had back to your own home. Jin had kept your panties for himself and instead had you leave with the ones he’s given you, the vibrations not stopping until you were home and had taken them off.

You’ve realized you lost your friend nearly an hour into the party. You were also out of a drink and now you were making your way back towards the kitchen. It’s always quieter there - and more drinks were held in there than out where you were currently. You’re positive your friend had found whatever boy she was entertaining this week to spite her ex-boyfriend.

You pass a familiar face on the way to the kitchen, your mind now recalling just where you’ve seen him from. A cloud of smoke hits you as you swing the kitchen door open and your eyes squint. You wave a hand in front of your face as you walk deeper into said kitchen, door swinging close behind you. The music is muffled now.

Your heels click as you go towards the island where mountains of alcohol are displayed. There’s mixed drinks, as well, and you’re positive you would be inebriated if you sipped as little as a drop of it. 

“Y/N.”

The voice speaking your name has you more alert. Your eyes turn towards the sound and instantly you hum.

“Jungkook.” you murmur. You knew Jungkook from a few classes, but you saw him more at parties. He’s always in the corner, however, dancing to himself with a drink. This time, however, he’s holding a joint between his fingers.

“Haven’t seen you at the last party.”

You decide on pouring yourself a shot. You and Jungkook weren’t friends and you and he barely talked. You two, however, share glances every now and then. You can acknowledge that Jeon Jungkook was an attractive man who was worthy of several glances.

“I was busy.” you shrug your shoulders. Busy getting your grade up that is.

“We missed you.”

The other voice is deeper and instantly, you’re off guard. You hadn’t noticed him upon entering, that Jungkook wasn’t alone in the kitchen. 

Kim Taehyung is on the opposite side of you. He’s holding a red cup in his hands, dark eyes watching you as he leans against the island.

You take the shot in one go, the harsh liquor burning your throat.

“Is that so?” you ask. Taehyung was another man you’ve shared more than a few glances with, but you and he rarely spoke. Mainly because he was once involved with a friend and that went against girl-code.

“Of course. You’re at every party.” Taehyung chuckles. He shakes his amber colored-hair out of his eyes as he laughs. “What were you busy doing?”

This is the most you’ve talked to either of them. You turn away to pour another shot, finding that Jungkook had made himself on the opposite side of you on the island. He holds out the joint for you to take. 

“Peer pressure?” Jungkook asks, raising a pierced brow.

You glance at the joint, a trail of dancing smoke flowing in the air. Your eyes trail to his tattooed fingers, up his arm until you reach his eyes.

“You can say no.” Jungkook snickers, his rosy lips curling into an amused smirk. His lip is pierced, as well, you note.

Your hand works for you, grasping the joint. You bring it to your lips and hit it, not knowing that you’d regret doing so. Whatever strain this was is strong and something you hadn’t had before, but you had gone under, in their words, “peer pressure”. 

The next 15 minutes happened in a blink of an eye, you and Jungkook continuing to smoke while you and Taehyung took shots. You had forgotten about the party just outside the door completely, and it doesn’t cross your mind why no one has entered at all.

Your mind is swirling and too caught up in the way you’re in the corner of the kitchen, Taehyung’s large hands roaming up your smooth skin. You’re wearing a skirt and it gives him easy access to run his fingertips towards your clothed clit.

“Did you come here alone?” Taehyung ponders. “I haven’t seen your friends around.”

“They’re probably getting fucked by now. That’s what girls like them do.” Jungkook chuckles. He’s close to, on the other side of you. Their cologne dances off one another and it hits your senses.

“Where are you trying to go?” Taehyung asks, pushing you back against the corner slightly when you attempt to step away. His hand works its way  to cup your thigh. “We just want to have fun.”

Your eyes blink a few times at both Jungkook and Taehyung. 

“I don’t.” you murmur.

“Why not?” Jungkook asks. He’s just as touchy, his hand sliding up your other thigh and then towards your ass. He grips it in his hand harshly, receiving a gasp from you. “We know you like to have fun, Y/N.”

Your eyebrows knit together. “What the fuck-”

“All that fun you were having with Professor Kim?” Taehyung chimes in. His hands are working, tapping along your clothed clit. “We want the same fun.”

Your eyes widen and you stiffen.

Your heartbeat quickens.

“What?” you whisper, voice nimble. “I-I don’t know-”

“Don’t try to lie to us, baby.” Taehyung chuckles.

“We know. It’ll be our secret, okay?” Jungkook presses his lips against your cheek. “We won’t tell anyone what you did for Professor Kim. He’ll keep his job and you’ll keep your dignity.” he laughs. “Daddy’s money on school won’t go to waste.”

Your heart doesn’t calm down. Your mind is racing - how did they know? If they knew, who else did? Was it obvious? It couldn’t have been. You and Professor Kim’s situation was short lived. He had given you what you wanted and now he had no use for you; yet.

“Your pussy’s wet, Y/N. You’re excited.” Taehyung grunts, his fingers rubbing at your clit. Your body was doing what it naturally would in this situation, but your mind is far from relaxed. 

“Your ass is amazing.” Jungkook breaths, giving it another squeeze. “What did you let Professor Kim do to you?”

Your mouth is snap shut, your eyes brimming with tears. Your silence causes Jungkook to look at you. 

“Why do you look like that, Y/N? Don’t be so upset, baby.” Jungkook coos, kissing your cheek until he gets to your lips. “Just be good to us, and we’ll be good to you, okay?”

Jungkook’s free hand goes underneath your shirt to cup at your breast. This top didn’t call for a bra and he has full access to it. 

“We’ll make you feel good, Y/N. Promise.” Taehyung mutters, You were soaked and he was far too excited to see how wet you could get when they truly had you where they wanted you. 

It’s overwhelming dealing with one, but two was too much to handle. Taehyung’s fingers had pushed aside your panties. Your glistening cunt had caused him to chuckle before his fingers dive through.

Jungkook had lifted up your shirt to release your breast. His fingers twist and tug at your nipples, enjoying the reaction you gave him.

“I knew you would let us.” Jungkook says, lowering himself to your nipple. He captures it in his mouth and begins to twirl the bud with his tongue.

Your head falls back, a silent whimper escaping your lips. You were too exposed here - there was a party just behind the door. The music is booming through from the outside and you can hear a few muffled chattering and laughter.

This is all still far too surreal right now. Jungkook’s hand grips at your breast while he sucks on your chest, lightly moaning. The action causes Taehyung to do the same, leaning his head down to capture your nipple into his mouth.

“Wait-”

Taehyung’s long fingers begin to inch their way inside of your pussy. You’re tight, prompting him to believe you haven’t been fucked properly in a while. He slides three of his fingers inside and begins to pump, his tongue sliding around your hardened nipple.

You swallow back a moan.

Jungkook releases your nipple from his mouth with a soft pop. His eyes glances down at Taehyung's pumping fingers and he snickers a bit. “You’re so wet, baby.” he says.

“And tight.” Taehyung says against your other nipple.

Jungkook’s hand ungrips your nipples. His eyes turn towards you as his hands slide down your stomach and right between your legs. His fingers capture your clit and he rubs circles onto it. You bite your lip, legs quivering. This was all too much to handle - Taehyung’s already pumping fingers in you and now Jungkook is focusing on your clit. Your stomach is churning and you really didn’t want to cum right here in the middle of a kitchen - not with a party right outside the door.

“We can’t do this h-here!” you protest, your voice low to mask the whine that comes. You hated the way your body responds to their actions.

Your cheeks warm when both of their attention turns to you. 

“Someone can walk in…” you trail off.  Your attempts to remain calm aren’t swaying them - your legs are shaking and your eyes keep fluttering. You were enjoying this - just not the idea of being caught.

“How about you cum here,” Taehyung begins, popping a nipple from his mouth. “and then we can take it somewhere private.”

Jungkook falls to his knees. His dark eyes have a mischievous glint to them. His hands hold onto your legs tightly in his grasp before he opens his mouth and pokes out his tongue. He watches your reaction as he licks between your folds, Taehyung’s pumping fingers just inches away.

Your head draws back, your teeth sinking onto your lips. Jungkook doesn’t attempt to tease you in the slightest - he and Taehyung have you right where you need to be. Instead, he proceeds to suckle right onto your clit. His head bounces from side to side, his grip on your skin only tightening. 

“I think you’re liking this more than you let on.” Taehyung murmurs in your ear, breath tickling your skin. 

Your mind is continuing to swirl in how fast everything is. You had to be far from tipsy now - not including the weed Jungkook has given you. In such a short amount of puffs, you were stuck in such a vulnerable position.

“You’re leaking all over my hand, Y/N. You like the idea of two cocks fucking you?”

There’s teeth sinking into your soft flesh, You let out a soft cry.

Jungkook continues to lap his tongue against your clit, not moving from the position. He witnesses the way your back arches, mouth falling open with such pleasure that’s nearly unimaginable. Taehyung’s free hand - so large against you - grasp your breath while his lips are trailing such invasive kisses against the skin of your neck.

Your whimpers are pleading with them to stop - that you didn’t want this here; or at all. But neither man moved. Not until your thighs are trembling with overstimulation and the pressuring you’re holding is released.

Jungkook backs up a bit as you cum, new arousal seeping out of you and drenching the floor entirely. He licks his lips, hungry eyes watching the way your pussy glistens -  and he can’t wait to feel it for himself. 

Just mere seconds after Taehyung and Jungkook put your clothing back where they belong - because you were far too overwhelmed to do it yourself - the kitchen door swings open. The music blares through for a few moments before it closes and heels click against the floor. She doesn’t notice the three of you in the corner as she looks for a drink.

But when the woman turns around and spots the three of you, her eyes focus on you.

“You okay?” she asks. You don’t know her and she doesn’t know you, but with the way you’re leaning against the corner with a dazed look in your eye while two men hover over you doesn’t sit right with her.

“She’s fine.” Taehyung calls, wrapping a hand around your waist. “We were just leaving.”

The woman glances between the three of you. 

“She’s drunk.”

“Who isn’t?” Jungkook scoffs. “We all are.”

“I think I’ll be taking her home.”

“You don’t know her.” Jungkook fires back, glancing at Taehyung then you. “Y/N, do you know her?”

“Of course she does.” the woman hisses. She, unlike Jungkook, Taehyung and yourself, is sober and had just joined the party. She doesn’t know you from a can of paint, but if she decided to ignore the way these two men are staring at you like their next meal, it wouldn’t sit right with her. “Y/N, we’re leaving.”

Taehyung allows you to be pulled away from him. He decides that going against it would make him look bad. So he shrugs his shoulders. “Fine.” he says, even if the veins on his neck pulse in great disdain. “Y/N, I’ll see you around. Maybe in Professor Kim’s class.”

Jungkook licks his lips, your taste still on him. His eyes are glaring daggers at you and the unknown woman. “What’s your name?” he asks her.

“Fuck off.” she rolls her eyes, wrapping an arm around you and taking you out of the kitchen.

Jungkook slowly turns his head towards Taehyung, raising a brow. 

“She can’t escape us forever.” Taehyung shrugs. “Whose party are we even at?”

“Jackson’s.” Jungkook answers.

“Then, we’ll have to find Jackson and get that camera footage.” Taehyung motions to the camera high up in the ceiling, nearly undetectable. 

Jungkook’s eyes slightly widened. “Then what?” he murmurs. 

Taehyung snickers. “We do what we do best.”

What Taehyung and Jungkook did best was release said video - blurring out each of your faces. It was a warning shot, you note.

That night once the girl, who later told you her name was Bella, had taken you out of that party, your worries only diminished slightly. She had taken you outside for fresh air and snagged you a water bottle along the way.

“Did you really know those two?” she asked you, concerned in her voice. “The way they were looking at you…”

You nod your head. But your hand trembles when you take a sip of water and it gives her another reason to not leave you at this party entirely. “Let me take you home.” she said. 

That night, you had gone to bed without showering, your body exhausted. When you woke up, your phone was nearly dead.

Your notifications were wild. You were in a massive group chat that you hadn’t been into before and it took you nearly three minutes to find the start of it.

When you had, your body ran cold at the black and white video of you, Taehyung and Jungkook, altered to blur your faces. Your heart pounded as you read the countless messages of people asking who the girl was - if she was a good fuck or not.

Your phone dies before you have the chance to process it, the reflection of your frightened face staring back at you.

You take a deep breath. Your trembling hands had put your phone on the charger and went up to go to the bathroom. Upon entering and looking at yourself in the mirror, you could only stare at your reflection. 

You looked a mess, eyes a bit wide and startled. Your hair was completely ruined out of its style, the way you slept and woke up could be possibly to blame.

A hot shower would’ve had all your worries fall down the drain, but it didn’t. It couldn’t. 

If anyone was coherent that night, they’d know that it was you in that video. That it was the same shirt and skirt you wore that was pushed up to allow two men to do as they pleased with you.

That would ruin your reputation and then word would get out. Your father would hear and slowly, his reputation, as well. You were a legacy here - and though you aren’t saying your family are saints. But none of them were exposed to this degree.

Your phone rings as soon as you are out of the shower. It was charged enough to finally turn on.

A towel wrapped around your body, you looked at the number displayed on it. You didn’t have the number saved to your phone, but your spirit has an idea of who it could be.

“Hello?” your voice is lost of any energy.

“Hello sunshine.”

Jungkook’s voice is cheery on the other side. You take a deep breath, your hand squeezing your phone to your ear.

“You’ve been avoiding us.” Jungkook then says, his cheery tone gone and replaced to one darker. 

“I haven’t!” you exclaim. “M-My phone was dead and…”

“You know we could’ve exposed you, right? Show everyone how much of a fucking whore you were for me and Tae?” Jungkook spats, shushing you entirely. “What do you think your father would’ve thought if we sent the video to him and all his colleagues? That this is what you’re doing in college instead of being studious.”

Your heart pounds outside your chest at the position you were caught in. Jungkook and Taehyung knew too much about you, and now they had physical proof. Your life could be ruined if you didn’t do what they said - or do what they wanted. 

“What did you tell that girl last night?” Jungkook questions. 

The girl from the night before flashes in your mind. Her kindness was unmatched as you hadn’t known who she was in the slightest.

“Nothing.” you say truthfully.

Jungkook is silent on the other end for a moment, as if thinking. “Are you sure?” he questions. “You didn’t make yourself the victim?”

You’re positive you know what Jungkook is speaking of without him coming out directly and saying it.

“No. I didn’t tell her anything.” your voice is pleading with him to believe you.

“Okay.” Jungkook speaks finally. “You owe us, Y/N. For keeping this secret for you.”

You swallow. You close your eyes for a few seconds.

“I know.” you reply. “Are you two busy now?”

There’s a chuckle on the other end. You can imagine Jungkook now, a smug look on his handsome face and a smirk on his rosy lips. 

“You can come over if you’d like.” 

You open your eyes, staring directly ahead. The only end to all of this was to do exactly what they wanted. A deep voice in your mind tells you that this wasn’t the end. That even if you did what they told you to, that this video was still out there and at any moment, they could expose you.

Think positive, you tell yourself.

In under an hour, all the positivity was out the door as soon as Jungkook and Taehyung walked through it.

“You’re such a little whore, Y/N.” Taehyung’s fingers are gripping your chin between his hands.

Jungkook is directly behind you, both of his hands bruising your waist as his hips snap forward.  His hips are punishing and seemingly full of hate as he pounds into you. Your thighs are forced apart to take him whole and bare.

“You pretended to be so shy last night as if you didn’t want us.” Taehyung continues. His cock is mere inches from your face and dare you say your mouth salivated to have it in your mouth - maybe it was the lust flowing through you with how well Jungkook was fucking you.

“But here you are allowing Kook to fuck you. But not only that,” Taehyung’s tip brushes along your lips. “you’re drooling to suck my cock, aren’t you?”

Taehyung watches you - your fucked out expression is entirely beautiful to him. The sound of Jungkook’s hips snapping back and forth with the squelching sound of your pussy; it all comes together perfectly. 

You whimper, nodding your head.

It all happened too fast when they arrived. You were nervous, sure, but the events led to this. Your ass in the air while Jungkook fucks you with no mercy. His cock springing in and out of you with such speed that you were nervous you’d cum before it was all over - and still had to deal with Taehyung. 

Taehyung shoves his cock into your mouth without much warning, hissing at just how salivated your mouth was to have him. His grip on your chin is replaced by your hair.

Jungkook’s eyes dance around, unsure of where he wants to land. Your ass bounces against his groin so beautifully, your pussy clenching around him. But now witnessing the way your head bobs up and down as you suckle onto Taehyung’s cock sends him into an even more aggressive state.

You cry out, mouth falling open a bit when Jungkook’s cock dives even deeper into your pussy. You aren’t permitted to stop, however, as now Taehyung just takes control. He thrusts into your mouth entirely, the tip of his cock reaching your throat. You gag, and Taehyung feels it and the only thing he could do was moan.

“You look pretty with a cock in your mouth, Y/N.” Taehyung groans. Drool trickles down the corner of your mouth to your jaw.

There it goes again, your pussy squeezing around Jungkook. He groans, one hand roaming up your side to capture a bouncing breast, 

“Such a good girl you are, Y/N.” Jungkook pants - you were a sucker for praise, he thinks, as each time anyone gave it you’d squeeze around him. “You like being fucked like this, huh?”

Your voice does a strangled moan of confirmation as Taehyung thrusts his cock in and out of you. 

The sight alone had to be demeaning. Having Jungkook fuck you so disrespectfully, completely milking your walls while Taehyung has full access to your mouth. It’s an act you never thought you’d be in, but as the seconds roll on you find that slowly, you’re uncaring about how much you’d come to regret this. As of right now, your body was more than welcoming of the cock in your mouth and pussy.

“She’s so wet.” Jungkook gasps, a mere moment of disbelief on his face before he composes himself. You’re messily leaking all over him and yourself, your tight pussy only squeezing him more and more. “Is this how you fucked Professor Kim, Y/N?”

You aren’t meant to respond, of course - not while Taehyung plunges his cock in your throat. You had to look a complete mess - watery eyes, drool dripping down your chin. But to them, there wasn’t an even more beautiful sight than witnessing you be completely used.

“You’re such the perfect little whore.” Taehyung coos, your nose lightly pressing against his groin with how deep his cock slides into you. Your eyes were growing wetter, inhaling through your nose the best way you could.

Jungkook is groaning and grunting behind you, thrust powerful yet sloppy and he has every intention of cumming - either on you or in you. He didn’t really care where.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” Jungkook pants.

“Me, too.” Taehyung tightens his grip.

Jungkook glances up, an idea forming in his mind. With a few more pumps, Jungkook pulls up. “Turn her around,” he demands, a hand wrapped around his cock.

Taehyung is surprised, but he does as Jungkook is told. He assists in turning you around, your back against the bed and Jungkook on top of you, Taehyung behind you. 

“Imma fuck her tits,” Jungkook states, both hands engulfing your breast and placing his wet cock between them. “you fuck her mouth.”

Taehyung is more than willing, his eyes marveling at how slutty you appear in this new position.

Jungkook’s eyes flutter a bit, but he watches the way his cock thrust between your breast, his thumbs playing with your perky nipples. You’re gagging against Taehyung’s cock.

“I’m going to cum all over you, Y/N. Cover you in cum just how you want.”

“Fuck, I think she likes that.” Taehyung chuckles darkly, a hand pressed against your cheek as his cock plummets in and out of your mouth.” I’ll cum all over your face, baby, you’d want that? You’re such a little whore that I know you  do.”

You’re far too fucked out to care. Your thighs are still shaking from the way Jungkook was fucking you before.

Warm cum squirts all over your breast, some hitting your neck and at the sight, Taehyung pulls his cock from your salivating mouth and cums right on your face. His eyes are dark as he watches the way you whimper, covered in their seed.

You don’t move for 20 minutes, far too exhausted to do anything. Jungkook, however, is kind enough to clean the cum from your body with a rag he found in your bathroom. He doused it with warm water prior to cleaning you. 

Taehyung settles himself behind you, while Jungkook is lying facing you. Neither of them go to move, both far exhausted just like you are - even if they know they’re overstaying their welcome. Taehyung’s arm is lazily around your waist while Jungkook’s is over your torso.

The feeling of unease never truly subsides from your body, but you’re far too exhausted to worry about it now.

part two - 04/13/25

@investedreader @momnomnom @darkuni63 @sweetempathprunetree

[diminuel]

One Piece AU Comics Masterpost

Some of my AUs are somewhat interwoven as they borrow headcanons from each other. I'm doing my best to sort them into their respective AUs.

They're mostly Dragon/Crocodile and Crocodad comics.

Stinky Child AU

A canon divergent AU where Dragon and Crocodile decided to raise Luffy in Windmill Village while still being a revolutionary leader and a warlord. They adopt Ace and Sabo.

Crocodile meets Ace // Crocodile is taking Ace home // Stinky Child gets a bath (Illustration) // Ace gets a new outfit // Ace meets Baby Luffy // Dragon meets Ace // (little time skip) // Sabo interacting with Crocodile // Dragon has nightmares // Swooning over Criminals // ~ Big Timeskip~ // Logue Town // Impel Down // Luffy and Crocodile reunite on Amazon Lily // After Marineford // Ace and Crocodile are reunited on Momoiro Island // Post Timeskip // Mistakes were made // Momoiro Island Dress Code // Cross Guild // Cross Guild puts a bounty on Garp

Captain No Brows

A potential first meeting between a young criminal and a marine and their encounters over the years.

First meeting // Unexpected call // Taking care of two orphans //Doffy has questions // Dragon cleaning up messes // Doffy is fantasizing // Dragon leaves the Marines

Potentially set in the same universe: Crocodile meets Portgas D. Rouge // Crocodile takes his shirt off // Unexpected revelations

Surprise Baby

Dragon and Crocodile find themselves with a child and have to figure out what to do. I have not yet decided to which AU this belongs.

Late Realization (Illustration) // Crocodile tells Dragon about the baby // Bit coat hides big secrets

Former Kuja Empress

AU where Crocodile is a Kuja who got ship wrecked and saved by Dragon's small group of revolutionaries. (Crocodile presents female.)

First Meeting and misheard names // Haircut

After the Divorce

Canon compliant AU in which Dragon and Crocodile get back together after the events of Marineford and end up having another baby.

Crocodile's mysterious client // Too late for protection (Illustration) // They're having another baby (Illustration) // Suspicious Coworkers (Illustration) // Luffy finds out he's going to be a big brother // Luffy meets his baby sister // Luffy brings his sister to his ship // Another one

Little Dragon's (Mis) Adventures

Bringing up never to be answered questions: did Garp and Roger have sex (see this comic) and is Dragon maybe Roger's son?

Dragon ends up on Roger's ship // Dragon has no choice but to stay with the Roger Pirates // They get to know Dragon // Pirate Flag // Diverging Priorities // Treasure Chest Baby // Dragon is babysitting Roger's cabin boys // Shanks thinks about his babysitter

Mini Mingo and Grumpy Verse

An AU in which Dragon and Crocodile had more biological kids after Luffy, "Grumpy" (Kite) and "Mini Mingo" (Dulcinea). Mini Mingo is suspiciously blond but it might mean nothing. Grumpy also exists as the fifth baby in the After the Divorce AU.

New blonde baby // Mini-Mingo is visiting Cross Guild // Mini Mingo has a crisis // Asking Grumpy for advice // Doflamingo has a crisis // Doflamingo does not take hugs well // Usopp develops the "can't meet anymore of Luffy's insane family" disease //

Misc.

These are stand alone comics that could apply to multiple AU story lines.

Big Parents, Tiny Baby

Luffy's Birth // Tiny thing fitting into Crocodile's big hand

The No Brows Multiverse

Dragon is tired of people telling him he looks just like Garp. // Dragon shaves his eyebrows for his first wanted poster.

Chaotic Family Time (Various family related comics)

Toys for Luffy // Everybody wants to be a girl // The return of Captain No Brows // Sabo feels left out // The kids are meeting Pops // Alabasta Trip + Follow up

Rocks' Era (Various Comics about the Rocks Pirates as well as Rocks being thrown into the future.)

Pregnancy // No Doubts // Achieving Dreams

Spaghetti // Learning more about the timeline // Facing Whitebeard // Grandpa Mug

[landologged]

Out Lapped | Part One

pairing: lando x reader

genre: toxicity, shit aint sweet sorry, like 85% porn and arguing????, its hot tho, angst? i guess, monaco beinf monaco, possessive and hot lando, readers a dumb hoe (but i get it)

description: You sure as hell didn’t expect to find yourself at Lando’s door after promising your therapist you wouldn’t see him again. But your thighs remember things your brain pretends to forget, and Monaco is a dangerous place to have free time and a hell of a lot of unresolved trauma.

So, here you are, stuck in a loop you swore you’d escaped: he wins races, goes home to her, and calls you at 2AM like you’re the reward. You know it’s toxic. You know he’s lying. But every time you try to walk away, he says your name like it still means something. And every time he touches you—you forget how to leave all over again.

WC: 19k

notes: want to preface this is extremely toxic, i dont hate magui but needed her for the plot sorry, this is not a healthy relationship its just toxic n sexy im sorry i have issues, enjoy tho xx | had to repost bc tumblr put a warning on it

You tell yourself it’s just a building. Just concrete and glass and overpriced furniture, just one of dozens of sleek high-rises dotting the cliff-edge of Monaco’s coastline like little temples to wealth. But that’s a lie you started telling before the plane even landed, and now—standing outside of his door, heat curling around your ankles and your jaw locked so tight you can feel the tension in your teeth—it’s all unraveling way too fucking fast. This isn’t just a building. This is a goddamn shrine. To every version of you that lost and begged and bled behind those walls. And the worst part is you let all of it happen. Over and over and over, like some stupid animal who keeps going back to the cage because it’s the only place she remembers how to breathe.

You stand there too long. Not knocking. Not leaving. Just standing like a goddamn idiot. Sweating in your blouse,  clutching your phone like it might ring if you squeeze hard enough, though no one’s called you in hours. You’d deleted his number. Blocked it. Then unblocked it. Then memorized it, like that made you the one in control. The gate code, too. You remembered that one without trying. 

Inside, you imagine he’s probably shirtless. Or worse—fresh out of the shower, towel slung low, smirking at his own reflection in the mirror like he’s still a teenage boy. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s got someone over. That girl he was seen with last week, or the one from before. Some Portuguese model with a body like a Victoria Secret angel and a face the camera loves. Long legs, soft mouth, always sun-kissed and unbothered. She’s been rumored with him for months—not that you’ve been reading, obviously. Not that you have the search saved. Not that you zoomed in on the photos where he’s walking three steps ahead and still somehow looks like he belongs to her.

She has no idea what he sounds like when he’s angry. No idea how fast his mood can turn—how one second he’s teasing, laughing, and the next his voice goes low and hard and mean. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be devoured by him, not kissed but taken, not fucked but owned. She’s never had to piece herself together in his bathroom afterward, thighs shaking, mascara wrecked, trying not to cry just because he simply didn’t stay.

There’s no breeze in the hallway, just stillness. Expensive stillness. Climate-controlled. Smells like fresh-cut flowers and clean linen and the faintest undercurrent of chlorine—like the building itself is trying to convince you nothing messy ever happens here. No broken glasses or slammed doors or whispered confessions between kisses that feel like the end of the world. 

The walls are paneled in soft blond wood, warm under the overheads, you shift your weight, and the tap of your heel against polished wood echoes too loud. Sharp. Embarrassing.

A laugh bubbles up uninvited. Quiet, bitter, barely audible, but still real. What the fuck are you doing here? You told your therapist—once—that you were past this. That you’d written it off for what it was: a phase, a crash, an experiment in self-destruction that just happened to have a face. His face. His voice. His hands. You’d said it with conviction. You’d almost believed yourself.

But that was when you hadn’t counted in the photo.

It wasn’t even new. Just some grainy tabloid resurrection of last summer—him holding your wrist outside the back of a club, the tension in your posture so clear it almost hurt to look at. And his face—god that fucking face. Golden tan, summer-slick skin that caught the flash of the camera like it knew exactly where to land. That haircut—fresh, sharp, fade carved clean down the sides, but the top left long, soft, curled just enough to look effortless. Like he’d rolled out of bed into a suit and made it look intentional. 

White shirt open at the throat, no tie. Slim-fit navy blazer that hugged his frame like he’d been sewn into the thing. And that expression—cool, calm, always calculated. He looked straight into the lens, jaw set, eyes unreadable, like he knew they were watching and didn’t give a single fuck about it. Like he knew you wouldn’t leave. Because you hadn’t. Not really. Not for long, and sure as hell, never for good.

You don’t knock. You can’t. Your hand hovers near the wood, fingers curled like a fist you don’t have the strength to make. You stare at the door like it might open on its own. Like maybe he’ll feel you on the other side and save you the choice.

So when the door finally opens—slow, quiet, just a few inches at first—it doesn’t feel like an invitation. It feels like a trap you’re already halfway inside.

Warm light spills out into the hallway, catching the edge of that honeyed wood paneling behind you, and suddenly you’re in it again. His world. The clean, curated silence of it. Not cold—just impersonal. Too white. Too perfect. A mirror near the entry catches the edge of his shoulder, and for one disorienting second, you see both versions of him at once.

He’s barefoot, of course. Hair damp and pushed back like he’s just gotten out of the shower or maybe just doesn’t give a shit anymore.  Black long-sleeve shirt, sleeves shoved up to his elbows like he’s mid-recovery from something. The fabric’s soft, lived-in, probably smells like skin and detergent. There’s a ring on his finger now—something thin and silver, catching the light as he leans one shoulder against the frame. Something that definitely wasn’t there before.

And just under his collarbone, a flash of color. Sunburn maybe. Lipstick, if you let yourself believe in worst-case scenarios. You don’t want to know. You do want to know. It burns both ways.

Behind him, the apartment stretches long and quiet. Pale floors. White cabinets. Stainless steel fridge that reflects the open-concept kitchen like a showroom. Heineken keg on the counter. DJ deck in the corner. Stacks of papers on the island that say he’s busy. Clean sink that says he’s not that busy. Trophies in the other room. Art that’s mostly just versions of himself—cars, helmets, movement frozen mid-victory.

“Well, well,” he says, mouth curling slow. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

You raise an eyebrow, defaulting to sarcasm like muscle memory. “You think too much of yourself.”

He leans against the frame, lets his eyes drag over you like it’s nothing. Like it's a habit. “And yet, here you are.”

You hate how calm he sounds. How unsurprised. Like he knew. Like he felt you coming before you even booked the flight. You step forward without meaning to, past the threshold, into the coolness of the apartment that smells like bergamot and money and something darker underneath. Something familiar. Like heat after sex. Like you.

“Are you gonna say why you’re here,” he says as he closes the door behind you, voice low, smooth, almost bored, “or just continue to stand there?”

You shrug. You’re already halfway to the couch. “Didn’t think I needed a reason.”

“You always had one,” he says, following at a lazy pace. “Even when you lied about it.”

You don’t sit. You don’t take your shoes off. You just stand there in the middle of all that soft lighting and polished calm like you’re something feral that wandered in off the street. Your arms cross without thought, instinctive, defensive—like maybe if you press hard enough, you can hold yourself in. He notices. He always notices. That was the problem, wasn’t it? How seen he made you feel. Not loved. Not even wanted. Just known. 

“You look tired,” he says. Not kindly.

You stare at him. Let your eyes drag over every inch of him. The tan. The jaw. The lazy posture. The fucking confidence. You try not to let it show—how familiar it all is. How foreign it feels now. Like you’ve studied it in photos more recently than in person.  “You look the same.”

He grins. “You mean perfect?”

There it is. The smirk. The bait. The comfort in knowing exactly which part of himself still gets to you. He tosses it out like a joke, but his eyes don’t leave yours. He’s watching your mouth. Your shoulders. Your tells.

And fuck—you wish it didn’t still work. And so you do what you always do, you deflect. You roll your eyes, but the sting hits anyway. He’s always been beautiful in that arrogant, accidental way—like he never had to work for it. You always had to work for everything. But he just was. That was half the danger, all of the problem. 

“You must’ve seen the article,” you say, even though you’re not here to talk about the article. Even though this whole thing has nothing to do with whatever the press dug up and everything to do with how quiet your apartment’s been. How empty your chest’s felt. How loud he still is, in every fucking corner of your mind.

“I did,” he says, shrugging. “You looked good. Even when you’re pissed off.”

You laugh once, sharp. “You looked like a fucking asshole.”

“Branding,” he replies, with that infuriating grin, the one that used to mean you’re not really mad at me and you’re not really leaving. The one you used to fall for. The one you feel yourself slipping toward again, like gravity. Like his goddamn dog. 

You inhale through your nose, slow. Careful. Like control is something you can hold in your lungs.

“Don’t get excited,” you tell him.

He steps closer. One, then two. Not touching you. Just standing there, inches away, his presence thick as smoke. “You came back,” he murmurs. “That’s all I need.”

And your heart breaks a little, just enough to make room for something worse. Because this is the part you forgot—how he looks at you. Like nothing else exists. Like you’re a secret he’s been keeping warm in his mouth this whole time. There’s something about his eyes up close. Something impossible. They make you forget all the bad endings and bruised mornings. They make you think you might want it again. That maybe the problem was never him. Maybe it was you. Maybe you were too scared to be kept.

“I shouldn’t have come,” you say, voice raw around the edges. But it’s not a real protest.

He moves like he hears it for what it is. Like he knows the thread is already pulled, and you’re unraveling in his hands. He steps closer. Close enough that his breath ghosts against your cheek. Close enough that you can feel the burn of him without needing to touch. But then he does touch—just one hand, slow and certain, curling around your hip like he’s staking a claim he never stopped believing in.

“You always say that right before you kiss me,” he says, low, like a dare he already knows you’ll take.

Your breath catches. Just a subtle hitch in your chest that betrays you more than any yes ever could. Your mouth parts like instinct, like muscle memory, like maybe it remembers how good it felt to fall apart under his mouth. His hand moves, slow. Deliberate. Thumb grazing over the front of your shirt, dragging downward. Just enough to make your skin burn under the fabric. It’s not a grope. It’s worse than a grope. It’s casual. Familiar. Possessive in the quiet way that says I’ve had you like this before, and I will again.

His touch isn’t asking. It’s remembering. You swallow. Your heart's trying to crawl up your throat. You should move. Should say something colder, sharper, final. Instead, you just breathe out—

“Don’t.”

Barely audible. Not even a command. Just a plea. God, you’re an idiot.

He tilts his head, like he wants to get a better angle on your mouth. His nose almost brushes yours. The space between you contracts until it’s only breath and tension and history.

“Don’t what?” he asks, and his voice has that low, slanted softness—curious, cruel. Like he knows exactly what you meant but wants to hear you struggle to say it. The kind of voice that used to unravel you in dark corners, in backseats, in beds that didn’t belong to either of you.

He leans in. Just a little. Enough that you feel the heat of his breath against your mouth—warm, embarrassingly warm, laced with mint and something sweeter underneath. Familiar. Him. That exact blend you used to chase in the dark like a hit you didn’t want to quit. It makes your knees weaken. Your jaw tighten. Your pride splinter.

Your eyes flick to his lips. Mistake. They’re right there. Parted. Wet. Waiting. And the space between you shrinks until it feels like a trick.

“Don’t make this something it’s not,” you manage, barely above a whisper, every word scraped from the raw edge of restraint.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just leans in further, and fuck—his mouth grazes yours. Not a kiss. Not yet. Just a ghost of one. A threat.

His voice is so rough now—like it’s been worn down by every time he’s said your name in the dark. “You mean something it is.”

You shiver, and you hate that he feels it. You want to hold out. You want to keep control. You want to say something biting, something final, something that makes him feel the way you’ve felt since he let you go. But then he exhales—slow, hot, right against your tongue. And just like that, you’ve lost.

You kiss him, hard. Desperate. Like a dam breaking. Your hands are in his hair, dragging him in, and his body collides with yours like he’s been holding back since the moment you walked in. It’s all heat, no space. His mouth opens against yours and the taste of him hits like hunger—like rage, like missing something for too long. You chase it. You give him your teeth, your tongue, your breath. He takes all of it like it’s owed.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, your ass, sliding under your shirt, fingers grazing the skin he used to fall asleep on like he’s checking to make sure it’s still his. You make a sound in your throat, somewhere between shock and surrender, and he groans into it—deep, guttural—like he’s been waiting months to hear it again.

He pushes you back until your spine kisses the wall, the impact muffled by the heat rolling off him. And you—God—you don’t even think. Your legs part without hesitation, hips tilting, instinctive. You wrap them around him like that’s where they’ve always belonged, thighs locking tight as his hands slide lower. And then you feel it—how hard he already is against you, thick through his pants, straining with a pressure that feels dangerous. You gasp. His hips grind forward, slow and deliberate, dragging that heat against the softest part of you. All muscle. All him.

He’s solid everywhere, unyielding, his abs pressed tight against your stomach, his chest hot through the thin fabric of your shirt. You can barely breathe. He’s all around you, above you, inside you already without even being there yet.

“You miss me?” he growls into your mouth.

You don’t answer. Your answer’s in the way you arch into him, nails raking down his back, pulling his shirt up and over his head like you need to feel every inch. It hits the floor. He’s warm and solid and panting.

“You fucking miss me,” he says again, dragging his mouth down your throat, sucking hard enough to mark.

You nod. A tiny motion. Barely there. Then—brrzt. brrzt.

His phone. 

You freeze. Just for a second, enough for the thoughts to collect. Lando, however, keeps going. Grinding against you harder. Hand shoved between your thighs, fingers pressing through denim like he wants to rip it off with his teeth.

brrzt. brrzt.

“Your phone,” you pant.

“Fuck it,” he mutters. “Ignore it.”

It buzzes again. Long this time. He doesn’t even look. Just lifts you higher, his mouth dragging over your jaw, your cheek, back to your lips. “Come back to bed,” he whispers against you. “Let me show you how much you fucking missed me.”

Your heart stutters. The phone won’t stop. You twist your face away, breathing hard. “Answer it.”

He growls low in his throat. Frustrated. Presses his forehead to yours. “It’s nothing.”

brrzt. brrzt.

You push against his chest. Gently. Not to stop. Just enough to see his face. “Lando. Just—answer it.”

Silence stretches. He stares at you. Jaw tense. Then—without a word—he reaches into his pocket and pulls the phone out. Glances at the screen. Jaw flexes again. You see it before he hides it.

Magui? The model. He doesn’t answer right away. Just holds the phone like it’s radioactive. Then, slowly, he presses accept. Puts it on speaker and doesn’t look at you.

“Lando? Where are you?” her voice asks, soft, breathy, sweet like something that doesn’t know how sharp the blade is. “You said you’d come back.”

Your stomach drops. Something ugly twists in your chest. He looks at you. Finally. Lips parted. Chest heaving. Guilt doesn’t even register on his face.

And you—you just stand there, legs still wrapped around his hips, his hand still under your shirt, his mouth still wet from your kiss.

Listening. Like a fucking idiot. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until it starts to burn. His name is still hanging in the air between you, but you’re not looking at him anymore—you’re staring at the phone, your body gone still in his hands, your heart pounding like it’s trying to scream over her voice.

You said you’d come back. He doesn’t say anything. Not to her. Not to you. And then she says it. Soft. So soft you almost miss it.

I love you.

Your brain doesn’t register it right away. It glitches. Like static. Like maybe it wasn’t real. Like maybe your ears are just cruel. You blink, but your face doesn’t move. Your jaw’s locked so tight it feels like your teeth might break.

And he—he just ends the call. Like that. Like nothing. No goodbye. No excuse. No tone shift, no sigh. Just a tap of his thumb and the silence is back, louder than before.

Your mouth opens. But nothing comes out. You look at him, really look, and you don’t know what the fuck you’re expecting. Remorse? A joke, maybe? Something to soften the way that name is still ricocheting around your skull like a pinball.

But he just breathes—deep, shuddering, like he’s swallowing down the instinct to pull you back in. Like it physically costs him to let go. His chest rises too fast, too hard, like he’s been running, like holding you against him took something out of him. His breath hits your cheek in short bursts, humid and sharp, laced with the taste of everything you almost let happen. It’s the kind of breathing that isn’t just from need—it’s from restraint. Barely-there control. Like his whole body is buzzing with the effort not to drag you right back against the wall and finish what you started.

You slide off of him. Feet hitting the floor like reality. You fix your shirt automatically, hands shaking, lips buzzing from where his mouth had been, skin hot and damp and stupid.

“Are you serious?” Your voice comes out raw.

He watches you, eyes dark, unreadable.

“She—she loves you,” you spit, breath catching as you take a shaky step back, heart still racing, hands still curled into fists. “She said that and you just—what the fuck was that?”

He exhales sharp through his nose, then drags a hand through his hair—fast, rough, like he’s trying to get a grip on something he can’t hold. His curls fall right back into place, but his jaw’s tight, his eyes flicking toward the floor like maybe he’s trying not to look at you. “She doesn’t mean it.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

He exhales, sharp through his nose. “She doesn’t know me like you do.”

“That’s the problem,” you snap. “She doesn’t know what you are.”

“And you do,” he says, voice quiet. Still dangerous. “So why are you here?”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again, and this time it’s just a laugh. Ugly. Bitter. “Jesus Christ, I’m a fucking idiot.”

“Don’t,” he says.

“Don’t what? Don’t realize what this is? That I’m your dirty little relapse while your soft little girlfriend plays house and says I love you into your voicemail?”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he barks. Too fast. Too defensive.

You stare him down, eyes narrowing. “You didn’t say that a second ago.”

He comes toward you and you stumble back.

“No,” you say. “Fuck no. You don’t get to touch me right now.”

He freezes. Stops dead, just a foot from you, close enough to feel the heat of him, too far to do anything about it. His chest rises and falls like he’s running—he’s not. He’s just feeling too much, too fast, too late.

“Look at me,” he says.

You don’t. You stare at the floor like it might save you. Like if you don’t meet his eyes, you won’t fall back into the same goddamn loop that’s already eaten you alive twice over.

He reaches out, fingers brushing your jaw. You flinch, but you don’t move away. Of course you don’t. Because part of you is still standing in the wreckage hoping he’ll lie to you sweet enough to make it okay. His touch is soft now. Thumb tracing your cheek, then dragging down your throat, slow and reverent, like he’s memorizing you again.

“She doesn’t know what I sound like when I’m inside you,” he murmurs.

Your knees almost give out.

“She doesn’t know how you taste when you come.”

Your stomach flips, hard. Heat coiling down your spine, settling between your legs.

“She doesn’t know how wet you get for me, even when you hate me.”

Your thighs clench—reflex, muscle memory, betrayal. His grin brushes your cheek without even forming. He doesn’t need to see it. He feels it. He steps closer. Just one inch. But it’s all it takes. His mouth brushes your ear, hot breath curling into your neck.

“But you do,” he whispers. “Don’t you?”

You close your eyes. Just for a second. Just to breathe. Just to pretend.

His hand slides under your shirt again. Palm flat over your stomach, fingers splayed, dragging up—slow, heavy, deliberate. Every inch he takes feels like a claim. Like he’s reminding your skin who it belongs to. He reaches your ribs. Stops there. Presses in. Just enough to make you feel the weight of it. The heat. The power.

You should pull away. You want to pull away. But your body’s already arching into it. Already melting.

“You’re not some side piece,” he says, low and rough, his mouth dragging along your jaw. “You’re not a fucking mistake. You’re the one I can’t seem to get over.”

You shake your head. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

His mouth finds yours again. Softer this time. Slower. Like he’s trying to rewrite the last five minutes with his tongue. Like if he kisses you deep enough, long enough, you’ll forget her name. Forget what she said. Forget what you heard.

You moan into it. God help you.

He lifts you again. You let him. Your legs wrap around his hips like they never left. He presses you back into the wall and grinds against you, and you’re gasping again, already soaked through your jeans, shame melting into heat like sugar over flame.

“You still want me,” he says. “Even after all this.”

You nod before you can lie. Before you can save face. Because the truth is—it’s not that you want him. It’s that you need him. Like air, you want him more than anything else.  And when his hand slips down, tugging open your fly, fingers sliding beneath the fabric like a claim, you whimper.

Because this isn’t healing. This is a fucking possession, and worst of all you’re still letting him in.

His fingers are in your jeans, dragging them down with that reckless one-handed pull like he can’t wait anymore. As if he’s been fucking starved. The denim catches at your knees, then your ankles, and you almost trip trying to step out of them, but he catches you—of course he catches you—because the fall is always part of the game with him.

“You still get wet for me so fast,” he murmurs, thumb pressing into your underwear, slow circles right over where he knows you’re already soaking. “Just like that. Just like you used to. I didn’t even have to try.”

Your breath hitches. Shame and arousal flood through you in equal measure, but it’s not enough to stop you. He watches you fall apart with that cocky, ruined grin—like he’s proud of what he does to you, but not even remotely surprised.

“Bet you touch yourself thinking about this,” he adds. “About my mouth. About my cock.”

Your mouth opens to protest, but he slips a finger beneath the fabric and slides through you—wet, thick, slow—and your entire brain short-circuits. Your knees buckle and he fucking laughs, low and mean and gorgeous.

“You’re so full of shit,” you whisper, voice shaking. “You don’t mean any of this.”

His mouth finds yours again, teeth scraping your lip. “Maybe,” he says against your tongue. “But it’s working, isn’t it?”

You shove his chest, but it’s not a real push. It’s nothing. You’re already grinding against his hand, thighs trembling, cunt clenching around his fingers as he adds another. The stretch burns in the best way. Your head falls back against the wall.

“Lando—”

“I missed this pussy,” he cuts in, voice rough now, his own breathing ragged. “Fuck. I thought about it every time she opened her mouth. Had to stop myself from saying your name when I came.”

That hits like a slap. Your jaw drops, your stomach lurches, but the worst part—the most humiliating part—is how much wetter you get hearing it. You hate him. Hate yourself more. He drops to his knees before you can think. Yanks your underwear down and apart like he owns it, spreads you open with both hands and groans when he sees how wrecked you are.

“Oh, fuck, baby,” he mutters. “You’re dripping. Look at that. She’s got no fucking clue.”

Then his mouth’s on you. You cry out, hands flying to his hair, trying to push him away and pull him in all at once. His tongue is relentless—circling, flicking, sucking your clit with practiced, hungry precision—and your thighs are already shaking. His fingers pump into you hard, steady, curling just right. It’s disgusting how fast you’re close. How desperate you are. How your hips are fucking chasing his mouth like he’s the only thing you’ve ever needed.

“You gonna come for me?” he asks, voice muffled against you. “Show me how bad you still want it?”

You nod frantically, too far gone to pretend. He chuckles darkly. “Then fucking do it. Let her hear you next time she calls.”

And then he sucks, hard, and everything inside you snaps. Your legs shake, your vision whites out, your body jerks against him with a guttural, broken moan that you couldn’t stop if you tried. You’re still shaking when he stands. Licks his lips, smug. Unbuttons his jeans like it’s nothing.

“Still think I don’t mean it?” he asks, pulling his cock out, hard and leaking, dragging it against your thigh. 

You should run. But instead you grab his face and kiss him again—deep, messy, tasting yourself on his tongue—because if you’re gonna go down, you’re gonna burn on the way.

“Shut up,” you whisper against his mouth.

He grins like he’s already won. Next thing you know your panties are hanging from one ankle, forgotten. He’s panting into your mouth, hand gripping the back of your neck like he wants to fuck you with your face pressed against the wall and your spine bent backwards. His cock is hard against your thigh, leaking, twitching, so ready, and your nails are in his skin, already dragging, already marking.

Then he pulls back.

“Hold on,” he mutters, breathless, and turns away.

You blink. Chest heaving. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer. Walks toward the bedroom. Opens a drawer. You don’t move, frozen in that second of hot disbelief, like maybe you didn’t just see what you saw.

Then he comes back. With a condom. And your blood boil over, you were going to fucking murder him. You stare at the plastic like it had personally slapped you. 

“Seriously?” you spit in utter disbelief. 

He shrugs, casual, tone light like it won’t explode the whole fucking moment. “What? Just being careful.”

“Careful?”

He shrugs again, tearing the foil open with his teeth, cock still hard in his hand. “I don’t know where you’ve been.”

The silence that follows doesn’t hang—it slams down between you. Sucks the oxygen out of the air. You just stare. Your mouth doesn’t work. Your chest doesn’t move. Rage rises slow in your throat, heavy and hot, turning your blood molten. It crawls up the back of your neck, behind your eyes, makes your vision pulse at the edges.

You take a step. Then another. Close enough to see your own slick glinting on his skin. And then your hand flies. The slap cracks across his face—flesh to bone, skin to heat—and his head snaps with the force of it. The sound ricochets off the walls, brutal and final.

He doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t flinch.

He just laughs. Low. Dark. That sharp, broken sound that says fuck yes. Mean. Worse, turned on.

“Oh, that’s what does it for you?” he breathes, eyes flicking back to you, wild now. “Getting offended that I don’t assume you’ve been sitting at home like a fucking nun?”

“You’re disgusting.”

“So are you,” he snaps back, grabbing your face with one hand, gripping your jaw. “But you’re the one who keeps coming back. Not her. You, princess.”

You’re both panting. Still half-dressed. Still drunk on whatever shit-show occurs whenever you two are in the same room. 

“You think I’m letting you fuck me with a condom now?” you hiss. “After all this? Go fuck yourself.”

“You’d rather I come in you just to prove a fucking point?” he growls.

“Yeah,” you snap. “I fucking would.”

He doesn’t put it on. He just lets it fall. Condom hits the floor with a whisper and then he’s on you—slamming you back against the wall with the weight of his whole body, his mouth crushing yours, tongue and teeth and spit, hands everywhere, gripping your thighs, your ass, your jaw like he can’t decide what part of you he wants first.

He’s cursing into your throat, your name half-spoken—spit out—like a threat, like worship, like an apology he doesn’t fucking mean.

And then—

He shoves into you.

Raw. Bare. Deep.

You gasp—no, scream—your legs snapping tight around his waist, head thudding back against the wall as your body stretches around him with that slick, aching slide that feels like pain, like home, like fuck, finally.

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t check if you’re okay. Doesn’t have to. Your nails are already dragging down his back, hips tilting into his like your body’s starving. He grabs your ass and drives into you again, again, harder—grinding deep like he’s trying to split you open and crawl inside.

You bite his shoulder. He groans loud, then fucks you harder.

“This what you wanted?” he snarls. “This what you fucking needed?”

“Yes,” you moan, breath caught, body stretched and shaking. “Yes, yes—fuck, yes.”

He pulls out mid-thrust and drags you down the hall, arms still locked under your thighs. You’re dizzy, dripping down his stomach, mind gone. Then he kicks the balcony door open.

You jolt. “Are you serious—”

It’s too late. The breeze hits your sweat-slick skin. Warm air, salty from the sea, cool on your flushed face. He presses you to the glass, your chest against it, city lights glittering like stars below, and pushes back inside you in one brutal stroke.

You scream. Palm slaps the window. He fucks you like he wants Monaco to watch.

“You don’t care if anyone sees, do you?” he hisses, snapping his hips. “Fucking exhibitionist slut.”

You’re moaning into the glass, fogging it up with your breath, clawing at the railing.

“Say it,” he growls into your ear. “Say you like getting fucked in front of the world.”

You can’t even form words.

“You’re mine,” he snarls. “Say it.”

His hands grip your hips like handles, like he’s steering the whole scene, and your face is pressed to the cool glass, moaning open-mouthed against your own reflection. You can barely see the city anymore—just streaks of light and shadow and your own shame, smeared across the surface in fogged breath and desperation. Your knees are going numb. Your thighs burn. You can’t stop clenching around him.

He’s fucking brutal now. Deep. Deliberate. Each thrust hitting with the full weight of him—hips slamming into your ass, chest flush to your back, breath hot and ragged in your ear.

You shudder. Grip the railing, knuckles white, thighs shaking. And all it takes is one more thrust—one more brutal drag of his cock inside your soaked, ruined cunt—and your body fucking shatters. You come with a sob that scrapes your throat raw, clenching down on him, pulsing so hard it feels like you’re trying to pull him deeper.

“Fucking—fuck—I’m gonna cum in you,” he grits, voice torn, no space for permission, no pause for protest.

You don’t say no. You can’t.

He slams forward one last time and stays there—buried to the base, cock twitching inside you, and then he lets go.

You feel it hit. Feel him spill, thick and hot, spilling into you without hesitation, no condom, no fucking thought. Just heat. Just need. Just him.

His entire body shudders against yours, mouth open against your shoulder, groaning low and wrecked, every pulse a brand.

It’s silent for a moment after. Just heavy breathing and the muffled throb of music echoing up from the street below. You can feel him softening inside you. Feel him pulling out, slow. Lazy. Like he’s done. Your legs shake. You press your forehead to the glass, body humming, raw and wrecked.

And when you turn—he’s already walking away. Without a single word, he begins adjusting his waistband. Grabbing a towel. Scrubbing his face like he just finished a workout. Not even a glance back in your direction.

You blink. Still half-naked. Still leaking.

Still there.

“Lando,” you say. Quiet. Maybe it’s not even his name—it’s a plea. A question.  He doesn’t respond. Just walks into the kitchen. Opens the fridge. Drinks straight from a bottle of water like your body wasn’t just wrapped around him minutes ago.

That’s when it hits. The shift. The drop. On queue. You wrap your arms around your chest. The breeze brushes your thighs, sticky and exposed, and you feel it—his cum sliding out of you, running down your inner leg in a humiliating heat.

You feel empty. Not the kind that hums. Not the kind that settles sweet and fucked-out in your bones.

No. This is raw. Open. Like something vital’s been scooped out and left behind. You’re still dripping from him. Still shaking, breath catching in your throat like a secret you didn’t mean to tell. Your legs are barely holding. Your heart’s trying to pretend it’s fine.

He leans against the counter. Phone in hand. Scrolling. Laughing under his breath at something you’re not a part of.

Like he didn’t just fuck your soul out against the glass. Like you didn’t say yes to all of it.

And now—he’s done. And you’re just there. Still wanting. Waiting. 

You don’t know how long you stand there, barefoot and half-naked, the breeze licking at the mess between your thighs, spine still curved from where he bent you against the glass. The city glows on without you. Somewhere below, people are drinking champagne and laughing under golden light. The world keeps turning. You peel yourself off the railing. Limbs heavy. Walk stiffly back inside, legs aching from the way he held you open like a vice. You grab your jeans from the floor and pull them up without really thinking, fabric clinging to sweat and everything he left inside you. You’re dizzy. It doesn’t feel real. Or maybe it feels too real. Like the high’s just starting to rot from the inside out.

He’s still in the kitchen. Shirtless, scrolling. Water bottle on the counter, beads of condensation sliding down the side. He hasn’t looked at you once.

You watch him for a second, arms wrapped around yourself like you’re trying to hold your insides in. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. Just scrolls.

You clear your throat.

“I… guess that’s it, then?”

His eyes flick up. Casual. No longer interested.

“Thought that’s what you came for,” he says. Not cruel. Not sharp. Just flat, just honest.

Dismissive. Like the fuck was the favor. Like this was a transactional itch, not a relapse that shattered something in you.

You blink. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

He goes back to his phone.

You step forward. One bare foot against the marble tile, cold and slick beneath your toes. “So what now?”

“Now nothing.”

He says it like it’s funny. Like you’re the one being too dramatic. Like you didn’t just let him inside you. Like you’re not still stretched around the memory of him.

Your stomach tightens.

Of course. Of course. Because his is how it’s always been, isn’t it? Because he fucks you, and then he pulls away. Mentally. Physically. Spiritually. Every time. He rolls off. Goes quiet. Distracted. Picks up his phone like your body didn’t just bend around him like it remembered how. Like you didn’t give him everything—again. And on the rare nights he let you stay, he wouldn’t touch you after. Wouldn’t hold you. Wouldn’t even turn toward you in the bed. Like warmth was permission. Like kindness meant commitment. God forbid he see you after.

And still, you stayed. Every fucking time. Still hoping that one day he’d kiss you on the forehead instead of just your mouth. That he’d trace your back after instead of zipping his pants. That he’d make breakfast. That he’d ask you how you felt.

But he never did. He never wanted that part. And still—you came.

“I came here because of that photo,” you say, quietly. “Because I thought—fuck—I don’t know, I thought maybe we should talk. About what we were. About what we never really finished.”

That gets a reaction, but not the one you want. He exhales sharply, smirks at the counter. Shakes his head.

“You’re kidding, right?”

Your jaw tenses. “No. I’m not.”

He sets the phone down, finally looks at you, and the look is pure Lando—half exasperated, half smug, like he’s above it all. Like he’s already out of reach again.

“What did you think this was?” he says. “Closure? A love story?”

Your throat closes up. You swallow hard. “I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t think. Okay? I just missed you.”

The words feel pathetic in the air. He tilts his head. “Yeah, and now you don’t have to.”

And that’s it. That’s fucking it. No tenderness. No gratitude. No I-missed-you-too or it’s-complicated or even a lie to soften the blow.

Just that. He picks his phone up again. You start to say something—maybe don’t make me feel used, maybe tell me this wasn’t nothing, maybe just lie to me—but you stop.

Before you can even finish inhaling, he’s pressing the phone to his ear.

“Hey,” he says, soft.

So. Fucking. Soft.

Your heart caves. It doesn’t break. It caves. Like something imploding from the inside out. It’s not the volume of his voice—it’s the tone. The shift. Like he’s wiping you off his skin and putting on someone else’s smile.

He turns his back to you, leans against the counter. “Yeah… I know. I’m sorry, baby.”

You just stand there. Your arms still crossed, but now it’s because if you don’t hold yourself together, you’ll fucking fall apart. You feel the cum drying between your legs. You feel it leaking into your jeans. You feel like a mistake wearing your own skin.

“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “Just had to handle something real quick.”

Your breath stutters. You’re not a person. You’re not even a memory. You’re a thing he had to handle.

He glances over his shoulder. Sees you still standing there. He turns back, still murmuring sweet nothings into the phone, and you’re left standing in the middle of the room with your mouth full of dust and your thighs still slick with the lie you let back in.

You stare at the back of him, phone cradled to his ear, voice soft in that way you haven’t heard in months—not since he used to call you at 1AM, whispering like a promise. He’s murmuring something now. You catch pieces. Missed you too. No, just tired. I’ll come by tomorrow. Yeah, I will.

The words don’t even hurt as much as the tone. That casual affection. The tenderness you’ll never get again.

Your body aches. Not from pleasure, not anymore. From the aftermath. From the sharp reminder of how quickly he empties you out and walks away. You’re still sticky with him. Inside and out. You don’t say anything. No dramatic line. No last jab. That would give him too much. Let him think you still want a reaction. That you’re still clinging.

Instead, you start collecting your things. Quietly. Your shirt’s wrinkled where he tugged it. Your panties are still damp, shoved in your back pocket with shaking fingers. Your shoes by the door—you slip them on without a sound. Your bag. Your phone. What little dignity you can scrounge from the marble floor.

You glance back once, not because you want to, but because your body betrays you even now.

He doesn’t look. Still on the phone. Still laughing quietly. Still calling someone baby like it means something. Your throat burns. You swallow it down. You told yourself this wouldn’t happen again. You told yourself it was just to talk. Just to finish what never got finished. Just to say goodbye properly.

But you knew. You knew the second you saw him. This was never going to end clean. Not with him. Not with you.

You open the door. His voice fades behind you as it clicks shut. You hold your bag close to your chest as you walk down the hall, staring straight ahead, blinking fast and hard.

Because if you cry now, you’ll never stop. And he doesn’t deserve to know that he still has that power. He already knows.

You don’t even remember walking back. You must’ve called a car. Or maybe you walked half the way and then gave up. Maybe you blacked out the drive, staring out the window with your lips still swollen and your thighs still sticky with him, flinching every time a memory passed too close. Maybe you held your phone in your hand the whole time and didn’t unlock it once. You can’t remember. You don’t want to.

You’ve never felt less like a person and more like a ghost dragging her ruined body across white marble and velvet hallway carpet. Everything at the hotel is too pristince. Too quiet. No one at the front desk looks at you, but you feel like they know. You feel like you’re wearing it—like guilt is a stain bleeding through your clothes, like they can smell him on you.

You ride the elevator in silence. Your reflection stares back from the brass paneling. Eyes rimmed red. Lip a little bitten. Hair half-wrecked from where he’d fisted it. You don’t fix it. What’s the point? There’s no one left to impress. You get into the room and it feels smaller than it did this morning. Like the walls have leaned in, closing around you. You don’t turn the lights on. You just stand there for a second, letting the dark settle. Your bag slides off your shoulder and hits the floor with a dull thud. Your phone clinks against the dresser when you set it down too hard. And you’re still holding your shoes.

You sit on the edge of the bed and stare into nothing. The shame doesn’t come all at once. It creeps in. Starts as a whisper behind your ribs, an ache behind your eyes, the slow, growing awareness of what you just did. And who you did it with.

Lando.

Your heart clenches at the sound of his name in your own head. Not because it’s romantic. Because it’s sick. Because you want him still. Want more. Want his mouth, his hands, his fucking voice even now—like he didn’t just toss you aside like old gum. Like he didn’t walk away mid-mess and call her. Like he didn’t say nothing when you stood there, humiliated and half-clothed.

You drag yourself to the bathroom and flick the light on. It’s too bright. Makes everything worse. The mirror is a crime scene. Your makeup is half-gone. Mascara smudged. Lipstick faded and smeared. You can still see the mark on your collarbone where he bit you. You run cold water. Cup it in your hands. Splash your face. It does nothing. You strip slowly. Shirt. Jeans. Bra. That ruined pair of panties you shoved into your back pocket like a secret. You drop them all onto the cold tile, one by one, and stand there naked, not touching the towels. Not stepping into the shower. Just standing. Letting the air hit your skin.

You feel used. Your thighs are sticky. The inside of your cunt aches, sore in that way that used to make you feel desired, but now just makes you feel stupid. You stare at the spot on your hip where he used to kiss you, back when it meant something. Back when it felt like worship instead of a routine.

Your exes never fucked you like this. Not even the worst ones. Not even the ones who said all the right things with their mouths and none of it with their eyes. They fucked you politely. Or carelessly. Or selfishly. But never like this. Never like they needed you to feel it days later. Never like they hated you and loved you and wanted to punish you for both.

Lando does.

Lando always did.

You sink to the floor. Slowly. Your bare ass hits the tile and you curl your knees to your chest like you can somehow close yourself off from the parts of you that are still open. Your hair falls in your face. You don’t move it. You just breathe.

You told yourself this wouldn’t happen again. You said it out loud. Like a spell. Like if you repeated it enough, it would become a truth. I won’t let him do this to me again. I won’t let myself want him. I won’t go back.

But here you are. Back. Fucked. Full. Empty.

And still—wanting.

You reach for your phone. Not to call him. Just to look. Some part of you is already anticipating it. Hoping for the text. The breadcrumb. Some half-assed “You okay?” that’ll make you hate yourself more because you’ll respond to it. You always do.

You unlock the screen. Nothing. You check the signal. Perfect bars. You wait. Another minute. Five. Still nothing.

You open his contact anyway. Just stare at it. That stupid name. The photo you should’ve deleted months ago—him grinning at some party, hand in your hair, that cocky fucking smile. You remember the moment. You remember thinking this might actually work.

You close the app. Open your messages. Type something.

“You didn’t have to call her while I was still in the room.”

Delete.

“I know what this was, but you could’ve at least—”

Delete.

You lock the screen. Drop the phone next to you on the floor.

You sit there, knees tight to your chest, bare skin on cold tile, heartbeat echoing in your ears like a countdown to nothing.

You won’t cry. But the part of you that still aches for him—still wants him—knows the truth. This isn’t over. It never is. And when he calls again, you’ll answer. Because you always do.

The morning’s too bright. Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Just literally—too fucking bright. The Mediterranean sun punches you in the face the moment you step out of the hotel, and you’re instantly sweating through your shirt. You should’ve worn black. You should’ve stayed in bed. You should’ve never come to this country in the first place.

The streets are already buzzing. Tourists, locals, teams in branded polos. You can hear the distant whine of an engine on a test run somewhere, that sharp scream of speed slicing through the heavy, salt-thick air like a knife. The city’s waking up, but not slowly—Monaco never does anything slowly. She wakes up hungry, already half-drunk, already waiting for someone to crash.

You hope it’s him. You hope he hits the wall. You hope he qualifies dead fucking last. P20. God, give him P fucking 20. It’s petty. It’s cruel. But it’s all you have left. You wrap your arms around your stomach like it’ll hold in the sour twist of jealousy and hurt and sex you still haven’t scrubbed off. He’s probably already awake. Already laughing. Already sending her good morning texts while stretching in those silk sheets you bled yourself into last night.

You duck into a small shop near the marina—overpriced bottled water, sunscreen, last-minute branded merch. A cap with his fucking number is front and center on the rack. You want to set it on fire. You want to smash the display. You want to grab it and scream at the teenage girl fawning over it, he’s not a hero, he’s a fucking coward.

You buy gum and painkillers and overpriced sunglasses you don’t need.

At the register, the clerk asks, “You here for the race?”

You smile too hard. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Your body’s sore in that deep, intimate way. Not just your thighs, not just your hips—but your core, your chest, your fucking heart. Your insides feel rearranged and not in the poetic way. Your stomach is tight. Your mouth is dry. You didn’t even eat dinner last night. Just swallowed him. Let him fill every empty space. Let him win. You keep walking. Past yachts bobbing in the harbor, past velvet ropes and security guards and women with lips like weapons. Everyone’s beautiful here. Everyone looks like they belong. 

Your phone stays cold in your pocket. No text. No call. No you okay? You imagine her posting something. A soft-boiled egg on a white plate. His wrist in the corner of the frame. His smile. Her caption: my love.

You hope the car catches fire. You hope he gets lapped. You hope he feels a tenth of what you’re swallowing with every step. 

You sit at a café just off the main street. Order espresso. Black. No sugar. Your phone’s on the table. Face up. Still nothing. You chew your gum until your jaw hurts. You glance around. Every man in the city looks like a ghost version of him. Curls and sunglasses and soft voices ordering oat milk lattes. Every laugh sounds like the one he gave her. Your legs are crossed tight. Like if you keep them that way, it’ll keep the shame in. You still feel it. Every time you shift in your seat, you feel the dull ache of him. The stretch. The emptiness. Like he’s still inside you, just in the form of silence.

It’s not that you wanted love. You just wanted to not be discarded. Not like that. Not so fast. Not so quiet.You check your phone again.

Nothing.

You sip your coffee and watch a woman walk by in a Ferrari shirt, her toddler in tow. The kid’s got a tiny McLaren cap on. Your stomach flips. You wanted to be seen. Instead, you were handled.

Just another fucking pit stop. You close your eyes. Inhale. Count backwards from ten.

But the only thing that fills your mind is his voice from last night, low and smug in your ear.

You almost don’t go.

The cab ride feels long. The restaurant feels too much. Too much candlelight, too much glass, too much silver on the table, like it’s all trying to distract you from the fact that you’re still aching in all the places he touched. Your body’s clean, but it doesn’t feel that way. The shower didn’t help. The makeup didn’t help. The dress—tight black silk, slit to your thigh, halter low enough to tempt—feels more like armor than anything else. You wore it to forget, not to remember.

The guy across from you—what’s his name again? You haven’t said it out loud since you saved it in your phone—he’s sweet. Easy laugh. Well-dressed in a way that’s intentional but not obnoxious. Confident, but not a narcissist. The kind of man who should be able to make you forget. You’re nodding along to something he’s saying about race weekend logistics, sipping cold white wine and tasting nothing.

You laugh when he laughs. You answer questions. You twirl your fork in risotto you’re not hungry for. And you look fucking good. You know you do. Hair pinned. Collarbone sharp. Lip gloss like lacquer. There’s a version of you here that could do this. Who should be doing this. Being adored. Taken out. Picked up and shown off. A version of you who isn’t still bleeding for someone who left her dripping on a balcony.

But you’re not her. Not tonight. Not when your heart’s still a clenched fist in your chest. Your phone lights up once.

You glance down.

Lando.

No message preview. Just the name. Just the knot that forms instantly in your throat—tight, familiar, awful.

You don’t react. Not outwardly. You don’t flinch. Don’t gasp. You lift your glass like nothing’s wrong, like your whole body isn’t already curling inward from the contact.

The guy across from you is still talking. Still smiling. Still thinking you’re here.

“—so I told him, mate, you can’t just buy the yacht, you actually have to learn how to drive it,” he’s saying, laughing at his own story, voice too loud, too clean. “Rich kids, man. No sense of reality.”

You nod. Smile, maybe. You’re not sure what your face is doing. Everything sounds underwater.

Your phone lights up again.

Lando.

You shift in your seat. Cross your legs tighter beneath the table.

“Anyway, so we ended up in Saint-Tropez for the weekend—crazy, right?—and I swear to god the guy tried to dock it by just, like, aiming.”

You pick up your drink just to keep your hands busy. The rim touches your lip but you don’t sip. The screen lights again.

Lando.

And again.

Lando.

“Have you ever sailed? I feel like you’d be good at it. You’ve got that… I don’t know, that calm presence. Like you’d be the only one not panicking.”

Your fingers twitch on the stem of your glass. Calm. He has no fucking idea of the whirl-wind occuring in your head this very moment.  Your phone buzzes again and this time you don’t even look. Because you don’t need to.

Lando.

Lando.

Lando.

Your hand tightens around the stem of your glass. Your lips part like you might say something. Like maybe you’ll stand up and run before this moment becomes what you know it’s about to be.

You look over your shoulder.

Not because you want to.

Because you have to.

That awful sixth sense prickling at your neck, crawling down your spine. Your body stiffens before your eyes find him. Because somewhere inside you, you already know.

And then—

There he is.

Far end of the restaurant. Slipping in through the private entrance like the front door was beneath him. Like he hasn’t made a mess of your insides. Like he didn’t fuck you breathless against his balcony railing not even twenty-four hours ago.

Tan coat. Dark trousers. Curls pushed back like he ran a hand through them on the drive over. Jaw tight, smile easy. There’s a laugh in his throat—God, that laugh—like he didn’t tear yours out with his fucking teeth. She’s with him. Magui. In the flesh. Long legs. Loose hair. White silk dress, delicate little thing hanging off her body like an afterthought. She’s laughing at something he said, hand on his arm, and your gut plummets.

He doesn’t see you yet. Or maybe he does, and he’s just pretending. Your face burns. You want to disappear. Melt into the leather of your chair, vanish into the floor. The guy across from you says something about dessert. You smile. You think you do. Maybe you grimace. He excuses himself to the bathroom, promising to be quick.

You’re already grabbing your phone the second he stands. And now you look, you read, properly. 

Lando [9:37 PM]

nice dress

Lando [9:39 PM]

trying to impress him or just make me crazy?

Lando [9:40 PM]

it’s working

Lando [9:41 PM]

you think I won’t walk over there?

Lando [9:41 PM]

you think I won’t remind you what you begged for last night?

Lando [9:42 PM]

you can’t fuck him. you won’t. i can see it on your face.

Your heart pounds so loud you can feel it in your throat. Your hands are trembling against the phone. Your thumb hovers and then you type it.

go fuck yourself

You don’t even get the full breath out before another text lights up.

Lando [9:43 PM]

already did. thinking of you the whole time

Your stomach turns. You look back across the restaurant—and now he’s looking at you. Head tilted. Smile carved into his mouth like a dare. His hand rests on Magui’s lower back as he murmurs something in her ear.

She doesn’t notice you. But he does. His eyes are locked on you like a blade. You want to stand. You want to scream. You want to slap him across the face in front of everyone, tear the candle off your table and set that fucking smile on fire.

Instead—you grab your wine and down it.

Pick up your phone and you type.

what do you want from me, Lando?

Because you know exactly what he’s going to say. And you know you’ll give it to him anyway.

You don’t send another text. You don’t need to. Because you already feel it—his eyes. Continuing to burrow into you across the room. You don’t have to look again to know he’s watching your every move, jaw tight, tongue pressed hard behind his teeth. She’s still talking to him. Smiling. Leaning close like she’s won something.

But you know better. You’ve played this game before.  He’s not listening to her. He’s watching you.

Before you know it, the bathroom door swings open and your date returns, all warm smiles and lightly cologned confidence, none the wiser. He slides into the booth beside you now instead of across. And you—oh, baby—you let him. You lean in. Just enough. Just close enough that your perfume slips into his nose and your thigh brushes his. Your knee rests against his under the table and you don’t pull away. You’re smiling now—really smiling, lip caught between your teeth, eyes bright with something vicious.

“Miss me?” you murmur, voice syrupy.

He laughs. “Was only gone a minute.”

You rest your hand on his forearm. Light at first. Then you drag your fingertips down to his wrist, slow and soft like you’re mapping out where you’ll bite later. He pauses, eyes dipping down to your hand, then back up to your mouth.

“You’re… different all of a sudden,” he says, smiling. “Something change?”

You shrug, eyes hooded. “Just realized I like this table better from this side.”

You know what you’re doing. You tilt your head, your mouth just a little too close to his neck, and you laugh at whatever he says next—something harmless. A joke. A compliment. It doesn’t matter. You laugh like Lando isn’t sitting ten tables away, burning. You laugh like you’re not already thinking about unzipping this poor man’s pants just to get revenge on the one who broke you.

You rest your chin on your hand and trace circles on the inside of his knee. You cross your legs in his direction and let your dress slip higher. You sip your wine with your lips parted, slow, tongue flicking the rim.

And then—your phone buzzes again. You check it casually, still smiling.

Lando [9:51 PM]

what the fuck do you think you’re doing

Oh, there it is. The leash pulls tight. Instead of answering, you reach for your date’s collar and straighten it instead, gentle, intimate. He’s blinking at you now, almost stunned, not quite believing his luck.

You feel Lando watching. You can taste it. Your hand drifts down to your date’s thigh. Not obvious. But not subtle either.

“You wanna come back to mine?” you ask, quiet, like a secret.

His breath catches.

“Yeah. Definitely.”

You feel the heat in your cheeks. Not embarrassment—arousal. And rage. And something darker. You want Lando to lose his fucking mind. You want him to picture it—the way you’ll moan for someone else, even if you’re faking it the whole time. You want him sick with it. You want him to feel what he did to you.

Yo grab your bag and stand, letting your hand trail down your date’s chest as you say, “Come on, then.”

You don’t look back. But you don’t have to. You can feel Lando watching you walk away like he’s about to snap a wine glass in his fist. And for the first time all fucking day, you feel a little bit like you won. The cool air hits you the second you step outside, crisp with salt and a faint hint of fuel—Monaco always smells like money and speed. You’re holding his hand. This new guy. The sweet one. He’s talking about the afterparty, asking if you want champagne or tequila when you get there. You nod. Smile. Pretend.

But it’s all wrong. Every step you take feels heavier. Your stomach twists once. Then again. Sharp, then dull, then sharp again. It’s not the wine. It’s not the food. It’s the lie you’re living inside, stretched too tight around your ribs.

By the time you reach the curb, your throat is dry. He’s hailing a car, jacket off, offering it to your shoulders like a gentleman, still thinking this night is going somewhere good. He’s got no idea you’re two seconds away from falling apart.

You stop and pull your hand back.

“I can’t,” you say, voice too small.

He looks over. “What?”

You shake your head. Your smile’s already cracking. “I’m sorry. I just—I can’t.”

He takes a step closer, brows pulling together. “You okay? Is there something wrong?”

You press a hand to your stomach. It does hurt now. Real pain. Not from food. From grief. From self-disgust. From the way your body still remembers another mouth, another weight, another name.

“I thought I could,” you say, voice barely above a breath. “I thought I was over it. But I’m not.”

He just watches you. Confused, maybe. Definitely kind, and kind in a way that only makes it worse. You hate that he’s decent. Hate the way he listens without interruption, the way he offers space for your sadness without trying to fix it. He’s doing everything right and it still feels wrong. Because no matter how gently he holds you, how safe his hands are, your mind always drifts elsewhere. Always pulls back to something sharp. Something dangerous. Something that doesn’t even belong to you anymore.

To Lando. To the way his name still lives under your tongue like it has a right to be there. To the taste of him, the weight of his stare from across a room, the way his laugh ruins you even now. To the memory of his hands on your body while someone else wears his heart in public. It’s shameful, the way you crave what hurt you. The way your skin still prickles for him while someone good stands in front of you trying to love you without a fight. And still—he’s the ghost you reach for in the dark. Even now. Even here.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, stepping back. “You don’t deserve this.”

And before he can speak, you turn. He calls your name once. But he doesn’t follow.

You walk. Fast at first, then slower, then fast again. The city glows around you—buzzing, alive, gearing up for a weekend of victory and champagne, of golden boy headlines and photos that will never include you. The heels you wore start to hurt. You carry them, bare feet on warm pavement, heart thudding in your ears like a warning bell.

You don’t cry. You don’t scream. You don’t throw your phone or punch a wall or sink to the floor in some kind of cinematic collapse. That would require an emotion that hasn’t already been wrung out of you. What you do is walk. Barefoot. Purse in one hand, heels in the other, dress still clinging to your skin like it knows it’s part of the performance you didn’t get to finish. You walk like you’re being timed, like if you slow down even a little you’ll notice what your body’s doing—shaking, buzzing, trying not to feel anything too loudly in case someone hears it. In case he does.

You walk back to the hotel. Back to the quiet. Back to the too-cold lobby where the concierge doesn’t even glance up. Back to the elevator that moves too slow, back to the room that feels too clean. Back to the bed where you let him inside you, to the window you pressed your palms against, to the glass that still holds the outline of your spine. You walk back to where last night still breathes in the sheets, where the air remembers what your mouth sounded like when he pulled you open.

You unlock the door with shaking hands. Not trembling—shaking. That kind of shake that lives in the marrow, in the hollows between bones, the kind that doesn’t show up until the moment things go quiet. You twist the handle and step inside like the room might have changed, like maybe it’s not the same space where you peeled yourself out of his grip hours earlier, where your knees hit the carpet and you thought maybe, for a second, that he might look at you and see something. The door closes behind you with that soft hotel click, and it sounds too final. It sounds like the kind of soft that doesn’t care how heavy the silence is on the other side of it. You don’t turn the lights on. You don’t move beyond the threshold. The air feels stale even though the window’s cracked. The sheets on the bed are still half-pulled back from when you rushed to get dressed, from when your fingers fumbled over your bra strap like it mattered, like decency was something you still had access to.

And that’s when it hits you—that feeling. That pulse. That presence.

Not the man you left at the restaurant, not the one who leaned into another woman’s ear while staring straight through you across the room. Not the one who smiled like he hadn’t had his face between your thighs the night before. Not the one who let you walk out without chasing. That version of him is for the public, for the cameras, for the kind of girls who don’t know better.

The one you feel now is the one who told you, under his breath, that no one would ever fuck you the way he does. The one who kissed your throat like it was an apology, like it was a promise. The one who held your hips in both hands like he needed to brace himself against the want. The one who said I love you with a groan and meant it in the filthiest, most broken way. The one who left you full and aching and ruined and somehow still wanting more.

He isn’t here. He isn’t anywhere. But his name is still wet in your mouth, and his breath is still in your lungs, and your underwear is still sticking to you from where he finished without asking, and every part of your body still feels like it belongs to him. And maybe that’s worse. Maybe this—this absence, this phantom weight—is heavier than the act itself.

Because this is what he does. He invades. He stays. He lingers. And when he goes, he never really leaves.

The phone rings just past two a.m.

You stare at it, thumb hovering over the screen, not moving. You don’t answer right away—not because you’re trying to punish him, but because it’s a moment, and it’s yours. The quiet just before. The breath held. The anticipation curled at the bottom of your stomach like something alive. You hate how much you want this. Hate how your body remembers his name before your mouth does. Hate how none of it has dulled, not even now.

It rings again, softer somehow, though you know that’s impossible. It’s just the hour. The way silence thickens around sound this late, the way everything feels heavier when you’re alone. The way he feels heavier when you’re alone.

You press accept on the third buzz.

You stare at the ceiling while the line connects, the glow of the screen fading into the dark again as your hand drops back to the mattress. Your fingers brush the edge of the pillow but you don’t turn over. You don’t shift. You stay exactly as you were—still, flat, undone. He doesn’t say your name. He never does right away. That’s part of the performance. That moment he lets the silence settle just long enough to remind you that he holds the leash, that if you want anything—words, answers, closure—you’ll have to crawl for it.

He sighs, soft, like he’s tired, like it’s been a long day, like this is normal. “Hey.”

Just that. Just hey.

And it’s nothing. It’s nothing and it’s everything, because your chest tightens immediately, stomach flipping like you were still twenty minutes from him and not lying here in the wreckage of what he left behind. His voice sounds rough, maybe from the champagne, maybe from her, maybe from the way he always sounds when he’s just had something and still wants more. You want to hate it. You want to pretend it makes your skin crawl. But all it really does is make you ache.

“You alone?”

The question lands too gently, like he’s not really asking. Like he knows.

“Yeah.” Your voice sounds like it’s coming from someone else. Brittle. Caught in your throat.

A pause. You can hear him breathing. That quiet, familiar rhythm that used to mean something. That used to make you feel safe before it made you feel like a fucking joke.

He clears his throat, and the smirk is audible even over the line. “So? How was he?”

You flinch. You don’t know why—you should have expected it. It’s exactly the kind of thing he says when he’s trying not to ask the real question. When he’s trying to keep the power even while he’s already lost it.

You pause. Too long. “Fine.”

“Just fine?” His voice drops, dark amusement curling at the edges. “You let him fuck you, then?”

Your jaw clenches. You know what he’s doing. You know exactly where this is going. You roll onto your side, tuck the phone closer to your ear, press your thighs together without thinking.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first. You swallow. Hard. “No.”

He laughs. Just once. Dry. “Didn’t think so.”

The silence stretches again, and it’s worse this time, heavier, like it’s his. Like he brought it with him and left it in your lap and now you’re the one holding it. You shift onto your side without meaning to, knees curling into your chest, hand still clutching the phone like it might anchor you to the bed.

“Hmm,” he hums, dragging the sound out like he’s picturing it. “Thought so. You always tighten up when you lie.”

You don’t respond.

“You were thinking about me the whole time, weren’t you?” His voice is softer now. Dangerous in a different way. Not sharp. Sweet. “Sitting there all pretty, playing the part, but your pussy was still sore from me.”

You swallow hard, lips parted, phone hot against your cheek. It feels heavier than it should—like it’s holding his whole mouth on the other end. Like if you press it tighter, you might feel the weight of his breath against your skin, humid and amused.

“Lando…” You don’t mean it to come out like that—weak, soft-edged, needy—but it does. It always does when he says your name first, or doesn’t say it at all. When he lets the silence settle until you have no choice but to fill it.

“I bet you didn’t even want him to touch you,” he murmurs. Not a tease. Not even mean. Just certain. Like he’s telling you something you haven’t admitted to yourself yet. “You sat through dinner, acting like a good little date, and all you could think about was my hand on your throat. My mouth on your cunt. The way you begged for it on that balcony.”

Your breath catches. The kind of catch that expands across your chest and makes your lungs feel too full too fast. You shift—barely—but the movement gives you away. Your hips tilt into nothing, like muscle memory took over. Your chest rises too quickly. You’re trying to hold it back, but your body’s already mid-confession. You make a sound, low in your throat, too soft to call language. Half protest, half surrender.

And he hears all of it.

“You touching yourself right now?”

You don’t say anything and he takes your silence as a yes.

“Do it.” He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t coax. He never has to. His instructions always sound like they’ve already happened, like you’re just catching up to the inevitable.

“Slide your hand down. Just one finger.”

You move slowly, not because you’re trying to be seductive, but because there’s shame in the familiarity. The way your body responds without hesitation. The way the sheets shift as your hand disappears beneath them. The way your fingertips graze your stomach and you pause—not out of modesty, but reverence. Like you already know what you’re going to find. You press your thighs together, the way you used to when you were trying not to let him see how bad it got, how fast. You hesitate. You want to blame him. But you’re already wet. Already ruined. Your panties cling, soaked and still warm, like your body’s been waiting for this call all night.

“Lando,” you whisper, but it’s not a plea to stop. It’s a surrender.

“Yeah, baby,” he breathes, and it lands deep in your ear, rough and syrup-slick at the edges. His voice has thickened—fuller, slower, like the sound of someone wrapping their palm around a want they’re trying not to show. “That’s right. Show me you still fucking need me.”

You hate how good it feels. Not the words. The tone. The certainty. He never doubts it. Never doubts you. Your need. Your body. He speaks to it like it’s his, and the worst part is—it still listens. God help you—you do.

Your fingers hover beneath the sheet, suspended above your stomach like they’re waiting for permission. Caught there in limbo. Not quite obedience, not quite defiance. The space between his command and your compliance is thin, delicate, the place you always seem to fall into first.

His voice lingers, curls around you like a second skin. Honey-laced gravel. That sound you’ve heard pressed to your shoulder, your mouth, the inside of your thighs. It tugs. Not gently. Not violently. Just effectively. It would be so easy. To give in. To surrender under the guise of pleasure. To let your body chase his voice and pretend—for five minutes—that this is love. That he means any of it. That wanting you is the same as keeping you. That this ache, this pull, is more than just habit wrapped in heat.

But something clenches in your chest. Sharp. A tightness just behind your sternum, hot and specific. A different kind of knowing.

You pull your hand back. “No,” you say, quiet, but not soft. A whisper, yes—but one you mean.

The line stills. His breath shifts—no longer seductive, just audible. A pause, an exhale, the kind that happens when someone wasn’t expecting a refusal.

“No?” he repeats, slower now. 

You swallow. Your throat tightens. “Not like this. I’m not—” You sit up in bed. The sheets slip down your chest like they know they’ve been dismissed. Cool air replaces the warmth of your body, and it feels like stepping outside of something. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to say that shit to me after what happened.”

You wait. Expect the smirk in his voice. The pivot. The sarcasm. The cruel, clever deflection that always comes when you try to reach for something with weight.

A beat passes. Then another. You brace yourself for the mockery, the deflection, the teeth. But instead, he sighs. Honest. A sound you’ve only heard a handful of times before. The sound he makes when his armor slips, when he thinks no one’s watching.

“I know,” he says snd it sounds like truth.

You blink.

“I just— fuck,” he mutters, voice dropping low again, but not to seduce this time. Just honest. Raw. “I keep trying to not think about you. I go to sleep next to her, and it’s you I’m dreaming about. I kiss her and it doesn’t taste like anything.”

Your breath catches.

“I thought maybe if I pissed you off enough, you’d stop being in my head. But then I saw you tonight.” He laughs under his breath. “You looked so fucking good. I hated it.”

You’re quiet. Staring at the far wall of your hotel room like it might give you answers.

“I don’t want to keep doing this,” you whisper.

He doesn’t protest. Doesn’t try to sell it as love or misunderstanding or timing or fate. He just waits, still on the line, still breathing, letting the weight of your words—and his silence—do what it always does. Fill the room with him.

“I want to stop,” you say again, but it sounds different this time. Smaller. Your voice loses its bite somewhere on the way out, like your throat already knew it was a lie.

“So stop,” he murmurs. “Block my number. Forget my name.”

You don’t answer.

“Exactly,” he says, softer now, and the smile bends downward in his tone, into something resigned, something rotted. “You won’t. You fucking can’t.”

You close your eyes, let your head fall back against the pillow. The ceiling’s too white, too still. Your chest feels hollow, carved out with something blunt, something dull and wide. Like he reached in with both hands and took, not just the good parts, but the name you say when you’re alone, the thoughts you think when you’re cold, the you that existed before him.

“I miss you,” you admit, and it guts you to say it.

He breathes in like you just unzipped his skin. Like you reached down the line and dragged his ribs apart with your teeth. “Say it again.”

You shake your head, lips parting, but no sound comes.

“Please,” he says, quieter now, the way he gets when he really means something. Like you’ve just put your hand on the door, and he’s begging without pride. “Just once.”

The silence feels like it stretches forever, like the night itself is holding its breath just to hear what you’ll say next. Your fingers tremble where they rest on your chest, tracing the curve of your collarbone like distraction could be enough. It isn’t. You should hang up. You should. But your throat is tight and your stomach’s hollow and your whole body feels like it’s still locked in the shape of his. You wish it didn’t matter anymore. You wish his voice didn’t still pull at the part of you that needs to be seen. You close your eyes and inhale through your nose, a sad attempt at trying to ground yourself in this moment. “I miss you,” you whisper, again. And it cracks something in your own voice—thin and breaking, like you hate yourself for meaning it.

You hear him groan. Deep. Loud. From the chest. The kind of sound that doesn’t start in the throat—it starts lower. Beneath the ribs. That heavy, involuntary kind of noise that escapes before it can be shaped into something cooler, something controlled. It scrapes up through him like the words pulled something raw out of him and left it there, exposed.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

You picture him—eyes closed, jaw tight, knuckles white around the phone. Picture him tilting his head back, one hand dragging over his face like he’s trying to shake it off, like the sound embarrassed even him. Like your voice still reaches places he keeps locked and your thighs clench instinctively, traitorously from the thought of it. Something inside you twists, low and hot and helpless.

“You can’t say that to me and expect me to stay quiet,” he mutters, voice ragged now. You can hear the shift in him, the sudden tension coiling under his words like a wire pulled too tight.

You bite your lip, but you don’t interrupt.

“I’ve been thinking about it since you walked away tonight,” he says, lower, slower, each syllable like a bruise dragged across your skin. “How your hips moved in that dress. How empty your hand looked without mine in it.”

Your fingers slide beneath the sheet again, slow this time, like surrender—like there’s no point pretending you won’t. Not when he’s already in your ear, in your body, in the rhythm of your breath. You barely brush your own skin, but it’s enough to light up everything he left raw. You don’t stop. You can’t. Something in you has already given way.

He exhales, sharp and sudden, like he felt it—like he knew the moment your hand moved. “Are you touching yourself now?”

Your breath catches in your throat, tight and unsteady, and you hate the pause that follows. Hate how long it takes you not to answer, but not to lie either. The silence is its own admission.

“Yeah…” he says, voice dipping. “You are.”

You swallow hard. Hard enough that it hurts.

“I can picture it,” he murmurs. “Your legs spread just a little, that pretty little cunt already soaked for me. You’re rubbing slow, aren’t you? Just like I taught you.”

Your hand obeys without permission, palm pressing down over the thin cotton of your underwear. You gasp—quiet, quick.

“God, I miss the way you taste,” he groans. “I’d fucking die right now to have you sitting on my face, one hand in my hair, grinding like you always do when you’re too far gone to be shy.”

Your hips jerk.

“I’d tongue-fuck you ‘til your legs shake,” he growls. “Wouldn’t even stop when you begged me to.”

You moan, involuntary, soft and choked.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Don’t hold back. Let me hear you, baby.”

You slide your hand lower. Inside. Fingers sliding through slick heat. Shame and need pulsing together under your skin. You want to stop. You don’t. Because his voice is the only thing that feels real right now.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick now, every word catching on the edge of a groan. “Nice and slow. Fuck yourself for me.”

Your fingers move without thought, caught between his breath in your ear and the ache blooming low in your stomach. The wet sounds are obscene in the quiet of your room—shameless, slick, and sinful. And he knows. You haven’t said a word in minutes, but he knows exactly what you’re doing.

“I bet your thighs are shaking,” he says. “Bet your fingers are slipping because you’re so fucking soaked. You always were, weren’t you? Always such a desperate little thing for me.”

You bite your bottom lip, hard, your free hand grabbing the sheets beside you, twisting them as your hips start to move.

“Are you gonna come for me?” he asks, voice low and reverent now, like it’s prayer instead of poison. “Yeah? You’re close, aren’t you? I can hear it. I can fucking feel it.”

You moan. Soft. Broken.

“God, I miss how you sound,” he groans, the sound raw in your ear like he’s fisting the phone. “I used to make you scream, didn’t I? When I had you bent over the edge of the bed, dripping, wrecked, begging me not to stop.”

Your back arches off the sheets.

The room is too still—dim and expensive and wrong, like every object inside it is holding its breath with you. Fingers move frantically between your thighs, slippery with sweat and want, chasing that high you swore you wouldn’t let him give you again. The bedsheets twist beneath you, cool against your calves, sticky at your back. You’ve kicked them off entirely now, one leg stretched toward the edge of the mattress like you’re bracing for impact. You are.

Outside, the faint drone of the sea whispers through a cracked window. Somewhere in the distance, a car rips down the avenue too fast, tires humming against wet asphalt. Monaco never really sleeps—just hums at a lower frequency, like even the city is in on it. Like the architecture itself is bent toward indulgence and regret. And then his voice drops again—low, measured, threading into the stillness like silk soaked in kerosene. Almost tender.

“You wanna know something?” His voice drops even lower, into something almost tender.

You make a noise. Can’t speak. Don’t trust yourself to. Your eyes are closed but you can feel him—his voice in your ear, his name still carved into the rhythm of your breath. He doesn’t wait.

The words drop like fire in your chest. They land hard. Searing. Like you swallowed something molten and now your lungs are screaming, your spine melting into the mattress. Your thighs jerk. Your fingers falter. The ceiling above you stays dark, indifferent.

“I fucking love you,” he says again, this time harsher. Desperate. “I hate how much I do. But I do.”

It’s not soft. It’s not romantic. It’s a wound splitting open in real time. A confession flung into the dark because he can’t hold it anymore. And you—you shake. You can’t breathe. You can’t stop. Your fingers stop and then start again, harder, faster, like maybe if you come it’ll drown it out. Like you can flood it out of your bloodstream, sweat it out of your skin. But it doesn’t work. It’s still there. In every heartbeat. In every gasp.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

“You’re mine,” he breathes. “Even when you’re not. Even when you walk away. I still feel you. Every fucking day. No one else even comes close.”

And your orgasm hits like a crash.

It’s violent. A wave slamming your body against itself. Your legs tense. Your stomach seizes. Your breath breaks into pieces. A sound claws its way out of your throat, and your hand flies up—reflex—trying to cover your mouth, trying to keep it in. You can’t. It’s too late. He hears it. Of course he does. He always does.

“That’s my girl,” he growls. “Fucking knew you’d give it to me.”

You don’t say anything. Can’t. The words won’t come. They’ve drowned under the weight of him—of this. The way his voice still owns the oxygen in the room. The way your body still says yes when everything else is screaming no.

The line is quiet.

You can still hear him breathing, but it’s distant now. Removed. Not soft or hungry anymore—just there. Like a metronome ticking at the end of a hallway. Background noise in a house that doesn’t feel like yours anymore.

You curl onto your side, away from the phone. Away from him. The sheets are cold on this side—untouched, undisturbed. Your arm tucks under your head, and your legs curl toward your chest on instinct, like your body’s trying to hold itself smaller. Contain the ache. The trembling hasn’t stopped yet, a slow pulse beneath your skin like something sacred was scraped out with a dull edge.

He should say something.

You should say something. But neither of you do.

The heat is already fading from your skin. It evaporates too fast, like it was never yours to keep. The chill that replaces it seeps under your ribs—quiet and surgical. It settles in your throat like a question you don’t want to ask. You blink at the wall. At the dark. At the soft glow of the city bleeding in from the window. The room’s filled with dim gold and ghostlight, shadows cast by luxury fixtures and memories you didn’t mean to resurrect.

Everything is still. And wrong, you fucking hate how familiar this feels. The after. Always the after. That hollow stretch of silence where he pulls away—not with excuses. Not even with guilt. Just absence. Just a breath you can’t sync with anymore. A distance so thick it presses against your chest like a hand. You’re alone in a room that smells like him. On sheets that remember your back arching. And now it’s quiet. And cold. And exactly like the last time.

When he finally speaks, it’s low. Measured. Like he’s collecting himself. Like the version of him that just broke you apart is already folding itself back into something clean, something that won’t ruin the rest of his night.

“You still there?”

When he finally speaks, it’s low. Measured. Like he’s collecting himself. Like the version of him that just broke you apart is already folding itself back into something clean, something that won’t ruin the rest of his night.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

You wait.

You try not to. You tell yourself not to. But you do. Of course you do. For softness. For proof. For anything that makes what he said—I love you—feel like a truth and not just a well-aimed knife disguised as comfort. You wait for the voice that said it to come back with warmth, with meaning, with something that makes the wreckage worthwhile. But all you get is silence.

And then—his voice again. Casual. Neutral. Airy, even. Like a light switch flipped somewhere between your thighs and his pride.

“You gonna be at qualifying?”

It hits like a slap. Not a sharp one. A dull one. Open-palmed and slow, the kind that comes after the fight’s already over. The kind that reminds you who’s still standing. You roll onto your back. Stare at the ceiling like it might peel away and let you float out of this. Your chest aches, hollow and wide. Your thighs are still slick and parted and ruined. Your mouth still tastes like his name. And he’s asking about fucking qualifying. Like this was a meeting. Like this wasn’t a bloodletting.

“No,” you say. Flat. Tired. Honest. Like your voice has finally given up trying to be anything else.

He doesn’t argue. Of course he doesn’t. That would require effort. Would require remembering that you just let him back inside a body that still flinches from the last time.

The pause stretches. Long. Unearned. The kind of pause that should hold regret. But doesn’t. You wonder if he’s already looking at her. If she’s asleep in his bed right now, one leg kicked out from under the covers, soft breathing and sheets still warm from her skin. If he’ll crawl back in like this was just a break. If he’ll kiss her shoulder and curl into her like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just call you from the next room and come in your ear while whispering your name like a prayer. If she’ll roll over and whisper I love you back.

“Okay,” he says, finally.

That’s it. No pause. No catch. No sorry. You don’t say goodbye, won’t allow yourself to give him the satisfaction. So instead, you just hang up. Slowly and quietly. Like if you move too fast, the grief might notice you. Like if you make a sound, whatever just died might come back and ask for more. And then you lie there. Alone. Cold. Numb in the exact places he made you feel again. The wet between your legs isn’t even arousal anymore—it’s humiliation, pooling like proof. The room feels too big. Your skin too tight. Your heart too loud for how little it’s getting back. You close your eyes. And you try—god, you try—not to remember how good it felt to believe him.

You told yourself you wouldn’t watch. Told yourself you’d go out during the race. Walk the port. Maybe take a train out of the city. Catch a ride into Italy, buy a coffee in some no-name border town where no one gives a fuck about Formula One. You told yourself if you left early enough, you wouldn’t hear the engines start.

But you did. You heard them. Sharp and brutal. Like the city itself was exhaling all at once. The engines howled to life like beasts shaking off sleep. And the streets—those narrow, glittering veins winding around the harbor like silk on bone—filled instantly. People spilled out of hotels, bars, yachts. Laughter carried down alleyways. Shoes clacked against marble and cobblestone. Horns. Screams. Sirens. The whole city vibrating in a single fevered pitch, like a heartbeat you couldn’t separate from your own.

And that was it. You felt it again.

That tug. That sick little string wound tight through your ribs. Strung there by him. Still holding. Still pulling. It didn’t matter how much distance you told yourself you needed—when the world turned toward him, you did too.So you ended up outside a bar near the track. Not the private ones. Not the ones with velvet ropes and industry passes and terrace views. Just one of the ones carved into the street-level buildings, open to the chaos, full of heat and sound. Flat screens bolted above the bar. Fans shoulder to shoulder. Bottles sweating in metal buckets. Flags tied like bandanas. Champagne already foaming across tabletops like victory was a guarantee.

You stood by the railing. Arms crossed. Sunglasses still on even though the sun was behind the buildings now. Shadows stretched across the street like tired ghosts. Your foot tapped against the base of a rusted stool, your hip leaned just barely into the edge of the counter like you weren’t really here. Like maybe you were just watching a version of yourself watch him.

The race blurred by.

It always does. Too fast, too clean, too cinematic. Like it’s not real. Like it’s something you could turn off if you found the right remote. He looked good—of course he did. He always does when there’s something on the line. Fast. Confident. Hungry. His car didn’t take corners. It swallowed them. He moved like he was dancing with the track. Like he could feel its heartbeat better than his own. You didn’t blink when he overtook on Lap 42. Didn’t flinch when the leaderboard adjusted like it had been waiting for him all along.

But when the checkered flag dropped? When the whole bar erupted—glasses raised, hands slapped to backs, phones held high and recording?

That’s whens something inside you cracked. It was clean and silent. Like glass under pressure. You watched the screen. Watched him throw his fists into the air inside the car, helmet still on, adrenaline turning his voice to something breathless and boyish through the radio.

“Fuck, man! We did it!”

And he sounded happy. Not like he’d sounded on the phone. Not like last night. Not like someone torn in two. He sounded whole. He sounded free. You stood still while the rest of the bar screamed and spilled and toasted and laughed. While confetti machines burst at the table beside you. While someone popped a bottle and poured foam into a stranger’s cup like they’d both waited their whole lives for this.

And you—still in your sunglasses, arms locked across your chest like armor—you felt like you were being erased. Not slowly. Not softly. Violently. Like the footage of him crossing that line was actively overwriting you. Like every frame of his win was bleaching your name from his mouth. Then you saw her.

Not up close. Not at the podium. Just a flicker. A flash of white on the screen behind him. Behind the fence. Her hair. Her silhouette. Her hand.

Raised in a wave. And the way he looked at her—god. You thought you’d collapse. 

You don’t know why you’re here. You already booked your ticket back to Italy. You packed your bag with one hand while brushing your teeth with the other, You checked out of the hotel like it was a fire you had to get away from. You had a plan. You were going to leave before the city woke up, before the papers hit the stands, before your own stomach could catch up to the shame curling in it.

But then you didn’t. You didn’t leave. You didn’t get in the car. You didn’t do the smart thing, or the sane thing, or even the thing you promised yourself you would. Instead, you walked. Shoes in your hand, face bare, heart kicking like it wanted out. You walked past the marina. Past the crowds still drunk off the race. Past the café where your phone first lit up with his name. You told yourself it was a loop. A muscle twitch. A final look.

You knew it was a lie and now you’re here. You ride the elevator in silence, arms crossed, your teeth sunk so deep into your lip you can taste blood. The hallway stretches out in front of you like something cinematic—floor-to-ceiling windows on one side, pale wood on the other, recessed lights humming low like they know what you’re doing. You don’t even knock. The apartment door is already cracked open.

Of course it is.

He’s inside. Shirtless. Sweaty. Champagne-drenched hair curling messily across his forehead. Still wearing his fireproofs, halfway unzipped. His chest rises with breath that’s only just started to slow. He smells like victory. Like sun-warmed metal and sweet rot and something you used to beg for. He looks good.

Of course he does. He turns when you step in. Smiles. The real kind. That one that used to mean I knew you'd come.

But it fades the second he sees your face.

“Hey,” he says, cautious now. “You okay?”

You shake your head once. Quick. Like it might stop the tears from crawling up your throat.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” you say. But that’s a lie.

He steps forward, slow, cautious, like approaching an animal he’s already wounded once and isn’t sure won’t bite again. His arms stay loose at his sides, fingers twitching like he doesn’t know what he’s allowed to reach for anymore—your waist, your wrist, your forgiveness.

“You—uh, did you see the race?” he asks, and it’s not small talk. Not really. It’s a test balloon. A toe in the water. Like maybe if you say yes without venom, maybe if your voice stays level, he can convince himself none of this is a disaster.

“Yeah,” you snap, the word scraping up your throat like it came with splinters. “You were amazing. Congratulations.”

His smile twitches back onto his face, but it doesn’t land properly. It hovers at the corners like a glitch in the system. Like he knows it’s too late to fix the part of him that doesn’t know how to be soft when it counts.

“Thanks,” he says, and it should mean something. Should carry weight. But it floats.

You step closer. Not because you want to be near him, not anymore. But because the distance feels dishonest. Like if you’re going to bleed in front of him, he should at least have to watch it happen up close. Your voice shakes when you speak, but you don’t try to hide it. You don’t care if he hears what it costs you. You want him to.

“Why wasn’t I ever good enough?”

He blinks. His head pulls back just slightly, like you slapped him. Like the words hit somewhere he wasn’t guarding. His brow creases—not out of confusion, but something worse. That dawning realization that this conversation isn’t going to end where he thought it might. That this isn’t another soft landing.

“What?” he says, but it’s not really a question. More like a deflection. A delay tactic. Something to stall the blow he knows is coming.

Your heart’s beating so hard it feels physical now—like it’s trying to break out of your chest and throw itself at his feet in one last act of desperate, humiliating honesty. Like it still wants him even as you drag yourself through the fucking wreckage of that want.

“Why have I never been enough for you to choose?” you ask, and your voice cracks on the word like it’s never been said out loud before. “Not fuck. Not sneak around with. Not call when you're lonely or bored or drunk at some goddamn afterparty. I mean choose. I mean claim. Why have I never been the one you tell people about?”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes. His throat works around it. His eyes drop to the floor and back up again, and for a second—just a second—you think he might lie. Might try to salvage this with some half-truth about timing or image or circumstance.

“Why her?” you whisper, and this one hurts more than the rest—not because of what it means, but because of how quietly you ask it. Because it comes from the part of you that’s already accepted the answer. “Why does she get to be seen?”

He looks at you like you’ve just thrown a grenade at his feet, like he doesn’t know whether to jump on it or run. And maybe that’s always been him—too cowardly to save you, too selfish to leave you alone.

“I let you inside me,” you say, and now your voice is breaking for real, cracking down the middle like an old fault line that’s finally splitting open. “And you walked away. I let you hear me. I told you shit I’ve never said out loud before, not even to myself. I gave you everything. And I didn’t say I loved you, not because it wasn’t true, but because I knew it didn’t fucking matter. Because I knew, no matter how much I gave you—no matter how deep I let you in—I’d still just be the thing you come back to when you’re bored. Or lonely. Or drunk. Or broken. But never when it matters.”

He doesn’t speak. Not right away. Just stands there in the center of his spotless, silent apartment—an altar to success and self-control—still radiant with the remnants of the win. His chest rises in slow, shallow pulses, adrenaline still flickering beneath skin damp with sweat and victory. There’s a gleam across his collarbones, the faint shimmer of champagne that never got wiped off, dried sugar crusted along the edge of his jaw like celebration had kissed him and refused to let go. His hair’s a mess—curling, golden, clinging to his temples like he earned the chaos. And maybe he did. Maybe he earned every fucking second of it. But all you want is to ruin it. To drag your hand across his face and wipe the triumph off like it’s blood that doesn’t belong to him.

Because he looks too happy for someone who’s left you bleeding this many times. But when his eyes land on you—finally, fully—something shifts. He’s not smiling anymore. Not smirking. Not playing cool or disinterested or oblivious. He’s just looking. At you. Carefully, as if he’s cataloguing damage. Like he’s not sure if you’re about to cry or scream or throw a glass, and the fact that he doesn’t know is maybe the only honest thing he’s ever done in your presence.

You step further into the apartment. The floor is cool under your feet, too clean. Everything here is intentional—curated—like even his grief would be expensive. Your arms are still crossed tight over your chest, but it’s not a defense anymore. It’s just something to hold while the rest of you starts to come apart in slow motion. The tension in your shoulders doesn’t brace you—it betrays you. It trembles loose. Not strength. Not anymore. Just unraveling in real time.

“I shouldn’t have come,” you say, and your voice barely makes it past your teeth. It sounds like someone else said it first and handed it to you to carry. “I told myself I wouldn’t. I watched you win and I felt sick.”

He shifts his weight, opens his mouth, but you hold your hand up. You’re not finished. If you stop now, you’ll never say it.

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t care. Tired of pretending that what we had was just sex. You know it wasn’t. You know. We talked. We laughed. You let me in. You made me feel like I wasn’t crazy for needing you. And then every time I get close to believing you—really believing you—you disappear. Or worse, you show up like nothing happened and expect me to melt for you. And I do. God, I always do.”

His gaze drops. His jaw clenches. But he still doesn’t speak. And that silence—it’s not passive. It’s precise. It’s brutal in its precision. Like he’s figured out by now that anything he says will only confirm how much worse he made it. So he doesn’t say a word. Just lets the weight of what you said sit there. Lets you carry it alone, like you always have. And that silence? It hits harder than anything he’s ever said. Than every lie. Than every I miss you that came too late.

You take another breath, but it doesn’t settle. It just wobbles on the way out, shakes loose in your throat like it’s trying not to turn into a sob.

“I just want to know…” you start, and your voice is thinner now, worn down to something soft and splintered. “Why I’ve never been enough. Not once. Not for a full day. Why I’m always good enough to fuck. To call. To cry to when you’re falling apart at three in the morning. But never good enough to stand next to in daylight.”

Your hands shake, but you keep going.

“Why it’s always her when I’m the one who knows how you take your coffee. When I’m the one who told you to breathe before qualifying, when you couldn’t stop pacing. When I’m the one who stayed.”

That’s the part that undoes you a little. That last word. Stayed. You weren’t supposed to say it—not out loud. It’s too naked. Too pathetic. But it tumbles out anyway, like the truth was tired of waiting for permission. And it lands. You see it shift something in him. His eyes flick toward the floor, then back up. His fingers twitch at his sides, curling briefly into fists, then flattening again. His shoulders rise with a breath too deep to be casual—like he’s dragging something up from the part of him that doesn’t usually speak.

“I never meant for it to get this far,” he says finally, voice raw around the edges, like he’s chewing on the words even as he gives them up. “I didn’t think I’d need you like that.”

You almost laugh, but it’s not funny. It’s sharp. Bitter. It curls in your mouth like acid.

“You needed me,” you echo. “But not enough.”

He steps toward you then. Slowly. Cautiously. Like he’s approaching a live wire. Like he thinks there’s still something left to salvage in the wreckage.

“It’s not that simple,” he says.

But you shake your head before he can finish the thought. “Yes, it is.”

And this time you don’t snap it. You don’t spit it out like a weapon. You just say it flatly. Like a fact that doesn’t care how he feels about it.

“You either love someone,” you say, “or you don’t.”

“I do love you,” he replies. Just like that. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been true, and always been enough.

But it costs you everything to hear it. Every little ounce of composure you’ve been clinging to. Every version of yourself that held out hope. It’s not relief that hits you—it’s grief. Not longing. Not even disbelief. Just loss. Again. All over again. Because now that he’s said it, now that the words are out, you know for sure: his love was never the kind that saves you. Never the kind that holds you in the light. His love only ever lives in the dark.

You look at him, and something twists in your chest—not from happiness, but from mourning.

“Then why has it always felt like I had to beg for it?” you whisper. “Why has it never once felt like it came freely?”

He doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t lie. Doesn’t soften. Just stands there, mouth parted like he wants to say something, anything, but he knows. He knows whatever he gives you now will only make it worse. So he says nothing. And the silence between you—thick, heavy, final—says everything.

You stare at him—not the Lando the world loves, not the polished boy in champagne and fireproofs and grins for the cameras, but the one in front of you now. Quiet. Flickering. Human in the worst way. The kind that disappoints just by standing still.

Your arms drop to your sides. Not in surrender. In exhaustion. Your limbs feel too heavy to hold upright, your ribs ache from holding in this pain for too long. You’re sagging under the weight of it.

“You love me,” you repeat, hollow now. Like the words are ash in your mouth. “But you’re still with her.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just lowers his eyes, clenches his jaw, like maybe he hates himself for it. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s just tired of pretending it’s not true. And that’s the answer. That’s the only answer you’re going to get. There’s no grand speech. No twist in the narrative. Just the sharp silence of reality pressing down on you like gravity finally remembered your name.

And somewhere behind you, the elevator dings.

[gf2bellamy]

okay so i had a cute request for spencer x reader. the team like imagine jj emily garcia and derek are at the movies watching a horror film. they are exiting debriefing the movie about how the serial killer was so lame or whatever and suddenly garcia stops in her tracks and gasps. everyone is like something wrong and she just points like omg is that spencer reid coming out of a romance movie WITH A GIRL ON HIS ARM. and it’s just them gossiping as reader and spence are being cute, maybe reader kissing his cheek or whatever and garcia can’t believe spencer didn’t mention he had a girl. maybe they don’t intervene just then but the next day at work they interrogate him. thank you if you decide to write this! 🥰🫶🏼

cinema — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: secret relationship , mention of horror movies , mention of a serial killer ( in a movie though ) a/n: hii ! hope you like this <3

Garcia clung to Derek’s bicep with a dramatic sigh, her glittery nails digging into his arm. 

“Even I could have escaped him,” she huffed, shaking her head. “That was supposed to be the scariest serial killer of the decade? More like the snore-iest.” 

JJ chuckled, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear as she pushed open the heavy theater door, leading the group into the bustling lobby. “I agree. The plot twist was so obvious, I figured it out before the first victim.” 

Emily smirked, arms crossed. “At this point, we should just write our own thriller. At least then the killer would be somewhat competent.” 

Garcia opened her mouth to add another complaint—likely something about the lack of realistic hacking scenes—but the words died on her lips as her eyes locked onto something—or rather, someone—across the lobby. Her grip on Derek’s arm tightened to the point of discomfort. 

“Ow—Garcia, what—” Derek followed her gaze, then froze. 

JJ and Emily, noticing the sudden silence, turned back toward them. “What’s wrong?” JJ asked, brow furrowing. 

Garcia didn’t answer. She just stared, slack-jawed, at the far-left corridor where Spencer Reid—their Spencer Reid, the same man who had politely declined their movie night with a shy smile—was walking out of a completely different theater. 

And he wasn’t alone. 

A woman stood beside him, her arm looped comfortably through his, her free hand gesturing animatedly as she spoke. She was smiling, her eyes bright with laughter, and Spencer—Spencer—was looking at her like she was the most fascinating thing in the world. His lips curled into that soft, rare smile he reserved for moments when he was genuinely happy, not just humoring someone. 

The sight before them was something none of them had ever expected to witness—Spencer Reid, grinning like an absolute fool as you pressed a kiss to his cheek. His ears turned pink, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned into it, his smile widening as you laughed at something he murmured in response. 

His grin widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way they hadn’t seen in ages. And you, this mystery woman who had somehow cracked the code to Dr. Reid’s heart, pulled back with a playful smirk, saying something that made him laugh—an actual, unrestrained laugh. 

Garcia’s grip on Derek’s arm was now borderline painful. “Oh. My. God.” she whispered.

Derek’s eyebrows shot up. “Damn, Pretty Boy’s got game.” 

JJ bit her lip, torn between amusement and fondness. Spencer looked happy. Not just content, not just politely engaged, but genuinely happy. And that wasn’t something any of them took lightly. 

Emily tilted her head. “Who is she?” 

Garcia gasped. “Wait—wait—is this why he turned us down? For a date?!” 

“Should—should we say something?” Garcia added, voice hushed, as if afraid of being caught. 

JJ shook her head slowly, a small smile playing on her lips. “I think we’ll leave that for tomorrow.” 

Derek nodded in agreement, though his smirk promised mischief. “Oh, we’re definitely bringing this up tomorrow.” 

Across the lobby, Spencer’s head tilted slightly, as if sensing something. You followed his gaze, but by then, the team had already ducked behind a conveniently placed poster.

Garcia peeked around the poster again just in time to see Spencer adjust his satchel strap, his fingers brushing against yours as the two of you headed for the exit. 

Derek shook his head, chuckling. “Man’s got a whole romance going on and didn’t tell us? That’s cold.” 

“Or,” JJ said thoughtfully, “maybe he just wanted to keep something for himself for once.” 

The group fell silent at that. Spencer, who gave so much of himself to the team, to the job—he deserved this. Deserved someone who made him smile like that. 

 Garcia sighed dreamily. “I need to know everything about her.” 

Derek clapped his hands together. “Alright, team. Operation: Tease Reid starts first thing in the morning.” 

And with that, they finally headed toward the exit—their disappointing movie long forgotten, replaced by the far more entertaining drama of Spencer Reid’s love life. 

The next morning, Spencer strolled into the bullpen, humming softly under his breath as he set his coffee down on his desk. His hair was slightly tousled, as if he hadn’t bothered to smooth it down properly, and there was a faint, lingering smile on his lips—like he was replaying something pleasant in his mind. 

"Morning," he greeted, flashing a small, genuine smile at the team before settling into his chair. 

Garcia was already perched on the edge of Derek’s desk, arms crossed, her eyes wide with poorly concealed anticipation. JJ and Emily stood nearby, leaning against the railing with matching smirks. Even Rossi, who had only heard bits and pieces of the previous night’s discovery, looked up from his paperwork with amused interest. 

Derek leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his smirk already in place. "Well, well, well. Look who’s all sunshine and rainbows this morning." 

Spencer blinked, glancing up from the file he’d just opened. "What?" 

"Oh, nothing," Garcia singsonged, twirling a strand of her brightly colored hair around her finger. "Just seems like someone had a very interesting night." 

Spencer’s fingers stilled on the papers in front of him. A faint flush crept up his neck. "I—I don’t know what you’re talking about." 

Emily feigned innocence, sipping her coffee. "Hmm. So you didn’t go to the movies last night?" 

JJ, unable to keep up the act, grinned. "And you definitely didn’t have company?" 

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly, his grip tightening on his pen. "You—you saw that?" 

Garcia gasped, slapping a hand over her heart. "Oh, we saw it, all right. The cheek kiss? The smiling? The arm-holding?" 

Rossi, who had been watching the entire exchange with growing amusement, finally spoke up. "Kid, just admit it. You’re dating someone." 

Derek’s grin turned wolfish. "Come on, man Spill. Who’s the mystery woman?" 

Spencer opened his mouth, then closed it, looking torn between exasperation and embarrassment. "It’s—it’s not a big deal. We just… went to a movie." 

"A romance movie," Emily pointed out, raising an eyebrow. 

"You hate romance movies," JJ added. 

Spencer sighed, rubbing his temple. "Okay, fine. We’ve been… dating for a few months." 

Garcia squealed, clapping her hands together. "Months?! And you didn’t tell us?!" 

"I wanted to keep it private," Spencer mumbled, but there was no real annoyance in his voice—just a quiet fondness that made even Derek’s teasing smirk soften slightly. 

JJ smiled. "Well, for what it’s worth, you looked really happy." 

Spencer ducked his head, but not before they caught the way his lips twitched upward. "I… am." 

Garcia pretended to swoon against Derek. "Our little genius is in love." 

Spencer groaned. "Please don’t—" 

Derek laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Too late, kid. You’re officially doomed." 

[stereoqueen]

good girls - m.rempe

summary: the hughes brothers find out that their little sister isn’t the good girl that they always knew. (based around good girls by 5sos) hughes!sister x matt rempe

Y/n Hughes was always a good girl. She was a straight-A student, a stellar lacrosse player, and a classic overachiever. She felt like she had to, being the youngest and only girl in the Famous Hughes family. Her whole life was academics or sports, with zero time for boys. In high school, her brothers were so happy that they didn’t have to worry about her getting into trouble or being boy-crazy over their friends. She was their perfect angel sister who could do no wrong in their eyes.

But secretly, Y/n (or El) Hughes was not just the angel but had a wild side. When she wasn’t at lacrosse, she was “studying” in the library with her friends, which was code for let me sneak out the back window to be with her secret boyfriend. No one ever caught onto her for years. She had the brains and the beauty — which landed her a full scholarship to NYU.

Now, as a college student, the stress of sneaking out dropped. The pressure of being a Hughes was still there, and upholding the reputation was, too. When she originally met her now boyfriend, they didn’t know of each other, which was refreshing. She was used to being known for her last name, and he was used to being known for his fights.

Matt Rempe proved to be the sweetest guy she had ever met. Him grabbing her coffee order was the best thing to have happened to her. A few dates later, she was his. After almost a year of loving Matt, he wanted to finally meet her brothers.

“C’mon babe, I should meet them by now,” Matt says as he takes another bite of pasta.

“Trust me, I know. But it’s so hard. I can’t just say hey! I have a boyfriend of over a year! Because they will blow up over that and not knowing. THEN they will blow up over the fact that he is not only a 6’7 menace on the ice, but on a rival team,” She tells him as she gets up to get more wine.

“Your parents love me! Your brothers will be mad at first, but hopefully, they will get over it,” he replies as he looks down at his phone.

“Quinn is just Quinn… Luke would turn into scolding Big Bro. Don’t even get me started on what Jack— “ She started to rant as she sat back down but was cut off by a kiss over the table. The kiss wasn’t long, but enough to stop her from rambling.

“Okay. I will wait a little longer,” Matt says softly as she blushes.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

A few months passed and she knew Quinn was coming into New York for a game this week. She knew that this would be the prime opportunity to introduce Matt to one of her brothers. Quinn was the most understanding of her three brothers. He was the one that she could go to with any problem, big or small. He was nicknamed Huggy Bear for a reason. However, she never expected the first time they met each other to be like this.

The Rangers had just whipped the Canucks 5-3 despite Quinn’s best efforts to make things happen. He was tired and was annoyed about the loss, knowing playoffs were around the corner. The exhaustion wore off when he remembered that his sister wanted to meet him for a postgame dinner. Quickly getting dressed, he raced to the meeting spot she told him to meet earlier when he saw her.

She was not alone like he expected. She was kissing a very tall man. The same tall man had just “broken” his ankles earlier, trying to stop him from advancing. The pair didn’t see Quinn approaching, so he played it cool, leaning against the wall away from them. The two were in their own world, talking and hugging about the game when she looked down the hall to see her older brother on the phone.

“Oh my fuck,” she said as Matt turned around to see Quinn leaning against the wall.

“Good girl going for the bad boy? Classic, El-Bell,” Quinn states as he walks towards them.

“So, um, I wanted you to meet him at dinner?” She stated nervously as Matt put his toothpick back in his mouth.

“Oh, you didn’t want me to see you mackin on him in public?” Quinn jokes as Matt stifles and laughs. El hits Matt on the shoulder lovingly.

“Well, you’re early, Q this is—“ She started to say as Quinn stuck out his arm to Matt. “Rempe, pleasure, sorry for breaking your ankles today. Don’t check Twitter,” Quinn says as he shakes his hand, going into his older brother mode.

The boys’ faces are both in neutral facial expressions. Matt had a “I’m a big scary guy” face as Quinn put on his million-dollar death glare.

“Nice to finally meet you. I’ve been begging El for months to let me talk to you guys,” Matt says as they finish shaking hands.

Quinn looks to El, who has a nervous look on her face. He cracks into a smile, “Wait, I’m the first brother you’ve met?” He asks menacingly.

“Yeah, she said you’re the most—“ He started as El quickly cut him off, “Matthew, you finish that sentence and walk to dinner. AND home.” The trio of them laugh as the start walking down hall.

“You’re in for a treat, bud; you looked like you were about to shit your pants about meeting me; the devils’ brothers will make your life a living hell,” Quinn jokes as he slaps Matt on the shoulder as they walk out of the arena.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The dinner with Q went surprisingly well. He approved almost immediately after seeing how well he treated her. Getting to know Matt brought much context into why his little sister never tried to get Matt to meet the boys. Their parents already knew, Jim fangirling and Ellen being the loving boy mom that she is. She asked Quinn for advice on what to do about Jack and Luke.

Does she wait until the lake? Does she wait until the off-season?

Jack is already hurt for the season, so he’s extra clingy and pissy. Luke is living his best life thriving on the road and didn’t want to throw off that groove.

They decided that there was no good time.

“I vote you just let it happen organically,” Quinn says as he sits on the couch, sharing snacks with Matt. Matt nods, fist-bumping him. “Told ya, sweetheart,” he knowingly says to her, as that was his take on the situation all along (despite the constant pleas to meet them).

“Shut up, Matty, Quinn, you know there is nothing organic about our family!” El says as she walks over, stealing the box of Oreos.

“Okay, then you have some options. Invite Jack and Luke sometime over and have Matt show up, meet them after a game with him like you did me, and pray that Jack doesn’t have a public meltdown or wait until the lakehouse. That’s all I got,” Quinn lays out his ideas as the gears turn in the couple’s heads.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

A few weeks later, El was working on her French homework when Matt let himself in her apartment. He walked in, dropped his stuff off, and immediately flopped beside her on the couch. She was writing a paper about the Three Musketeers while watching it on TV and in French while writing her paper in French.

About 15 minutes and a page later, she turned to him, shutting her laptop off. “Bonjour, mon amour (hi my love),” She said lovingly as Matt pulled her on top of him. He attacked her lovingly with kisses all down her neck as she pulled on his hair. The makeout session turned heated, shirts off, tension building as Matt pulled her in deeper. Disconnecting their lips, he flipped her so she was underneath him on the couch. “I missed you extra today,” He mumbled into her neck as she bucked her hips up into him.

“Care to show me how badly, mon coeur? (my heart)” Her voice was sweet as honey to him in his ear. He groaned at the sound of her French accent, needing her desperately as ever. “Oh angel, you have no idea what you and your French do to me,” Matt groans again as she arches back into him even more. They kiss again deeply as Matt rakes his hands down her body, moving to her sweatpants. His hand delicately diving lower and lower. He can feel how wet she is due to how her body is physically squirming when he hasn’t even touched her. “Matt—“ She started until the booming knock at the door brought them to reality.

The pair stare at each other, matching looks on their faces, surprised. “Um, did you order takeout or something?” Matt asks as El puts a hand over his mouth.

“Open up Sista!” Luke says as he knocks again.

“Go to my room!” She says quickly as Matt not so quietly runs across the living room into her room.

“Anyone home!” Jack says as he knocks, too.

“Yeah! One second!” She tells her brothers as she turns the TV back on, then runs over to fix herself in the mirror near her front door. Frazzled, she opens the door to find her two older brothers standing there with food in their hands.

“Brought your favorite pad thai!” Luke tells her as they walk through the doorway. Her expression changes from frazzled to a soft smile.

“Thanks, Lukey! I really was starving, I have a big French paper to finish.” She tells the pair as they bring the food to the kitchen table.

Jack sets the food down and then kicks off his shoes near the door. He looks down to move his out of the way to see a large pair next to El’s. He returns to the kitchen to see Luke’s shoes still on. Analyzing the rest of the room, he doesn’t find anything else out of the ordinary… or so he thought.

“Sis, I’m going to use your bathroom,” He says as he snoops around the apartment. Luke and El were chatting over last night’s games when Jack returned.

He returned with her 6’7 boyfriend in tow, held by his ear. “Ow Ow Ow,” Matt says as El marches over, grabbing Jack by the ear, leaving him to drop Matt. Luke is cackling at the chain of events.

“What the HELL!” El says as she throws him onto the couch. “That’s what I should be saying! WHAT THE HELL IS MATT REMPE DOING IN YOUR BEDROOM!” Jack booms as he points at the tall ranger.

Matt was now sitting with Luke at the dining room table, opening the takeout boxes together. “You two were the ones to randomly show up!” El retaliates to her older brother as he sits back on the couch, fuming.

“I can’t even. My angel sister, with HIM!” He says angrily as Luke stiffles another laugh. “What are you laughing about over there, Moose?” He continues.

“Our sister is NOT an angel. Devil in disguise more like it,” Luke tells him as Matt laughs. “Got her there, Hughesy,” Matt replies as Jack’s face drops. “El has always been an angel. Straight A’s, never in trouble, no boys, perfect more like,” Jack says as El shakes her head, “Well……”

“I saw El making out with Will Smith a few times during my senior year of high school. I also got Ethan to confess that she kissed him a few times at the lake two summers ago. Quinn told me that she had a boyfriend named Johnny for two years, too, but never told anyone. Every time she was at the library, they were making out in his truck — want me to go on, sister angel?” Luke explains as Jack and Matt’s faces drop. El, annoyed and embarrassed, runs to Luke to slap him across the shoulder (and to run from Jack), “LUKE WARREN!!!”

Jack is now dumbfounded on the couch, not even feeling the rage from before. Flabbergasted by his goodie girlfriend, Matt can’t even think straight as he watches her play fight her “older” brother.

“You kissed Will Smith?” Matt teased as Jack stood up, walking over to his two siblings play fighting, “You did WHAT with WHO?”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

“So what I have learned from this story is that good girls are bad girls that haven’t been caught?” Trevor clarifies as El nods, leaning into Matt’s hold. The newly engaged couple was explaining the story of how all of the brothers found out Matt was dating her, in the classic Hughes fashion — told around the fire at the lakehouse. It had been two years since the rivalry meeting (how Jack labeled it) and a few months since Matt asked El to marry him. “Yep. Never count out the good girls,” Matt says as Jack brings him another beer.

“I now realize that even though my sister isn’t the good girl, she brought home a good guy.” Jack tells the group as he daps up Matt.

“Who would have thought that the man who prays on the rangers downfall is now going to be in-laws with one?” Luke jokes as the group laughs.

“Probably the craziest thing about the relationship honestly,” She tells the group as Luke laughed loudly.

“What now brother?” She asks as Luke stops laughing.

“The craziest thing about this relationship was how calm Q was. I thought I’d be the calmest since I knew before hand!” He says as the brothers freeze.

“What? You knew?” Jack says as Luke shrugs. “I knew she was seeing someone, then Quinn confirmed it,” El whips her head around to see Quinn nosedived into his beer. He looks up to see everyone staring at him.

“Mancini got traded and said that Matt’s girlfriend looked like sis and I just knew. Then at the game when I saw you two it confirmed it and I texted Luke. No biggie,” Quinn states as everyone agrees that it’s fair.

“WHY AM I ALWAYS THE LAST TO KNOW!” Jack huffs, giving a noogie to Luke as he sits back down.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*