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dreamersparacosm · 2 months ago

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jeon jungkook - if we were us (part one)

warnings ; none

prompt ; in which life gives you and Jungkook one more chance to hold on.

note ; AH. IT'S HERE. i won't lie, finding where i wanted this story to start was extremely difficult and took me way longer than i want to admit. but after 2939393 cups of coffee and 393949 emhen inspirational quotes i made it. i have never been more excited about a piece of writing in my life!! for context, i began writing when i was 12 and have written numerous works over 200k words, but once i got to college, diverted to only one-shots and shorter fics to give myself time to live. now that i'm way too old to be on this app, i have time on my hands to actually enjoy writing stories and it both terrifies and excites me if you could see the notion file i have on this story you'd prob understand my anxiety a little more. on the bright side though, this is basically me signing a contract to stay on tumblr for at least another 6-8 months (or however long this story will take to complete.) all this to say, this story is incredibly nuanced and every character has flaws, trials, tribulations, yada yada. i hope your world is just as chaotic, devastating, exciting and messy as theirs. this is for all the lovers in the world who want a second chance. may it be sweeter than the first.

playlist here

series masterlist here

wc ; 3.9k

[YOUR POV]

You’ve always liked the rain.

There’s something oddly comforting about it. The quiet hush of the droplets. The way it softens the edge of the world, but follows no pattern to its madness.

Pretty much all your firsts have happened in the rain.

The first time you were dropped off for a playdate without crying, your shoes squelched against the pavement, raincoat sticking to the backs of your knees. The first time a friend hugged you was in middle school, outside of a 7-Eleven. The sky had opened up without warning, and you both laughed through it, soaked to the bone. Your first kiss was under a shared umbrella that kept tipping sideways, clumsy and warm and like two puzzle pieces that wouldn’t fully fit together but gave the illusion they might for a moment in time. He tasted like cherry gum and a thunderstorm that was gone too quickly.

The rain reminds you of beginnings. Unlike endings, they require no permission. They simply appear, uninvited, leaving behind fertile ground for whatever comes next.

Morning light creeps in between the cracks of the blinds. A familiar heaviness weighs your eyes down, the air in the room cold in the way it always is when it rains outside. You shift slightly beneath the comforter, legs stretching out until your toes hit the edge of the mattress. Behind you, his arm tightens instinctively around your waist.

You feel a soft groan rumble against your spine, breath fanning the back of your neck. Your body pauses its movement for a second, suspended between comfort and obligation.

Outside, the rain taps against the window louder now. A familiar sound that makes you want to follow his actions and bury yourself into the thick sheets, pretend you have nowhere else to be.

You really don’t want to get up. Clearly, neither does he.

The pads of his fingers shift against your hip, digging into the bare skin. You can’t help but smile a little, even though it’s tired and small.

“Joonie,” you murmur, voice thick with slumber. “I need to get up.”

That earns you another groan. A little louder, more dramatic. His face presses into your shoulder. “Mm. Five more minutes,” he mumbles. “World won’t end if you’re late.”

You want to believe him, but the kids in your class would say otherwise.

You appease him, stay for one more breath. Maybe two. Normally, you wouldn't give yourself the extra grace. But it’s raining and beginnings are easier this morning. Plus, your boyfriend seems to be the human version of a teddy bear right now and you’re finding it quite endearing.

Five more minutes, that’s what you give yourself. You don’t look at the clock or count the seconds. Time slips past slowly as you turn over and press your face into the side of his, kissing his cheek, jaw, the patch of skin just below his ear that’s always so soft.

He doesn’t react much besides a sigh. His hold on your waist loosens as he recognizes your signal, your quiet touch that says you’re getting up.

You slip out of bed carefully, trying not to shake the mattress too much. His t-shirt is bunched around your hips, creased and bunched from sleep. When you stand, it falls low to your thighs, brushing against your skin.

The hardwood floor is cold under your feet. Rubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand, you drag yourself back into consciousness the best you can at 7 AM in the morning.

You cross the room, flip the bathroom light on and begin your routine. It’s nothing glamorous, but when you work with children all day, this is the one part of the day you get to yourself. The version of you that isn’t constantly giving, fixing or soothing. Some mornings, it’s the only thing that keeps you sane.

Your reflection in the mirror blinks back at you, fogged at the edges by the sleep still lingering in your expression. Halfway through brushing your teeth, you hear the creak of the mattress followed by the shuffle of feet across the floor.

Namjoon appears in the mirror, hair poking in ten different directions, leaning against the doorframe like his weight is too heavy to carry upright at this hour.

“You look serious,” he teases.

You glare at him sarcastically through the mirror and shrug, mouth full of minty toothpaste.

“Deep thoughts?” he asks, stepping closer. He places a warm hand on your waist, his thumb dragging lightly across his shirt you’re still wearing. “Existential crisis already, and it’s not even 7:30, baby.”

You hum in acknowledgement around your toothbrush, raising an eyebrow. He presses a kiss to the side of your head.

“What does your day look like?” he questions, reaching around you to grab the floss on the counter.

You spit the foamy paste, wipe your mouth with the sink water. “I’ve got this new lesson plan I’m trying out. I’m hoping it lands well but knowing my kids, they’re going to make a mess.”

“Mess?” He cuts the piece of floss.

“We’re using paint to help solve math problems.” Not your best idea. In hindsight, it sounded like it would heal your inner child but in practice, it’s definitely going to end with you cleaning paint off your jeans for the next two weeks.

“Sounds exhausting,” He leans into the mirror to see his teeth better.

“And you?” You meet his eyes in the reflection, smiling briefly.

“Mm,” he pauses to run the floss between his teeth before speaking. “Work call at 10. Then coding a shit ton of our new website features. Jin also asked me to look at paint samples with him, which will take approximately four more hours than it needs to.”

You snort out a laugh, “That’s what you get for agreeing to help with his kitchen.”

“Thought I was being a good friend,” he throws out his floss, grabbing his toothbrush out of the holder. “Kinda also wanted the free lunch.”

“Jin already thinks you’re a great friend, baby,” You splash some cold water on your face, trying to liven up your skin. “You know that.”

You’ve known Jin since college. He was always loyal — the kind of friend who showed up with takeout boxes when you were sad, who knew your exam schedules better than you did, who cracked your shell before others even brought out the hammer. You don't talk everyday, but when you do, it always feels like you’re picking up mid-conversation.

Back when you and Namjoon were just hooking up, seeing where life took you, you introduced Jin to him. He was overprotective like an older brother in a sitcom, side-eyeing Namjoon between bites of ramyeon. Now, the two of them argue about kitchen appliances like they’re married and have a shared spreadsheet for wine recommendations you’re not allowed to edit.

Sometimes you wonder if Namjoon fell in love with Jin and you were an afterthought.

Namjoon chuckles while putting paste on his toothbrush, “He better. I sat in his house for two hours last week listening to him talk about that new guy he’s seeing and I… heard things no one should have to hear.”

“I thought we agreed not to talk about Jin’s sex life with him,” You poke his side as you lean against the sink, watching your boyfriend with amusement.

He spits out the toothpaste, waving the brush in the air animatedly. “You agreed. I tried to agree and got roped into it anyway.”

Rolling your eyes, you push yourself off the sink with your palms and go, “Breakfast?”

He nods at you, and you disappear down the hall, arms wrapped tightly around your body to block off as much of the cold air as possible.

Your mornings have always been trivial. Insignificant in the grand scheme of the universe. You move on autopilot: pan on low heat, fridge door creaking open, eggs gathered in one hand, butter in the other. The coffee machine gurgles in the corner. His favorite mug — the one with the chipped rim and the ugly cartoon bear on it — is already out on the counter. You know he likes his eggs over easy, toast not too burnt, coffee with a splash of creamer.

You barely think about these things anymore.

It’s not like he ever asked you to be this way in the morning. Never said a word about it, or gave any sort of hint, never played helpless in front of the stove. But it was an invisible task that folded in on your routine without ever being discussed.

It’s what love looks like, you remind yourself. The quiet dig of learning each other’s habits, small sacrifices piling up like layers beneath your feet.

It doesn’t bother you. You like to give. You remember birthdays without setting calendar reminders, refill the Brita before it’s empty. And it’s not that people don’t love you back. You're just always a few steps ahead, already halfway into caring before anyone else even notices there was something to do.

Namjoon walks in as you’re cracking the eggs, eyes still droopy with sleep. He’s no longer shirtless, now in his forest green hoodie he always wears when he works from home, which these days, appears to be more often than not. He yawns into his fist before grabbing two plates from the cabinet and setting them down beside you.

“You beat me to it,” he taunts, gently bumping your hip.

You hum, flipping the eggs with the new spatula his mom got you last week. “Didn't know it was a race.”

He chuckles, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “I was gonna offer. Technically, last week, I made the coffee.”

“Mm. The machine made coffee, baby. You pressed the button.”

He doesn’t respond to you.There’s not much more to say to that. Instead he leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek. It almost feels like punctuation. Like a period that stops any other words from leaving your mouth.

He’s quiet for another second, then breaks the silence in the air, “We still good to go to that baby shower on Sunday?”

You vaguely remember him telling you about his coworker’s pregnancy. All you know is it was an event that showed up on your shared calendar in the kitchen, circled in red and scrawled in messy handwriting.

You nod as you plate the eggs, “Yup. Two o’clock, right?”

“Precisely.” Namjoon runs a hand through his unruly dark brown hair. “Seo-yeon mentioned something about a bouncy house?”

“A bouncy house?” you repeat incredulously as you hand him his plate. “At a baby shower?”

“She said the baby can’t use it but the adults should still have fun.” He shrugs like it makes perfect sense. Seo-yeon, his coworker at the tech startup he works for, has always been an eccentric female. You’ve met her a handful of times, but that was more than enough to understand why Namjoon refers to her as an ‘old soul.’ A bouncy house at her baby shower doesn’t even crack the top ten on the list of things that surprise you.

You giggle under your breath, passing him the plate. “If you catch me in the bouncy house, just know I had one too many mimosas.”

Namjoon rounds your tiny kitchen table, settling down in the chair. “Do we need to bring anything?”

You hesitate for a moment. You don’t really have the heart to tell him you went down to the market last week to pick up a blanket and bear set for her. But you know if you dodge the question, he’ll ask again in a few days. “I already got the gift.”

You hear him start to chew, fork scraping against the plate. “Cool. Thanks, baby.”

You think he’ll ask you what you got Seo-yeon, but he doesn’t.

You walk over to the coffee machine, pouring out the dark liquid into your respective mugs. Splash of cream for him. Three sugars and milk for you. You set his cup in front of him, ceramic clinking softly against the table, before heading back to the countertop and retrieving your own plate and mug to match.

When you settle in front of him, he peers into your mug. “I don’t know how you drink that.”

To further prove his own point, he takes a sip, immediately wincing. “God,” he mumbles. “That’s not coffee. That’s dessert.”

“I like it sweet.”

“Offensively sweet.” He deposits your mug back down on your side of the table as if quarantining a biohazard. He’s a broken record at this point, always reminding you that one day, you’ll get a cavity from how sugary you prefer your drinks. Like a ghost that haunts every breakfast table discussion about your choice of beverage.

“Well.” You tuck a piece of toast into your mouth. “Not all of us are fueled by burnt beans and overpriced creamer.”

He laughs at that, the sound ricocheting across kitchen surfaces. He’s always been easy to talk to, to sit beside in the stillness of early mornings where the world hasn’t quite remembered it exists yet.

“One day, I’m going to get you to drink black coffee,” he teases. “Whatever it takes.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” you laugh as you cut up another piece of your eggs.

“You still doing the bug project with your kids?” he asks, and you feel a wash of gratitude for the change in conversation topic.

You nod, sighing, “Day three. Which means today’s the day someone accidentally steps on an ant farm and cries about it like it was their childhood pet.”

His mouth curves upward, eyes crinkling, “Weren’t you the one who said this year’s class was your most emotionally stable?”

“They are,” you insist around a mouthful of toast. “However, they did stage a protest yesterday when I tried to throw out a dead butterfly. Held a moment of silence and everything. I’m pretty sure they’re building it a grave out of popsicle sticks.”

Namjoon nearly chokes on his eggs. “I’m impressed.”

“You should come by sometime. Meet the little fuckers who take up all my time.” You’re half-joking, half-not. The last (and only) time he visited your classroom was the holiday party where you first met, when he was someone else’s reluctant plus one. You often watch other teachers partners’ appearing at classroom doors, bearing lunch and casual affection.

He shakes his head. “I barely survived kindergarten on my own.”

Between bites, he adds, “Got that deployment to push through today. Something’s breaking in the new UI, but I can't tell if it’s the framework or the entire infrastructure.”

You blink at him, chewing thoughtfully. “Wow. Sexy.”

“I know,” he smirks. “Almost as sexy as your bug project.”

You place a hand over your heart, sarcastically swooning. “God, nothing gets me going like scalable infrastructure.” Words harvested from his work calls — incomprehensible things you say without understanding the origins.

He lifts a hand in mock warning. “You better pray I don’t start talking about data streams before you finish breakfast.”

You snort, taking another sip of your coffee. “Enjoy your precious code. I’ll be elbows deep in glue and paint by 9 AM.”

Namjoon finishes his coffee before you do, setting the mug on the sink. When he passes, he kisses your temple, hand grazing your back like water over stones, “Have a good day, baby.”

You nod, already pushing your chair back once your eyes catch on the kitchen clock’s accusatory hands. “You too.”

He disappears down the hall towards his makeshift home office, leaving behind the scent of coffee and the cologne you bought him last Christmas. You stay at the table a second longer. Long enough to sip what’s left of your coffee, now lukewarm and overly sweet. Long enough to listen to the rain tapping against the windows like it’s trying to say something you can’t make out.

Long enough for you to wonder when sweet started tasting like something you needed to apologize for.

“An iced mocha latte? Did anyone order the iced mocha latte?”

Your favorite barista's voice rings throughout the quaint coffee shop, bystanders perking up in hopes of hearing their order called. Everyone collectively deflates when they see a frantic woman barrel past apologetically, reaching for a drink that clearly isn’t theirs.

You don’t bother lifting your head up. Poor Jiwoo. She’s been manhandling the coffee shop by the school you work at since the day you started, and she might be the only barista who understands how much sugar you typically prefer in your coffee.

If she ever leaves the shop, you’re pretty sure you’d have to transfer school districts out of grief alone.

You prefer to leave early for work, leaving ample time to collect your candied coffee, run through your lesson plan, and gossip with the other teachers for at least ten minutes in the lounge.

Unfortunately, today, you might have to exclude the gossip session you enjoy so much. A tragedy in three acts.

There are two new students starting today, and while you normally enjoy fresh faces in the classroom with different personality types to tame, you already have your hands full between the bug project and the ‘paint your 2+2’s’ activity you very ill-advisedly volunteered to lead.

“Hey, [Y/N],” Jiwoo solemnly leans over the counter where you're perched, waiting patiently as any good samaritan does if they don't want their coffee spat into. Her hair is frizzing at the edges, apron already stained. “I’m so sorry for the wait. Normally I put a rush on yours, but this Monday is really kicking my ass.”

She looks so stressed you almost want to go back there and put on an apron, maybe start whipping up some Iced Americanos.

“It’s no problem,” you wave her away. “You know I always come way too early.”

She gives you an appreciative smile, rushing back to the counter to take more orders. You turn your back to the crowd, enjoying the view outside. There’s a few kids clutching their mother’s hands, businessmen holding briefcases while fighting with umbrellas, a teenage boy hopping puddles like he’s in a video game. Against the windowpane, the rain sticks to the glass, slowly sliding to make space for new ones.

“Hi, can I get an iced vanilla latte?”

You’re close enough to the counter that you’ve started eavesdropping on other’s orders without meaning to. Honestly, an iced vanilla latte sounds pretty good. You once got an iced caramel macchiato before 9 AM though, and you were vibrating like a tuning fork until your last kid went home at 2 PM. The girl’s voice is distressed as she taps her card against the reader, probably running late to work now from the long line.

“Hey, can I get a black coffee? Hot?”

The second voice is different.

It’s a man’s. Can’t be older than mid-30s. It’s lower, calmer. Unrushed. Like honey poured over gravel.

Everything in your body stops functioning.

It’s as if someone snipped the film reel mid-scene. The cafe around you doesn’t gradually fade. It’s replaced by a silence so loud you can hear your own blood rushing through your veins. The clink of cups, the hiss of the milk steamer, the shuffle of feet becomes background collateral, dissolving into white noise.

Your hands clench around nothing. Lungs forget their one job. Your heart reverberates against your ribs like it’s trying to signal an emergency to anyone within radius.

No, that second voice is a voice you haven’t heard in ten years but would recognize in a burning building.

The second voice is a voice that has set up permanent residence in your bone marrow, lingering even after you thought you’d evicted every last trace of him from your system.

You don’t dare turn around.

You stand there, statue-still, staring out the rain-streaked window as if memories don’t curl up and hibernate in your throat, waiting for precisely this moment to wake and stretch.

Your eyes close for a brief second.

When you open them again, the world outside continues its persistent motions. But you, you remain perfectly still, a pause button pressed in the center of the city.

Seoul is a big city. You’re 32 now and far too old to believe in ghosts.

He wouldn’t be here. He made that very clear a decade ago.

You hear another voice begin to recite their order. He’s probably off to the side, somewhere in the shop that is now dwindling down the number of patrons inside as work hours creep up on the clock. You’re too scared to breathe, to even glance one foot in the other direction.

Your eyes instead train ahead on the bag of coffee beans untouched on the counter.

“Iced coffee, three sugars and milk?” Jiwoo comes running over to you, a triumphant grin on her face as if she just defeated the morning rush. “God, I’m so sorry for the wait. Yours is on the house next time.”

“No, it’s no problem,” You lean over and pat her hand, like you’re trying to prove your heart hasn’t actually stopped and you’re still a live human, even though it feels like it might.

You shuffle over to the side station where the honey, tiny wooden stirrers, and other small distractions meant to keep your hands busy are. You grab a few napkins for yourself. You can’t trust your grip right now. In the distance, Jiwoo rattles off some other orders you can’t make out. One of her coworkers comes rushing in, red-faced and apologetic.

You glance up at the clock on the wall. 8:30 AM. You’ve made great time despite the numerous coffee mishaps. And clearly, you need to sit in your chair and take a moment to yourself, because you’re now hallucinating the ghost of college’s past, and it’s too early to do that.

You stir in some honey into your coffee. Taking a slow, deep breath, you turn a half-step with coffee in tow.

And then, because the universe has a spectacular gift for comedic timing, you collide with someone.

Your shoulder meets theirs, your cup shifting in your hand and sending a small wave over the lid’s edge.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry—”

Your eyes are already tracking the damage, focusing on white sneakers now marked with a small splash of brown. Nothing ruinous, but your body finds itself crouching, napkins in hand, some deeply ingrained instinct to make things right taking over.

“No, it’s okay,” the voice says.

It’s the second voice. Gentle. That same calm.

You know this voice the way you know the road home in the dark, the way plants know to grow toward sunlight.

Slowly, you lift your gaze upwards.

He’s older, of course. More settled into himself. The lines around his eyes weren’t there before, shoulders carrying the weight of ten more years of living. His eyes stare into yours, somehow still reading every inch of you despite the decade-long gap.

Reality blurs at the edges. The rain against the window falls silent. The coffee shop with its morning bustle recedes. Your heart hangs suspended from one beat and the next. The napkins fall to the floor, your wobbly legs struggling to stand upright.

On a rainy Monday morning, where beginnings are endless, your ex boyfriend from university, Jeon Jungkook, stands in front of you holding a cup of black coffee in his right hand.

masterlist + ask

taglist ; @arcanekookz @writesvani @yooniepot @whoa-jo @nimmmnikk @readingbee44 @jungshaking @starlight-1010 @jadaocon1 @phoenixxxxstarrrr @jkaxl @butterymin @almatiarau @lovingkoalaface @carriereadsbooks @bhonbhon @lola75111 @yoonstaar @namkookie222 @jeonjenny @lachimochala @kissyfacekoo @libra04 @minimoninini @goldenjeonkoo @ot7even @kopiosuam @annpeachy @literallyjimin @prxdajeon @purplelanterns @neg-l3ct @gguk-lvr @misakiminaa @wisebouquetbarbarian

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hanniebaeee · 6 months ago

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Neon Heat

Felix x fem!reader

Warnings : drinking, making out MDNI

Genre: strangers to lovers, fluff, suggestive

Summary: You are at the pub with your friends, and you're confused by the signs on the bathroom doors. But a sexy stranger helps you out, and then you go on to become more than strangers.

Ok, so this is a problem.

Your bladder is so close to bursting, the two beers you had with your friends demanding an immediate release. You don't understand how your friends have already started on the third one already.

But now staring at the bathroom doors, you are trying to comprehend which is which. Obviously you've seen those signs before - in your biology textbooks.

But seeing it on bathroom doors? You're confused. And being tipsy isn't helping your situation either.

One had a circle-and-line (♀️) symbol and the other had some kind of arrow sticking up (♂️).

Which was which?

Your brain tries to connect the dots through the haze of your tipsy buzz. Circle… arrow… wait, what? Who thought this was a good idea? You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes as if staring harder would magically give you clarity.

“Need some help there, love?”

The voice startles you, deep and smooth with a hint of teasing.

You turn to see the owner of the said voice. He's tall and leaning casually against the wall with his dark hair framing his face neatly. He was dressed in all black - looking way too classy and sexy to be standing here with you.

His brown eyes sparkle like he knows exactly what kind of effect he is having on you. And even under the dim lighting of the rest area, you can see a dusting of freckles over his skin. And it made him look even more hot somehow.

You blink, momentarily forgetting how to function as a human being.

“Uh - what?” you stammer, trying not to look as affected as you feel.

He grins and says, “The one with the arrow sticking up? That’s the men’s room. Think of it as a…you know...easier to remember.”

His eyebrows raise suggestively as he point upwards, and then he winks.

He winks.

You blush instantly, and you could feel the heat creeping down your neck.

“Oh. Right. Arrow. Up. Got it.” You nod like an idiot, still staring at him like he’d just descended from the heavens. “Thanks for that. Um.. I gotta-”

“Of course, glad to be of help,” He says, and you bolt into the right bathroom, internally screaming because that did not just happen!!

By the time you calm yourself (and your bladder) down and get back to your table, your friends immediately notice your flustered state.

“What happened?” Jennie asks, eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“Are you ok?” Jisoo adds, leaning in conspiratorially.

You take a sip of your drink, trying to play it cool as you tell them you're just tispy. Of course the playing cool part doesn't last long because Mr. Freckles was sitting at a table right across from yours, laughing with some other (hot) guys.

You look away quickly, and try not to glance his way after that. Also failing, because the next time you do, he's already looking at you.

Oh yes, he is.

The night rolls on, your friends chatting and laughing, but you are only half-listening now. Because his gaze is searing, heavy with intent, and you could feel it in your core.

He looks ethereal under the neon lights and honestly, it was starting to get to you now.

At one point, he leans back in his chair, stretching lazily, and tilts his head toward the exit.

The message was clear: Meet me outside. You watch as he stands up, and walks out, your eyes following him all the way to the exit.

Your pulse skyrockets. Is this really happening?

This isn't something you do. You don't like casual relationships or hook ups. Hell, you didn't even know his name. But there was something about him that made you want to follow him out.

Ok, so if this is how you die, then what a pity, because you are already on your feet.

The girls look up at you, and Jisoo, the always the sharpest says, “If you're going home with him, I'm gonna be so mad.”

“Oh my God! I won't!” You hiss, cheeks heating up.

“Don't have too much fun!!” Jennie sings as as you make a beeline for the exit.

The cool night air hits your face as you step out into the dimly lit garden behind the pub. It is quiet except for the muffled bass of music thumping from inside. You barely have time to wonder where he is when you spot him.

“Thought you might leave me hanging.”

Bathed in the soft glow of fairy lights, he looks gorgeous. His hands are shoved into his pockets, his posture relaxed, but the intensity in his eyes was anything but relaxed. It doesn't look like he is here to play around.

“I wasn’t sure if you were-” you admit, your voice quieter than you intended. “I don't do one night stands or hookups or whatever.”

“Oh, I wasn't looking for one.” He steps closer, his smile returning. “You’ve been driving me insane all night. So I wanted to know if it was just me, or if you felt it too.”

Your breath hitches as he closes the distance between you.

“What exactly did you have in mind?” you asked, trying to sound confident (your body is betraying you in more ways than you can count right now).

“I would take you out first. You know, buy you some flowers, take you out to dinner. Talk. If you're interested, of course.”

“Oh.” Loss of vocabulary - you couldn't think of a sentence to say.

He reaches out, his fingers brushing against yours, sending a jolt of electricity up your arm.

“In our case, I think we'll have to shuffle it up a bit…” He says, before his lips meet yours soft yet firm, and yes. You're gone. Completely.

His hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up as he deepened the kiss. You can’t help the soft moan that escapes your lips as his tongue teases yours.

And he responds with a low hum that vibrates against your mouth.

The kiss turns heated quickly, his hands sliding down to grip your waist and pull you flush against him. Your fingers tangle in his hair, earning a groan from him that sends a shiver down your spine.

“God,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice thick with desire. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“You started it,” you tease, your voice breathless as you nipped at his bottom lip.

He chuckles, but it quickly turns into a sharp intake of breath as you tug him closer. His hands slip down the curve of your hips, and he presses you gently against the brick wall of the pub.

“What's your name, sweetheart?” he whispers, his lips trailing down your jaw to your neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses that have your knees buckling.

“Y/N,” you say, pulling him back up to your lips. “And yours?”

“Felix,”

You lost track of time as the two of you melted into each other, the kisses getting more heated, and the feeling of his hands on your body getting more familiar.

Eventually you both pull back, panting and disheveled, and exchange soft smiles.

“So, about that dinner… does tomorrow sound good? I don't want to wait…” Felix asks, moving a strand of hair off your face.

You nod happily, and say, “Sounds perfect.”

“Good. I'll pick you up at 7?”

“Ok,”

“And come prepared? ‘Cos I'm taking you home,” He says, his teasing grin back on again. “Maybe teach you a little about the signs…”

“Oh my God, Felix!” You laugh, and he laughs with you.

After exchanging numbers, and one kiss too many, you two walk back to your own tables where your respective friends tease you endlessly for this.

Jennie and Jisoo are on you for the juicy details and you give in, dying of happiness and also embarrassment - because honestly, this isn't how you pictured finding love.

As the boys start getting ready to leave, Felix glances at you, and you smile. That seems to have snapped something in him because he comes over to press a quick kiss to your cheek (making the boys go feral with laughter), and your own friends watched in amusement as you both said your goodbyes.

“See you tomorrow,” Felix whispers.

“See you,” You say, and watch him leave.

And you squeal in joy making Jennie and Jisoo laugh. Because this feels great.

Like it's meant to be.

Divider - @saradika-graphics

Tags: @moonchild9350 @velvetmoonlght @eastjonowhere @pixie-felix @sailor--sun @satosugu4l

#stray kids #skz #lee felix #lee felix x reader #lee felix x y/n #lee felix x you #lee felix fluff #skz fluff #stray kids x reader #stray kids fluff

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fanfics-i-find-here · 8 months ago

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Do I know you?

Jason Todd X Reader

Synopsis: In the aftermath of a brief Kidnapping, Red Hood seems to think your important and wont stop hanging around your apartment.

Or in other terms, Jason got scared you were gonna die and doesn’t want to leave you alone

Notes: Reader is a waitress at a local bookstore/coffee shop that Jason frequents and he has grown very fond of her. They are vague acquaintances And she does not know that Jason is Red Hood. This is literally my first-ever attempt at a fanfic and Jason Todd has been rattling around in my brain. I might attempt to make this like a short series or something. Anyway, I hope it's enjoyed!!

Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Masterlist

“I think I have a new favorite stalker,” you say loudly out your open window.

Keeping your window open in Gotham was probably the worst idea you could ever have but your curiosity got the better of you when started to notice the fleeting red hanging out across the street and occasionally on your fire escape over the past two weeks. At first you were worried considering your recent encounter with Scarecrow as an attempted research rat.

However, the longer the red stayed near the easier it became to recognize. His helmet was shiny, which is what made it so easy to spot him. How that was helpful to a vigilante you didn’t know. Red hood was watching you and you had a feeling it was to make sure you were okay. You had heard of other bats checking on Civilians after traumatic incidents when they could, but every night for two weeks seems a bit excessive and he hasn’t actually talked to you. So what was he doing?

With no response to your jab, you lean out your window and repeat yourself, making a point to stare at the red helmet on the building across the street.

“I said I think I have a new favorite stalker!” You continue to stare him down.

Even in the minimal street lighting you can see his body tense, ready to run.

“Maybe he’d like to chat?” you tilt your head in questioning. You don’t why you asked. You were bad at keeping a regular conversation. If he came over and did, in fact, decide to chat, it might end up a short conversation.

A clattered thud pulls you from your thoughts and you gaze turns from the opposite roof top to the very large man now standing on your fire escape next to your window. You can’t help but stare at him. 6” something and built like a brick wall. Intimidating even leaning against the building.

Was he this big when he saved me?

“Hi?” is the only response you could muster. The urge to slam the window closed and shut your curtains itches at your finger tips. He stares at you, or at least you assume as much, the helmets white eyes giving away nothing. No wonder people were terrified of Red Hood. You haven’t even done anything wrong and you could wet yourself right here and now.

“Hi” You don’t know why your shocked to hear the modulated voice. He had talked to when he saved you from Scarecrow but it was still strange to hear. Slightly robotic but definitely a person underneath.

You realize that, maybe, you’ve been staring for too long.

“Tea?” you back away from the window and head for the kitchen expecting him to follow, as well as taking a moment to breath.

You just invited a good/bad vigilante into your home! What is wrong with you? Your mind is a swirling, anxious debate as you fill your kettle.

“I only have Green tea, I hope you don’t mind.” you yell from the kitchen, unsure if he was even in the apartment.

“Not at all” His voice is close then you anticipated, assuming he stay close to the window.

Instead you turn to find him sitting comfortably at your dining room table, watching you move about the kitchen. He looks out of place in your soft warm toned home. His brown leather jacket the only thing that could blend in. The harsh red bat on his chest sticking out like a sore thumb. Your gaze lingers a moment at the holsters on his thighs, suddenly realizing that if he wanted to do something to you, you were screwed. You turn back to your cabinets and pull out a couple of mugs, pushing away the thoughts. Red Hood was good guy, despite what previous attempts at bad he had in the past. You stand at the counter and stare at your kettle, willing it to heat faster. After a moment, You hear a distorted sigh.

“You wanted to talk?” Red Hood asks

You shrug your shoulders without turning, not entirely prepared for a conversation just yet. Red Hood doesn’t push you. The kettle begins to whistle, and you pour the two mugs, settling tea bags into them. You pick them up and set one in front of red hood, and settle into the seat opposite his, blowing on your tea. You take a sip and promptly burn your tongue, hissing in pain.

“it’s hot”

Your eyes fly up to Red Hood. You choke out a thanks, Having not realized he had taken off his Helmet. You let eye linger across his face, very handsome. A scar on his lips, that rests in a smirk, and another across his cheek. As you eye move up you let out a startled laugh, Another mask keeps his eyes hidden.

“What?” He asks, The smirk on his lips grows.

As your laughing fit slows, you pause to breath.

“You wear two masks.” You pause waiting for him to laugh. All he does is furrow his brows.

“it’s funny” you insist but he doesn’t respond. You settle down again. Well as much as you can considering the man in front of you, staring at your mug, slightly embarrassed

“So I’m your favorite stalker? You got a few?” Red's voice rings out in the silence. It’s rough and deep, like he’d been yelling.

A flush creeps up your face. If you were embarrassed before, you were definitely embarrassed now. It had taken you all day to come up with the throw away comment. You thought It was funny. You also didn’t think you would get this far in your interaction with Red Hood.

“Not really, just the one I hope” you chance a glance at him to find him still unsettlingly staring at you as a he takes a sip of his tea, now cooled. Your mind searches for what else to say.

“That’s good, I wouldn’t want that either” Jason finally breaks eye contact with you, looking around your apartment.

With his stare no longer on you, you take the opportunity to really take him in. Despite the scars on his face, there was kindness there. And despite his intimidating stature, he seemed to pull himself in, like he was afraid to take up space. His forearms exposed through his suit. What a weird design. Not that you were complaining. Overall, Red Hood was hot. You flush at the thought.

“Thank you, by the way” you rush out, “for saving me… it really means a lot”

Jason turns his gaze back to you. You brave up and hold his stare. Suddenly thinking, he looks familiar. You furrow your brows for a moment.

“Do I know you?” You ask before you can stop yourself. You physically cringe and try to back track.

“I mean, obviously I know you, you saved my life and all but I mean like I know your face? Maybe, not that it matters. Course you wouldn’t tell me if I did know your civilian identity because then it wouldn’t be a secret. I just think I know your face but that doesn’t mean that I want you to tell me. And maybe you just have one of those faces…” you continue to ramble some more. Jason watches you carefully and finishes his tea. You pause to breath in your rant and he jumps in.

“Thanks for the tea” he grabs his Helmet, sliding it on before continuing, voice changed, “and your welcome, for saving you.”

You watches as he walks back toward the window, frozen and unsure what to do. As climbs out onto the fire escape you yell out.

“Your welcome and you don’t have to hide outside, you can come in next time.”

He’s gone before even finish the sentence. You sink back in your chair.

What is wrong with you? Why are you so awkward? That was terrible!

You try to push the interaction from your mind as you close the window and go about spot cleaning your apartment. Once done your anxious thoughts return.

This is going to be a long night. You think as you turn into bed.

#jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #First Fic #Kandywrites #do i know you?

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theealbatross · 1 year ago

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Sebastian x Reader: i love you, it's ruining my life (One Shot)

Plot | Sebastian has the worst insomnia known to man and you are not dating him. Tags | none, fluff, slytherin!reader, bad english accent attempt by me, repressed feelings, unhealthy attachment, codependency, teenagers trying to process trauma together, mentions of nightmares, they are both 17 years old [A/N : FUCK JK ROWLING!!!!!!! Also I just needed to write something and somehow a depressed Slytherin boy was just the one to cure my insane writer's block. Enjoy!]

I am not dating Sebastian Sallow, is what you kept saying yet no one seems to ever believe you. Even Natty, bless her kind soul, gave you a look so incredulous as the words went out of your mouth that you couldn’t help but be confused yourself -- were you dating Sebastian?

“I’m not trying to be nosy, my friend. I’m just concerned.”

“About what?” This has been the third person this month with that same irritating expression on their face. Pity.

“I thought … you were always together that I just assumed there was … something.”

You blinked, trying not to let your face slip, afraid that your ever observant friend would read too much into each emotion.

“Well, there’s nothing. So you and the others can –”

“There are others?!”

You widened her eyes, telling Natty to drop it and she wisely did. “The rest of you can stop reporting his rendezvous to me. Understood?”

“There you are!”

Merlin, will the cruel gods of fate ever give you a break?

The deep voice from the door cut through half of the conversations in your table as Sebastian jogged towards you. “Morning, pet.”

He casually grabbed your head gently, pressing a kiss on top of it, before settling down by straddling the chair so he was facing you. “Hey Natty, got lost?”

It wasn’t unheard of for students to not stick to the assigned tables on their houses but it was still odd, especially for someone like Natty who much preferred the company of like-minded people. Always said that the quiet and whispers in the Slytherin table made her uneasy.

Natty looked from you, to him, to the arms that was hidden under the table but was no doubt placed on your waist, subtly but insistently pulling you closer. You silently pleaded for her to ignore it which she thankfully did with a sigh.

“Not at all, Sebastian. Just trying to keep our friend company before you undoubtedly steal her away for the day.”

He didn’t even pretend to be offended by the accusation, only chuckling good-heartedly. “You can be welcome to tag along just for today.”

“Wouldn’t want to intrude. And with the trouble the two of you get into I’d be grounded by my mother for the rest of my life.”

The three of them laughed at that. The conversation thankfully flowing easier and away from the initial topic. Once Ominis arrived and Poppy was called over it was like fifth-year again. The initial circle you had formed has always been a source of comfort, no longer having to have your guard up all the time especially as easy conversation flowed between each other.

“I got some new books for you, just got delivered an hour ago. We should read it tonight.”

You fed him a piece of bread in your hands, knowing that his growing appetite has not been satiated by the plate he made for himself but he would be too lazy to make a new one and would just rather take bits and pieces from your own. “Just for me, huh?”

He grabbed a tuft of grapes before feeding you one as well before he demolished the entire thing. You couldn’t help but giggle when he spat out a small branch that managed to sneak into his mouth.

“It’s that new muggle series you love, paid off one of Ominis’ servant to line for it so you wouldn’t have to sneak out of Hogwarts like I know you had planned to tonight.”

You could feel your face heating up at the fact that he knew you too damn well. “You know I don’t like you spending money on me, Sebastian.”

“Well, you’re gonna be reading it to me so technically I’m spending money for me.”

You gave him a look but he quickly evaded it by feeding you another pair of grapes.

Sebastian had been haunted by nightmares after last year’s events. Ones so bad that the nurse feared he would be a bit too dependent on sleeping potions at such a young age. Thankfully, the two of you had found a solution together, after a late night studying in the Undercroft reading your notes aloud hoping it would stick into your head a bit better – you had turned to find your companion snoring away beside you.

At first, the two of you thought it was the history lesson that put him right to slumber so you borrowed tons of history books in the library for him to read before he slept but an enchanted note later and you were dragging your sleepy self and a blanket out of your chambers as you read about the History of Magic in his bed.

It was that night that you had been eternally grateful that he had no other roommate but Ominis. Especially when you found out that Sebastian was apparently a horrible koala when asleep.

“That’s just –”

“What are you two whispering about?”

You actually jumped, pushing Sebastian away as if the soft voice behind them reminded you of how they had actually drifted closer than what was appropriate.

“Arieta,” Sebastian greeted her with a raised brow, seemingly confused why the Ravenclaw was this far off the room not even all that affected that his new girlfriend just caught him being a bit too comfortable with another girl.

“Sebby!” she shrieked prettily, quickly recovering and pulling on his arm. “We have History of Magic together, remember? You know I can’t survive that class without your shoulder to sleep on.”

She can hear Ominis choke on a laugh yet Arieta shot you a look like it was your fault.

“I, uh,” Sebastian turned to your table, now fully aware that everyone was staring at him with various expression on their faces. “Right, let’s go.”

Ever the gentleman, Sebastian was quick to grab the books in Arieta’s arm as she held on to his hand and dragged him towards the doors.

“Arieta, huh, wouldn’t have pegged her as territorial one,” Natty chuckled, you chucked a grape at her. “What? I am only speaking my mind. Might have to watch out for that one or she might just drag poor Sebastian away from –”

Just before she finished her sentence Sebastian came bounding down the path once again stopping just beside you, catching his breath. “Hey, you’re mine tonight, okay? No adventures.”

His wording left so much to be misinterpreted that even Poppy’s eyes nearly popped out of her head, damn near resembling those mooncalfs she loves so much.

"I stand corrected," Natty muttered.

“Sebby!” Arieta screamed at the end of the hallway.

Merlin’s beard.

“I’m coming!” He threw her an impatient look before holding on to your chin so you were looking at him and forcing you to nod. “No adventures.”

This time the embarrassment of the absolute mess that was unfolding before your unfinished breakfast have overwhelmed your brain that you could only nod with him.

“No adventures.”

Sebastian smiled, one of those real, bright ones that makes your body malfunction and your heart to stop beating. Pressing one last kiss on the top of your head and managing to wave to your shared friends he was off and gone through the double doors.

The entire table was left in silence and you had hoped they would let this go but Natty couldn’t give you that mercy as she cleared her throat.

“Well, now I got even more questions.”

You’re not dating Sebastian Sallow you just think about him a lot.

You weren’t as daft as the rest of them have probably assumed. You did think there was a lot more than friendship between Sebastian and you. But with all the things that the two of you had been through it was difficult to pinpoint what it exactly was aside from their unusually intense loyalty to each other.

Was it a trauma bond? Was it just their kindred spirits refusing to let the one soul who understood them go? Did everything that they went through, the secrets they keep, the curses they threw to protect each other become the bloody ribbon that held the unhealthy attachment they had to each other? It could be love. But it could be a whole lot more complicated than that.

That’s what they were. They were complicated.

After the nightmare that was your fifth year the two of you had kept to yourselves with Ominis in tow, trying to keep as low as profile as possible and give your poor professors a break. With your newfound infamy as the ‘Hero of Hogwarts’ (blergh) and the dark secret you three were desperately keeping for Sebastian, the best you could hope for was to blend in with the rest of the nameless students in Hogwarts.

That agreement got shot into hell when your dear friend Sebastian Sallow proved to be one of the best beaters in Hogwarts’ long, long history. It was a dare that exploded in your own face to try out and irritate Imelda but when he had accidentally proven to be a bit too good at it their mutual friend clutched at him with her demanding claws and put him through the ringer until he got spat out decent enough to be one of the soldiers to secure the honor of their noble house and win the Quidditch cup this year.

Piled on top of that development was his connection to the Gaunt family, the Hero of Hogwarts, and the rumor of his hefty trust fund waiting for him the moment he turns 18 – Sebastian Sallow, just as the gods intended, became the most eligible bachelor of his age.

And thus your hell begun.

The silent charm he always had with him grew with his stature. He clearly enjoyed the attention after having hid his pretty bloody face behind dangerous books all year last year that it was almost like he was compensating for the hearts he could’ve broken. Every moon it was a different girl looped around his arms and every month it was a different friend reporting to you that your presumed ‘boyfriend’ was found snogging a goddamn Gryffindor in the Three Broomsticks.

It was annoying, confusing, and you were getting sick of it.

“Over here.”

Before you could find the source of the voice you knew all too well, a door had already opened and you were quickly pulled into an empty room – well, room was being generous as it was more of a storage space than anything.

“Sebastian!”

“Shh,” you gawked when his opened palm muffled your voice as he firmly presses it on your mouth. The unmistakable sounds of footsteps and a softer call of his name echoed the hallway outside the door. When the footsteps faded and disappeared, he had the nerve to give you a lopsided grin that turned your face red in irritation. Definitely in irritation.

Nothing quite like being forced to face the boy who had been running around your head all day.

“Sorry bout that, pet,” he chuckled, leaning on the wall an arms-length way from you. “I’m not too good with break-ups, especially when they say no.”

“Must be horrifying,” you sniped shortly, also pressing your back on the nearest wall to give you as much space as possible – it would just be absolutely mortifying to faint because your heart was beating too fast it was like it was trying to escape. “Are you gonna explain why you’ve kidnapped me in this dingy room?”

“Come on now, don’t be short with me. I just wanted to hang out with you ‘s all.”

“You want to hang out with me …. Inside a closet?”

He shrugged, “I never see you anymore these days.”

Ah, the nightmares must be back. She tries to swallow down the bitter taste in her mouth.

“That’s not my fault, Sebastian.”

At least he looked guilty. And absolutely miserable.

In the few weeks you had taken your eyes off him it would seem he had another growth spurt. Do boys just not stop growing ever? Looking up at him was starting to get painful. Plus, all those drills they run to prepare for every game had done nothing but well for his physique. You couldn’t help but run your eyes to his broad chest and shoulders before you caught yourself and nearly screamed in horror.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Rough hands grabbed one of yours. He bent his knees so he could look in your eyes as you now outright refuse to meet his, in anger for the absolute shit friend he had been the past months or in embarrassment that you so casually checked him out you’re not quite sure. “I … I got distracted but I missed you. You know I prefer your company over any other.”

Those damned brown eyes, not even the poor light in the windowless room could dull its effect on you. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Your harsh words did not match with the growing smile on your face you failed to suppress. He mirrored your grin, “Do you still have classes?”

You shook your head.

He damn near vibrated in glee. Merlin, you did miss him.

“Let me steal you away.”

In a flash, Sebastian grabbed a hold of your hand to survey the hall one last time before dragging you out of the room and into the nearest Floo. You barely caught the surprise and anger in his ex-girlfriend’s eyes as she gawked by the stairs before you got swallowed up by a green flash of powder.

“Boathouse.”

You’re not dating Sebastian Sallow because this is definitely not a date.

You wouldn’t think the Boathouse would be a romantic place but with the lack of students, the dimming sun and a gorgeous boy leading you in the inside of it for privacy – you couldn’t help but think that anyone who would pass by would be well within their right to think you had become another notch in Sebastian Sallow’s belt.

You’re not sure how you feel about that. A greater witch would’ve been offended but maybe you’re no better than the knots in his belt.

“Sit here.”

Sebastian spread out a worn-out black robe on the ground, patting on it expectantly. Before you could do it yourself, he was already kneeling beside you and removing your shoes and socks. The intimate act forced you to hold your breath, making sure you controlled your face so your jaw doesn’t fall to the floor as he slowly pulled on your socks, gently plopping them on the edge and letting the Black Lake’s water tickle your feet as they dangled.

When you were settled, he nonchalantly laid his head down on your lap. Gods, help you.

“Comfortable, aren’t you?”

He made a dramatic noise of satisfaction, even wiggling in your lap to show his assent. A giggle slipped out of your mouth at the absolute gall of him, your hands naturally falling in his soft, thick, brown hair to play with it.

“What had you been up to, pet?” he mumbles, eyes never leaving your face although you find yourself unable to do the same as you opted to look around the architecture of the Boathouse you rarely visit.

“Nothing much,” you shrugged. “Although I did find that swimming in the Forbidden Forest’s Lake was surprisingly relaxing.”

He hummed, not even surprised at your little antics when you leave his line of sight. The boy had definitely pulled you out of worse situations than roaming around the Forbidden Forest. “You should take me some time. Merlin knows relaxing is what I need.”

A scoff escaped your mouth as you rolled your eyes.

“Yeah, right after I duel your newest girlfriend for the honor of getting to take you out.”

He poked your side at that, “As entertaining that would be you know all you have to do is send me an owl and I’d trek up to Maurenweem for you.”

Your face clearly showed you didn't believe him and he frowned. Carefully, you ran a finger in-between his brows where a frown formed to relax it.

At this angle you could see the toll the sleepless nights he must’ve been having had on him. If the bags on his eyes was any indication it must’ve been a few nights now. You ran your hands on his hair earning you a satisfied hum as he dangled his hand on the edge of the ledge to play with the water below.

“When was the last time you slept?”

He popped one eye open but your gentle touch proved too much as he closed it again with an even longer hum. “A few hours last night.”

“You should’ve woken me up.”

He gently shook his head, grabbing your free hand so he can hold it by his stomach.

“I didn’t wanna bother you.”

“Oh please, Sebastian.”

He chuckled at that, gripping on your hand tightly as he let out a heavy breath. “The nightmares … I thought it’s been better. Barely had any a few months ago. But now it’s just gotten worse.”

The confession broke your heart. Sebastian was not a vulnerable person; despite his usually easy and cheerful demeanor he was quick to wall himself in at the first sign of trouble. You would bet galleons of gold he still feels horrible of all the things he put you through and it was truly in desperation when he had called you over to help him through his insomnia. Which was also why you had welcomed the responsibility with open arms.

“Care to tell? Is it still about Anne?”

His estranged twin has been forefront of most of his darkest nightmares but he shook his head again and for that you were thankful he was spared that at least. “Solomon? Ominis?”

He opened his eyes; it was full of overflowing guilt and fear. And when it seemed he could no longer keep it to himself he sighed, “It’s about you. That’s the reason why I couldn’t …”

The revelation had your blood freezing. “What?”

He sat up, now facing you and taking both of your hands. “I’m only telling you this because you are my best friend and to remind you that none of this is ever your fault. You haven’t done a thing wrong, in fact, I can’t think how I would’ve gotten past any of this if it wasn’t for you.”

You held on to his hands tighter. “Sebastian, you’re scaring me.”

He shook his head, pulling you closer as if to comfort. Why was he comforting you when it was him who had been terrorized by this dream version of you. It was irrational to be mad but how could you not be when apparently you had become one of his problems while you were simultaneously desperately trying to fix it.

A palm on your cheeks pulled you out of your self-loathing.

“All of my dreams … it was of the people I love leaving me. Anne never forgiving me for the rest of my life, Ominis turning me in …”

“Oh, Sebastian,” you buried a sob on the crook of his neck, your hand roping around his back so you can rub on his back comfortingly while he lets everything out.

“And … and every time it happens my brain drives itself insane thinking of plans of what I would do if those nightmares came true. That’s the reason why I couldn’t sleep.” You looked up at him through your lashes but never leaving your spot even as he brings your legs out of the water and over his until you were in his lap.

“But then … they turned to you.” His voice dropped so low you almost shivered. “And for the life of me I just couldn’t … see an out of that. If I lost you – If you gave up on me I … I think I’d turn myself in Azkaban myself.”

“Sebastian I would never –”

“I know that,” he whispered. “But I still can’t – I can’t let it go. I can’t let go of these doubts and fear.”

This time he rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “That’s why I keep hanging out with all those girls.”

You raised your head in confusion, taking a better look at him.

“I thought if I loved you less, my nightmares would be kinder.”

The breath got caught in your throat. What is he – does he mean –

“But I couldn’t do that either,” He sighed, rubbing a hand on his face, clearly frustrated. “So I’ve decided. I’d rather go insane, let the nightmares do their worst because I am done pretending I don’t love you. I’m done avoiding you, I’m done pretending you aren’t the only light in my life. I’m done. And I love you.”

A fully grown crying Mandrake could drop from the sky and you don’t think you would’ve heard it over your own heart. You could barely comprehend anything but that his grip on your waist was so tight it was almost painful and that his pleading, terrified eyes was in the perfect angle that the late dying sun made it look like it was in a golden fire.

And that Sebastian Sallow … is in love with you. Just as madly as you were with him.

“I’m not forcing you into anything. I needed to let it out. If you want, I fully intend to formally court you until –”

“I love you.” You could no longer bear to put him in such misery. As long as you were alive, he would not question the adoration you’ve felt for him that just kept growing since the first day he had taken you to Hogsmeade. “I love you, Sebastian.”

Just for a moment there was quiet then he burst out laughing. “Thank you, darling." His body visibly shuddered as he sighed in relief, burying his face in your chest. "I’ve already planned to throw myself off the highest cliff in Hogwarts if this had gone south.”

You wrapped your hands around his neck, accepting the gentlest kisses on your neck. “Don’t say that. I plan to be your girlfriend for a very long time.”

His body shook from laughing, this time a kiss under your jaw, “Not that long I hope?”

You frowned, pulling away from him, though his unrelenting hold prevented much space to be in between the two of you. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” his thumbs rubbed circles on your thigh, now seemingly shy. “If all goes well, I had hoped to be engaged by the time we graduate. You won’t be just my girlfriend then.”

"You bastard," You gawked, laughing at his proclamation. The happiness was overflowing in your chest that you couldn’t help but just squeeze him into you hoping maybe that your souls would fuse with each other. “You haven’t even kissed me yet and you’re already pre-proposing?”

He licked his lips, his sleepless eyes now full of vigor. “Ah, we gotta fix that, don’t we, pet?”

“We’re dating.”

Natty sighed in relief.

Poppy clapped.

Garreth passed Imelda a silver coin.

"Excuse me," Ominis muttered, standing up. “I'm gonna request a room change to the Headmaster.”

#sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow x mc #hogwarts legacy sebastian #sebastian x mc #hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow fanfiction

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jeonjaemark · 6 months ago

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advent calendar || jeon wonwoo

content warning: none || masterlist

“do you feel better now?” i whined, looking down at him.

“no, i still need to recharge.” wonwoo singsongs, snuggles deeper into me.

i roll my eyes out of annoyance when i noticed my abandoned book left on the other side of his bed. for the past ten minutes wonwoo and i have been entangled with one another since he got eliminated from his current game. he didn’t care to announce himself or do anything but interrupt my reading and cuddle with me.

wonwoo tightens his arms around my waist. if i wasn’t in the middle of reading the chapter where asher ditched his big soccer match for scarlett, i would actually be happy to cuddle with wonwoo, but right now i wanted to strangle him.

“how’s your book?”

“do.not.ask.me.that.question.” my voice simmering with quite rage. i glare into his brown eyes as he smiles up at me with pleasure.

“someone opened her book the wrong way today.” he singsongs teasingly.

“someone will end up with a broken arm if they don’t untangle themselves and let me finish the chapter i am reading.” i deadpan.

he chuckles burying his face into me, “cute.”

“you know if i didn’t know you two, i would assume you’re dating.” mingyu chimes from the doorway.

wonwoo and i exchange a brief eye contact. something sparks between us but we both look away before either of us could say something.

“i thought you left already?” wonwoo’s voice softly.

“i am just leaving but i wanted to stop by your room real quick to see my favorite couple.”

“we are not a couple.” i spat.

“then why are you wearing wonwoo’s hoodie in wonwoo’s bed cuddling with wonwoo? you know you two look quite comfortable. all he has to do is lean up and wonwoo can kiss you.” mingyu teases.

i glance down at my outfit and feel my body start to go warm feeling flustered. mingnth did have a point but he never lets me breathe without joking about how wonwoo and i are couple or could be couple. honestly i would be lying if i said i don’t think about wonwoo and i being more than friends because i do. moments like this where we are cuddling in his bed and he teases me about the current book i am reading and the lines of couple and friend blur. i mentally smack myself from spiraling deeper into thoughts and look back at mingyu.

“just get out of here and go on your gym date with dino.” i scoffed.

“being kicked out of my own house by my best friend’s best friend, that’s new.” his voice dripping with sarcasm. he sticks his tongue out me, “let me know if anything changes between you since i am the other half that lives here too. i would like an advance warning before everyone else.”

i reach for wonwoo’s pillow launching in his directions but mingyu misses my hit when closes the door. wonwoo laughs walking back to his computer.

“you know he only does that to get a rise out of you, right? you always cave into his attention.”

“yeah, i know. i gotta throw him a bone every now and then otherwise i have no one to go back and forth with.” i giggled, falling back further into wonwoo’s bed.

i reach over for my book getting lost in the pages. wonwoo groans stretching out his body before heading down the hall for the restroom. i set my book down too taking my annual stretch. when i stretch my arms my fingers reach a thin silky paper under his other pillows.

christmas wrapping paper. wonwoo must have been wrapping gifts before i arrived. i reach for my book again trying to read but it didn’t last very long. my mind kept wandering back to the gifts wonwoo could have wrapped.

who’s gift was it? what did he get? how many gifts did this person get? did he spend all year saving up for it? did it cost him a fortune?

i push myself off the bed and went straight to rummaging through his closet. luckily his clothes were all neatly folded which made it easier to skim through the different drawers and cubes. each slam of the cubes or drawers lead to dead end. i skim through the top shelf of his closet hoping to find a wrapped gift.

“where is it? where is it?” i thought to myself.

“what do you think you’re doing?” wonwoo voice echoes

“i am definitely not snooping or trying to find my christmas gift from you.” i deadpan, turning around at the sound of his voice. “i was just looking for my shirt that i left here last time.

“ it’s still in the hamper. haven’t done laundry yet.” he says watching me carefully.

i peer behind him noticing the wrapping paper near his desk. if wonwoo suspicious of me snooping he did a good job pretending to not notice.

he leans down to his desk and taps his fingers onto his keyboard, his voice cool and calm, “i didn’t wrap your christmas presents yet.”

my body freezes in place and i turn to look at him as warmth floods my cheeks. he knows. i have been caught. a teasing grin forms at his lips making me want to smack him or kiss him. i shudder at the latter walking back to his bed. there is no point in further searching.

wonwoo falls quiet except for talking into his headset with his other team mates. other than that his fingers did most of the work. there was something comforting and relaxing when i heard the the clicks of wonwoo’s keyboard. usually i have my headphones on when i read because the clicking can be distracting but most times when i am not reading i love listening to the sound. i don’t even realize i have doze off in his bed until i wake up an hour later. i reach my hand out over my body realizing wonwoo had put a blanket on me while i was napping.

“hey sleepyhead, are you fully awake now?” wonwoo asked, from his computer.

i groan nodding my head at him. he glances between his monitor and screen to look at me giggling to himself. he doesn’t walk over to me right away. he gives me some time to fully adjust to my surroundings and being awake. i ended up scrolling through my phone for a good ten minutes when he finally stood up and shuts off his computer.

“i have a little surprise for you.” he tells me. “you have to close your eyes first.”

i furrow my eyebrows together curiously, staring at him. wonwoo doesn’t move. he waits for me to close my eyes. i cover my hands over my eyes when i hear shuffling and wonwoo repeatedly reminding me to not peek and keep my eyes covered. each reminder he gave me, i would respond to saying that i am covering my eyes and not peeking.

the bed dips underneath me as he takes a seat next to me. his breath heavy and warm near my skin. if i move my hand to his chest, i swear i could feel his pulse racing like mine.

“okay open your eyes.” his voice mixed with excitement and nerves.

i flutter my eyes open adjusting to my surroundings again. wonwoo holds a giant white woven basket decorated with purple and blue ribbons in the handle. the basket filled with multiple prettily wrapped rectangles covered in snowflakes. i noticed the giant words on the front of the basket reading ‘bookvent calendar”.

“oh my god! jeon wonwoo, what did you do?” i try my best to suppress my smile, skimming through each wrapped book.

“i made you a book advent calendar.” he swipes his hand over the basket.

“yes, i can see that but how?”

my heart bursts with excitement skimming through each carefully wrapped book labeled with a number. i noticed a little card attached to the first book and opened it.

welcome to your annual december book advent christmas calendar. open one book each day according to the date up until christmas eve. enjoy, my favorite book reader. (p.s you have to record your reaction to opening each book you open)

- love your favorite gamer

wonwoo goes into explaining how he thought of the idea. how he kept tabs on the books i have read already, what books i talked about wanting to read, and the different types of special editions to my favorite series. every time i talked with him he was able to narrow down his selection to the books he has wrapped in the basket. the way his eyes light up when talking about how the idea came to him and the way his smile only grew bigger and bigger while he explained. something warm and fuzzy floods through my vein making it hard to breathe properly.

“i know how much you love reading and how happy it makes you. plus i know when you a book becomes your favorite because you can yap for hours about it or if you didn’t like it then i will never hear you talk about it after the first read.” he smiles. “sometimes when i am playing my games on my computer and i see you reacting to your books, i will either pause my game or just lose just to watch your reaction cause —“

there haven’t been many moments in my life where i was genuinely left speechless and giddy. this is one of those rare moments. to hear wonwoo confess that he loves when i talk about my books to him and how he likes seeing my reactions to them left a warm and giddy feeling. i wanted to sob on the spot over how attentive he is to me. no one in the world would have thought to have done this for me but he did this for me.

“your silence scares me a little. what do you think?” his voice concerned, staring back at me.

“i think i just fell more in love with you.” i mumbled. it took me a second to realize my words and see wonwoo’s eyes widen in shock. “i-i mean…”

“you’re in love with me?” he asked. a hint of amusement in his voice.

“i-i was talking about the books.” i clarified. “how i am in love with the books that you’ve gotten to me.”

he raises an eyebrow, “you don’t even know which books i got you yet.”

“true but that doesn’t mean i can’t be more in love with them.” i straighten my shoulders, exhaling and inhaling slowly to calm my racing pulse.

“can i ask you something?”

i nod.

“you have read so many romance books, if you could write one about us, what trope would you give us? forced proximity? friends to lovers?” he glances at me knowingly.

“you’re not going to let this one go, are you?”

he shakes his head amused, “not until you’re ready to confess what we both heard.”

the corners of my lips rise, “i am in love with jeon wonwoo and this book advent calendar confirmed it even more for me.”

“since you’re so in —-“

“i did not say so in love.” i spat defensively, shoving his shoulders.

“okay, since you’re in love with me, how about i pick you up for dinner on wednesday?” he grins.

“this feels like you’re just teasing me.” i giggled embarrassed.

“i have no ill intentions wanting to pursue you. i believe someone said earlier that if they didn’t know us, they would’ve assumed we were dating and honestly i have been thinking about us and dating for the last few months now.”

“so why say something now?” i questioned.

“cause the girl i am in love with just confessed she has mutual feelings for me too.” his voice soft and warm, making me smirk.

#seventeen scenario #seventeen scenarios #seventeen #svt scenarios #seventeen imagines #seventeen drabbles #seventeen x reader #seventeen x yn #seventeen wonwoo #svt x reader #svt x yn #svt scenario #svt imagines #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo x yn #jeon wonwoo #wonwoo imagines #wonwoo scenarios

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cheolism-archive · 10 months ago

Text

OH, AGONY

✰ — teaching assistant & boyfriend!lee jihoon x f!reader ✷ — summary: when you both find out that your boyfriend, lee jihoon, will be the ta for your classic literature class, it is agreed your relationship will take a temporary pause . no public dates, no pda; and, most tragically, no sex. nothing that can give away the truth to your relationship. only, it really is easier said than done. or: four times you and jihoon totally didn't have sex plus one time you did. ✰ — wc is approx. 14.5k ✷ — genre: TA au, secret relationship au, forbidden relationship au, smut ✰ — warnings: spanking, pussy spanking. derogatory language (f receiving), pet names (baby (f receiving), hoonie). rough sex, unprotected sex. masturbation (f&m) and sex toys. penetrative sex. extreme levels of delusion as to what "qualifies" as sex or not; jihoon and reader bully one another. talk pertaining to the greek tragedy oedipus rex (self-blinding is mentioned as it pertains to oedpius but not discussed in detail). ✷ — rating: 18+ ✰ — note: this fic represents two delusional adults. they are both consenting to what is going on. this fic is not an accurate representation of what is and not considered sex. also the word count may be scary, but i promise it is pretty much all smut. this fic is part of @camandemstudios first ever collab, back to school with seventeen. please make sure to give the other works lots of love!

“we have to set up rules,” jihoon announced a week before classes were to start. he closed the zoom tab, which he had preciously been using to talk to the classics professor he was ta-ing for this semester, kicking back from his desk.

“rules,” you said, peeking over the top of your book. it was hotter than hell outside, the sort of heat that suffocated and made you feel as if you were being wrung like a wet towel. inside, however, you had a blanket tucked around your body and socks pulled up to your calves.

jihoon wandered over to the thermostat. he frowned, reaching and dialing it down once again. if he was going to pay for air conditioning, he believed, he was going to be cold in the comfort of his own apartment.

“it’s not fair to other students that you’re dating your ta,” he said.

“if this is literally you breaking up with me –”

“don’t be dramatic,” jihoon chided, crossing the room to you. he picked up the edge of the blanket, slipping under and pressing his toes against your feet. “i didn’t say that. i just mean that we shouldn’t advertise our relationship to everyone.”

you closed your book, keeping your forefinger inside to mark your place. “just keep it a secret then. can’t be hard.”

“we can’t let anyone know,” he enunciated. “for real. the professor doesn’t even know. if he did, he’d reassign me.”

“then we just don’t say anything.”

“you shouldn’t stay the night.” jihoon laid his arm over the back of the couch, inviting you to cuddle into his side without him verbally giving invitation. you abided, shifting to rest your head on his thick bicep. “and no dates.”

you huffed. “jihoon, i don’t know if it’s really that serious.”

he scoffed back at you. black bangs hid his eyes. “they could accuse me of favoritism, accuse you of academic dishonesty. we need to treat this seriously.”

“maybe i should just request to change to a different section.”

“too much work.”

“oh,” you laughed, reaching over and pinching at his side. jihoon flinched, instinctively slapping at your hand. “and pretending we aren’t dating isn’t.”

“that’s why we need rules.” you kicked out the blanket, pulling it from jihoon; he grumbled, snatching it back. “don’t be a hog. anyways. we need rules so we can stick to a strict routine. that way we don’t lapse in judgment or anything.”

“so no sleepovers,” you recited, “no dates. what else? no walking to class? no kissing?”

jihoon leaned his head back against the couch, exposing the length of his pale neck. you let your eyes linger. “sleepovers, dates. no meeting in public unless in a group setting.”

you let out a great sigh, pushing the blanket from you. snatching your bookmark, you stuffed it into the novel you had been reading. “so we’re strangers.”

“yes,” jihoon confirmed. “easy enough.”

you gasped, mouth dropping open. “easy!”

jihoon bit at his lip, and you could tell that he was already regretting his choice of words. but he wouldn’t back down – that wasn’t in his nature. “easy,” he said.

“fine,” you hissed. you left the couch, retrieving your backpack. you brought out your notepad and pen pouch. “no sex, either.”

“what –”

“if it’s so easy,” you retorted sharply, walking back to the couch while ripping out an empty page of your notebook, “then no sex won’t be a problem for you, mr. lee. i mean – it needs to be believable, right? no getting caught.”

jihoon grimaced, moving to a sitting position on the couch. “yeah. believable.”

“we write it down,” you said, taking back your spot next to jihoon. you opened your pen pouch, letting the pens and markers spill out onto the coffee table. “we write it down and shake on it. it’s a contract.”

jihoon hesitated. “this is a little severe, don’t you think?”

you shook your head. “nope. can’t let anyone know, yeah? otherwise i’d be academically dishonest, wouldn’t i?”

jihoon grabbed your paper, creating a bullet point. “i really don’t think this is necessary.”

“but you do,” you shot back. “i mean. you were the one to bring it up all serious-like. no kissing, no sleepovers, no sex. the whole five yards, lee jihoon.”

“but a contract –”

“oh? so you’re wrong?”

jihoon huffed, pressing his lips into a firm line. “fine. no dates, no marks, no pda.”

“and no sex.”

W E E K O N E

your eyes immediately catch onto jihoon as soon as you walk into the classroom, and while you really should’ve guessed that he was going to play dirty – because as hard as he tries to maintain an indifferent air, jihoon is just as weak of a many as any – you didn’t realize he would be playing this dirty.

he’s wearing black trousers that fit to his thighs and ass, cinched tightly at his waist by a thin leather belt. his white dress shirt is loose around his neck, the first button undone. your eyes, unwillingly, smooth over the silver chain that winks out from underneath his shirt, alongside the harsh lines of the white tank-top he wears underneath the dress shirt and you feel, horribly, a strike of want hitting you.

jihoon turns to you. “hello,” he says, voice perfectly neutral. his eyes don’t stray from your face despite the fact you’ve worn his favorite jeans, the ones that cling at your own ass and show off flashes of skin underneath rips strategically placed; rips jihoon has made worse over the months of being together, slipping his fingers underneath the loose threads to touch your skin.

“go ahead and take a seat,” jihoon instructs, gesturing about the room. the desks are all modern despite the discussion taking place in the historic – well – history buildings. the desk shifts underneath you as you try to slide in, bottom of your water bottle clanging against the hard surface, and wheels carting across the marble floor.

you stretch out your legs, staring at jihoon unabashedly. it isn’t a sin for you, the student, to be attracted to the teaching assistant. and so you look him over, watching as he turns this way and that way, trousers showing off the plush of his ass and shirt showing the wide line of his shoulders.

you are jerked from your admiration of your boyfriend-turned-teaching assistant by a large man hurrying to the desk next to you. he’s jihoon’s opposite in almost every way: he’s easily a foot taller, and his skin is a gorgeous dark bronze that seems to draw emphasize to the bulge of his muscles.

the man slides into the desk. it’s comically small for him, his knees hitting the underside of the desk. the desk moves as he situates himself, prompting his backpack to fall over from where he had propped it.

“shit,” he mumbles, reaching down with one long arm, biceps bulging rather nicely, to righten the backpack. “stay up, please.”

rather endearingly, to top it all off, he has a lisp.

he glances at you, eyes apologetic beneath his curly bangs. “sorry. not my day today.”

you huff a laugh. “i don’t know if it’s anyone’s day, let alone week.”

“true,” the man says, grinning. his teeth are white, his canines more pronounced than most people’s. “hey. i’m mingyu.”

you introduce yourself. “are you a classics major, then?”

mingyu wrinkles his nose. “no offense to classics, but i’m doing something interesting.”

“yeah?”

“business.”

you let out a loud laugh, startling not only yourself but the people around you. mingyu grins triumphantly, tongue flicking out to run alongside his teeth. you hide your smile behind your hand, trying to quiet your laughter. jihoon, you notice, is frowning at the two of you.

“so interesting!” you say. “definitely a major filled with the best.”

“the very best,” mingyu agrees.

the two of you continue chatting, conversation flowing naturally. he’s charming, you think, charisma practically radiating off of him. you don’t miss how your boyfriend watches the two of you more often than not, not engaging in conversation with any of the entering students who greet him so he could keep an ear open on your conversation.

jihoon starts class as soon as the electronic clock on the classroom computer switches to three on the dot, the projection cast onto the board.

“first thing’s first,” he says. he leans a hand against the table set at the front of the room, though it, too, is on wheels and skirts a little as he puts weight against it. “my syllabus, you’ll find, is stricter than professor burns’s. if you come in after the clock hits three, you’re tardy; you’ll contribute to all discussions in this class, and if you don’t you’ll forgo any participation points; if you miss three classes in a row, which translates to nearly a month of absences, your grade will automatically fall to a fail and you will have to take not only this discussion over, but professor’s burns’s lecture as well.

“if,” jihoon continues to say, voice a rasp, “you find any of this in contradiction with professor burns’s syllabus, you are more than welcome to email the both of us and address it.”

the class is silent as jihoon grabs a piece of white chalk. naturally, despite the gleaming projectors and furniture on wheels in the building, nearly every classroom is a remnant of the late 19th century: chalkboards; coat hooks; door and window frames made of real wood.

“remember to use proper emailing etiquette when contacting anyone in the college,” jihoon announces. he begins to write on the board, chalk tapping against the black surface as he decorates it with his chicken scratch. “and to address me as mr. lee. there is a pdf uploaded to our discussion course detailing how to address certain faculty members within the college for you to browse and keep.”

jihoon steps back from the blackboard. there he’s written the title of the course, ancient grecian dramas.

he runs a hand through his black hair, pushing back strands. “we’ll begin properly next week, once professor burns assigns the first drama for reading. i recommend printing out the reading and annotating, practicing close reading. that way when you come to discussion we can go over your notes as a group and analyze the text further.

“now. we’ll begin today by doing a writing exercise. i want you to tell me what you think of when you think of ancient greek dramas. this will also be how i take attendance – so make sure to do it.”

you rifle through your bag, pulling out your notebook. next is your pen pouch, though the surface area of the desk is hardly large enough to fit your notebook. pouch, and water bottle.

“you can email it,” jihoon clarifies after a moment of silence. “make sure you label it accordingly.”

hurriedly you pull out your laptop, pushing your pen pouch aside and setting it on top of your notebook. you shift in your seat as your laptop boots back up, and you can’t help but glance up at your teacher’s assistant.

jihoon, being a classics major and your boyfriend, has introduced you to ancient greek plays before. it’s not like you’re completely foreign to the subject; he’s dragged you to more than one play in order to get some assignment credit, notebook on his thigh as he jotted down notes in the dark of the theater.

sometimes he takes to reading to you different passages – especially those that move him or he thinks are particularly ridiculous. he pours over the text religiously, like a priest would the gospel; analyzing every line, drawing meaning from the colors of robes to what isn’t being said at all. he looks at these little black words on white pages, words written thousands of years ago, and is simply transported into another lifetime.

it’s endearing; it’s special.

the first time you had noticed him, jihoon had been surrounded by pages of a poem. later you’d learn it was by some jeffrey guy from the medieval period and was about a group traveling for worship. whatever it was, didn’t matter.

what had mattered was him.

he was disheveled. the white printed-out pages of the poem were scattered along the table in the university library, the uniform black-and-white pages interrupted by annotations written in colors of the rainbow. the highlighters and pens were scattered themselves, abandoned by post-it notes stuck to every page.

he had three empty energy drinks in front of him. the hood of his hoodie was pulled up over his hair, the black fabric matching the dark circles under his eyes that told you he had been at this for far too long.

you had gone and got him a water; brought it back to him. listened to his theories about color, about how he thought it meant something; how this poet had chosen every word so carefully there’s no way that color didn’t mean something.

you, a distinctly not literary fanatic, had not understood; you still don’t.

but his eyes always light up and his voice begins to carry this urgency that betrays his adoration for the art, and you just can’t help but let yourself get caught in his orbit.

so you open up an email and begin to write.

Mr. Lee,

My boyfriend is a Classics Major, so when I think of Ancient Greek Dramas I think of him. He’s shown me quite a few, and we’ve attended more than a handful plays

you shift in your seat, thinking. as you move, however, your arm knocks against your pen pouch and sends it to the floor.

the noise as it hits the floor isn’t as thunderous as it would have been if your water bottle had struck it, but it’s still loud enough for you to wince. it breaks the still of the room, your classmates shifting in their seats and throwing glances at you.

before you could move from your seat, mingyu is. he’s quick to grab your pouch, smiling gently at you as he offers it. his hands are so big they span the length of the pouch, a beautiful golden tan that only seems to boost his natural beauty.

“think you dropped this,” he says in a harsh whisper.

you bite back a laugh, teeth digging into your lower lip as you smile. grabbing the pouch from mingyu, you whisper back a quick thanks.

you glance up towards the front of the room as you settle back into your seat. jihoon is looking right at you, frowning, arms crossed over his chest. his white shirt isn’t fitted, and it struggles against his bulging biceps as he crosses his arms.

for a moment you just look at him, taking in your boyfriend’s form; how the shirt clings to his arms, trousers to his thighs.

there’s a dinging noise of an email landing in an inbox, and then jihoon is moving from the front of the room and around the table to his laptop.

you return to your email.

Mr. Lee,

My boyfriend is a Classics Major, so when I think of Ancient Greek Dramas I think of him. He’s shown me quite a few, and we’ve attended more than a handful plays. A lot of them are different than what I’ve expected. Some of them seem like they came right from Ancient Greece; others are more modern. I have noticed Ancient Greek plays seem to be more twisted than what a modern author may come up with.

Sometimes I don’t understand really what a play is about. It gets all muddled, especially when they don’t change the words for a modern audience. Still, my boyfriend is super sweet and helps me along.

you hesitate for a moment, and then you sign your name. opening a new tab, you pull up a bookmark and add one last finishing touch beside your name.

– °˖✧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚✧˖°

you are more exhausted than usual.

it’s as if all of the good vibes and rest you had managed to scrape together over the summer break were eradicated in one day. as soon as you managed to get to jihoon’s apartment you were discarding everything; shoes at the door; backpack next to the couch; bra onto the floor.

his bed was perhaps the most comforting place you knew besides his arms, and so you slunk towards it. you made quick work of your pants, one knee pressing against the mattress as you shook your other leg, jeans flopping to the floor dramatically.

you followed suit on jihoon’s bed.

burrowing into his sheets, you couldn’t help but breathe him in. he was a hot sleeper, and so more likely to sweat during the night. his sheets smell like his sweat, though not the stinky sort he gains from his daily workout. instead, it's the natural musk of him that permeates your nose, deep and distinctly lee jihoon.

you allow yourself to drift. nothing exists besides jihoon’s bed and you.

then the door to his apartment is opening and closing, a voice with a slight rasp calling out to you.

“here!” you call back, voice slightly muffled by the sheets. you press your face against them again, eyes fluttering shut.

jihoon slowly makes his way across the apartment. he mutters something about your discarded clothes and backpack, but you pay it no mind. jihoon pauses when he enters his room, and you can practically feel his eyes on you; roaming the bare expanse of your back, the supple flesh of your thighs.

“good day?” you kick out a leg, wiggling your toes.

he makes a humming noise, and then he’s stepping further into the room.

“long one,” he says. “forgot how fucking awkward everyone is on the first day.”

you shift, moving your face so you could watch him. jihoon crosses to his dresser, fingers messing with the cuffs of his white dress shirt. you can see the moment he gets the button, the fabric sagging around his wrists.

oh.

sitting up on the bed, you watch as he begins to work on his other cuff. he peers out the window, chatting as he does.

“professor burns is the usual,” jihoon announces. “hasn’t changed in the – what? five years i’ve been here? i swear she rambles like no one’s business. if it wasn’t my job to babysit the students and not her, i’d say something – but fuck, you know?”

once he’s undone the buttons on the cuffs of both of his sleeves, jihoon begins to work on the buttons falling down the middle of the shirt. his fingers are deft and quick as he presses them through their holes.

you can’t help but think of his fingers on you. how nimble and skillful they are against your skin; how he dances them up and down your flesh as he presses kisses against your skin; how they seem to know just where to go and just what to do against your body, rubbing at your nipples and pinching at the undersides of your tits to get reactions from you.

because fuck, jihoon’s fingers –

sometimes even watching him write you can’t help but get horny. how his fingers grip his pen, how he spins it around his fingers absentmindedly. how they alleviate pressure on the pen as he writes and stops. watching him write, sometimes you can’t help but think about his fingers at your clip, a harsh presence as they rub down on you once moment and gentle the next, fingers skimming your clit as they massage the gummy area around it.

watching his clever fingers as they make quick work of the buttons on his shirt, you can’t help but yearn. your eyes see nothing but his fingers; ears hear nothing of his conversation. it’s just you and jihoon’s hands and the way your cunt clenches, pussy leaking into your panties.

then jihoon’s pulling off his dress shirt, and he’s wearing a tank top underneath.

you want to scream.

not to say jihoon doesn’t look good in a tank top. because he does. fuck, he does. you always find yourself admiring jihoon’s shoulders and arms when he’s in a tank top no matter what sort of mood you’re in.

(one instance in particular you had been full of energy, ranting about a coworker who didn’t know what she was doing and had been kept around for far too long. and then you had looked up at jihoon and let your eyes selfishly roam over the broadness of his back, the curves of his bulging arms as he cut up meat. all sense had abandoned you in that moment, and before you knew it you were grabbing at his shirt and pulling him to you, tongue running along his skin.

not exactly your proudest moment, but.)

maybe the combination of his trousers and tank top shouldn’t be as sexy as they are, you think hysterically. his tank top his tucked into his pants, and, torturously, his fingers reach down to pull the hem free. the hem of his tank top settles around his hips, showing off just a sliver of skin.

jihoon raises a hand, running his fingers through his black hair as he continues to talk about something-or-other.

and his white tank top rises up his stomach.

you can see the hairs that lead from his belly button down, down, down. you can see the pale expanse of skin that you know is soft and smooth to the touch. you can imagine your hands pressing against his skin and sliding underneath his trousers; can imagine the restrictiveness of his trousers as you tuck your hands into his underwear, fingertips skimming alongside the base of his cock.

you’ve never pretended to innocent when it came to lee jihoon; never pretended your mind didn’t run wild with salacious thoughts.

and you weren’t going to pretend now, because –

because in your mind your hands were rubbing at the base of his cock, mouth at his collar and licking along his collarbones. he was moaning in you ear, soft and breathy, and you were moving down onto your knees, your own fingers unbuttoning his trousers.

jihoon reaches down, fingers swiftly pushing off his socks. “hey, by the way, i sent you an email response to your attendance discussion for today.”

you don’t speak, eyes roaming over the expanse of his back, still covered by fabric, like a starving man before a feast.

jihoon peeks at you. “it was sweet.”

“yeah?”

he doesn’t say anything else. jihoon’s eyebrows raise, silently prompting you.

you let out a loud, horrible groan that tears at your throat. the insides of your thighs are warm as you move across the bed to grab your discarded phone, the wet fabric of your panties catching against your skin, cold and shocking.

jihoon begins to chatter once more as you swipe on the email notification. he’s quiet in public but you can’t help but treasure how talkative he becomes afterwards; how all the little snide comments he’s kept to himself are let loose.

you look at the email.

you furrow your brows. you look over it again.

I am glad to see at least one of the students in our discussion section will not be a complete novice to Greek theater. I hope after this semester you will be able to engage with your boyfriend in a more informed matter when it comes to his passions.

However, despite how sweet your email was, I do have to remind you to please stick to proper email etiquette. Your use of – °˖✧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚✧˖° is highly unprofessional, and I urge you to not include such things when emailing any staff or faculty or teaching assistants. For this misconduct, you will be deducted a point from your discussion grade for today. Please keep this in mind for the future.

Well wishes,

Mr. Lee

your jaw drops open.

“you fucking deducted me for my emoticon?!”

“we agreed to be strangers,” jihoon reminds you. he removes his pants. you can’t even find it within yourself to be horny. the warmth of your cunt is overtaken by the red-hot anger that licks through your veins. “and it’s inappropriate to send your ta heart and sparkle emoticons.”

“it’s a fucking – oh my god,” you reach towards the top of the bed, fingers grabbing the corner of his pillow. you tug it to you. “it’s not that serious.”

jihoon steps out of his pants. his thighs are thick and pale, and when he turns towards his closest you can see how snug his black underwear is against the supple curve of his ass. fleetingly, because you are angry at his audacity, you allow your eyes to follow the curve of his asschecks and how the band of his underwear rests low on his hips.

“teaching assistants and students aren’t to have any sexual relations,” jihoon recites. “it’s contract. if something happens, your little not-that-serious emoticon is evidence.”

you grab the pillow fully, swinging it around your body and at jihoon. it hits him in the middle. he lets out a soft noise of surprise. “you’re such an ass.”

jihoon shrugs. “we signed a contract, baby.”

he tucks his thumbs underneath the waistband of his underwear, and then he’s pulling them down his legs. you don’t even have it in you to look away. you marvel at his naked lower half. his cock, thick and flaccid, hanging between his thighs. the dusky color of it; the dark hairs that travel from underneath the hem of his tank top to the base of his cock.

jihoon pulls on a pair of grey joggers, concealing his cock and thighs from your eyes. “listen. i don’t want to be the bad guy. but we really can’t be risking anything.”

his cock is covered and he’s talking about something entirely different, but you’re still thinking about his dick. you’re still thinking about his dick as he walks from the bedroom, bare feet softly hitting the hardwood floors.

you trail two of your fingers along your bare thigh. his dick, flaccid and thick in your hands. it feels like it’s been forever since you’ve had your hands or mouth or fucking cunt around his dick; forever since you last pressed your thumb against the slit of his cockhead, since his raspy, gentle groans were being pressed into your skin.

you skim your nails along the soft insides of your thighs.

it’s not like you’re sexually depraved. you and jihoon just had sex the other day. but there’s something about this, the situation, being strangers, that makes you feel as if you’re starving.

your fingers move to your panties. you let your nails delicately linger alongside the lips of your cunt through the fabric, little sparks – little pieces of glitter, almost – making your toes curl.

fuck lee jihoon, you think, and then you’re sliding your forefinger down between your pussy lips. you don’t move the fabric of your panties. leaning back against his bed, you let your finger drag down and push up, your wetness soaking your panties.

his bed envelopes you as you lean back. tilting your hips up and bracing your feet against the mattress, you add another finger to the stimulation of your pussy. you let your fingers grow rougher, let them dig in slightly to the sensitive area around your clit.

your fingers find your hole, stretching the fabric of your panties to reach in.

“fuck.”

your eyes flutter open – when did they shut? jihoon is standing at the entrance to his room. his long hair is pushed back from his face by a black headband. in one hand he holds a metal water bottle.

his eyes are wide, his sweet lips parted as he stares at that spot between your thighs.

jihoon shuffles further into the room, placing his water bottle on top of his set of drawers. you’ve begun absentmindedly petting your pussy, once again dragging your fingers over your clit lazily.

jihoon presses his knees against the foot of his mattress.

you hum, twisting your wrist. you press your thumb against the side of your clit, your fingers dipping once more to your hole. this morning you had chosen to wear a pair of pink panties. you don’t regret it now. you’re so soaking wet that you know jihoon can see the shape of your cunt through the fabric.

your fingers begin to contract. you massage your pussy through the fabric leisurely, rhythmically. you drag your thumb down from your clit to meet your fingers, press your fingers down to barely sink into your hole.

jihoon lets out a deep noise. he braces his hands against the mattress, makes a motion to crawl towards you.

“no,” you say, words slightly slurred. “no. one point, remember?”

jihoon’s brow furrows.

you reach down with your other hand, legs spreading wider. with your other hand you pull at the flesh of your pussy lips, offering your fingers more space to work with. you shift your hand, making sure to keep one lip in place. your other hand – the one with soaking fingertips – strokes up and down, up and down, up and down.

jihoon’s hand settles on your ankle. you kick out. “no sex, yeah?”

jihoon lets out a strangled noise you’ve never heard from him.

you let your eyes fall shut. you can feel the weight of his gaze on you. letting out a soft breath, your fingers begin to glide up and down your cunt more quickly.

you begin to focus on your clit more. your hand that was holding your cunt lips moves up, focusing on baring the area around your clit. with your other hand you begin to stimulate the direct areas on either side of your clit. you are still working through your panties, but you’re so wet that the friction is almost nonexistent; your fingers just slide, massaging into the flesh.

you begin to set a rhythm. you rock your forefinger and middle finger against the sensitive area around your clit. you rock once; twice; then you’re dipping your fingers down the length of your cunt, down to your hole; you drag them back up, and begin your elaborate play once more.

it’s somewhat treacherous. it would be easier if it was jihoon. you would be able to fully relax back into the bed, just have to lay there and take it.

but: no sex.

so you slowly build up a climax, toes curling and chest arching up. it’s not sudden, not unexpected. it’s a slow climax that has your cunt tingling, head dropping back against the pillow.

you continue to slip your fingers against your clit, dragging out your climax, continuing through it.

eventually you come back to yourself.

your wrist hurts; your fingers are cramping. discomfort takes over you more than lust, and so you relax your body back into the bed, hands moving from your pussy.

and you look at jihoon.

your boyfriend drags his gaze up from your pussy to your face. one of his hands is wrapped around his cock. he hasn’t taken it out of his joggers, just as you hadn’t taken off your drenched panties. you can see the thick outline of it through the grey fabric. the dusky head of it rises from the waistband of his pants.

his hand disappears into his pants. you can see his knuckles as he drags his hand down the length of his cock. you pay special attention as his hand reappears, thumb bullying the fat head of his dick.

you hum, stretching your arms above your head. you extend one of your legs, the other leisurely arching against the mattress.

you let your hands wander along your chest. you aren’t doing it to stimulate yourself but to draw jihoon’s attention. to help him along, you suppose.

his eyes follow the trailing of your fingers. one of your hands cradles a tit, the thumb of your other pinching a nipple against your forefinger.

eventually jihoon lets out a groan, dropping his head. short spurts of cum pulses from his cock, soaking his hand. jihoon continues to fuck his fist through it, hissing and letting out breath moans.

you feel sedated; satisfied. so does he. jihoon crawls up the length of the bed to plop next to you. he doesn’t cuddle against you. he just lays his body next to you, thick muscle of his arm against yours.

“no sex,” he breathes out.

“no sex.”

W E E K F I V E

you are going to murder your teaching assistant.

the halls of the history building are nearly vacant save for the lone straggler. lee jihoon has his office hours late enough in the day to where most classes are over. most everyone’s day is over.

but you are far from being done.

the ta offices are tucked back with the professor offices, closed off behind a heavy wood door that matches the old style of the rest of the building. you get to the door a few minutes before his office hours officially start, glaring down at the screenshot on your phone.

While your writing response over Medea is sufficient, I am loath to remind you to use proper citations in the responses. Otherwise it will be considered plagiarism. As a warning, your letter grade for this assignment will fall a whole grade.

again: you were going to murder him.

why couldn’t he just let you off with a warning? why did he immediately jump to taking your grade for the assignment down? he was being completely unfair and you weren’t going to stand for it.

the clock on your phone switched to a minute closer to his office hours.

still five minutes away.

whatever.

you reach out for the door knob, twisting the cold metal in your hand. the door is heavy to open, but you jam your shoulder against it and swing it open.

the teaching assistant office is a room with three desks pressed against the wall on each side. there’s hard, uncomfortable chairs; two sockets in the entire room.

and lee jihoon, sitting in one of the chairs with his cock in his hand.

immediately your boyfriend flinches, eyes wide as he looks towards you. once jihoon sees it is, in fact, you and not some poor student walking in to request help.

then, like you weren’t even there, jihoon turns away and begins fucking into his hand once more.

you hurry through the door, shoving it shut behind you and pushing in the lock.

all the while you don’t look away from jihoon.

his teeth sink into his lower lip, and his head tips back to reveal the long column of his pale throat. his black bangs fall around his face, not obscuring a single centimeter.

jihoon’s hand works quickly, furiously, over his dick. precum drenches the head. when he drags his hand down he hisses, face wincing.

you move across the room, shrugging your backpack onto the ground.

the assignment and grade having left your mind entirely, you kneel before jihoon. he peers down at you, eyebrows raised wearily. “no sex,” he reminds you.

“no sex,” you agree.

you raise your hand to your face. it’s the easiest thing to spit into your palm, to replace jihoon’s hand with your own. as soon as you squeeze around his dick jihoon lets out a low, raspy noise.

his cock is thick and perfect in your hand, the heavy weight of it tempting. you want it in your mouth; want him to be fucking his cock down your throat.

instead you let him fuck your hand. you move your hand down. the slide is slightly rough, your spit and his precum not quite enough. jihoon likes it, though; you know he does. his breath is harsh and labored, his eyes squeezed shut.

you twist your wrist as you move your hand towards the head of his cock. you press your thumb into the slit of his dock.

“gonna cum,” he warns you.

then you think back to your letter grade.

meanly, perhaps even cruelly, you drop your hand to the base of his cock and squeeze, cutting off his orgasm. jihoon lets out a startled, irritated noise.

“my assignment.”

“fuck,” he grumbles, one of his hands raising to push back his bangs. “are you serious?”

“let me off with a warning,” you say. you keep one hand around the base of his dick, tight and trapping. your other hand goes to his balls. you hold them, thumb gently swiping over the flesh.

jihoon’s breath shutters in his throat.

“a warning,” you demand.

“fuck,” he says again. “fine. a warning.”

triumphant, you let a large smile take over your face. you begin to move your hand once again.

W E E K N I N E

“now that you’ve finished properly with oedipus rex,” jihoon begins, rounding the table at the front of the classroom, “let’s get some opinions. raise your hand if you enjoyed the play.”

more hands than not raise around the room, including mingyu’s. you shoot him a betrayed look. the past nine class weeks the two of you had been close, sitting next to one another during lecture and discussion. you traded conversation and thoughts more often than not, using one another to bounce ideas and theories.

and for him to have enjoyed the play?

jihoon moves to lean against the desk. he crosses his arms over his chest. this time he’s wearing all black. it seems to lengthen his figure, stretch him out, as well as broaden the line of his shoulders.

he looks good.

“let’s get some opinions on people who didn’t like the play.” immediately his eyes are on you, calling out your name. “you didn’t enjoy the play.”

traitor.

you shift in your seat. “uh. no, not really.”

“why?”

you were going to suffocate him in his sleep.

“it’s rather –” you break off, searching for words. you weren’t the literary student; he was. “i don’t understand him, i guess.”

jihoon tilts his head. “him? sophocles? or oedipus?”

“oedipus,” you clarify.

“can you explain a little further? what exactly don’t you understand?”

you bite down on your tongue for a moment, trying to gather yourself. the classroom is silent as you wait, unintentionally putting pressure on your shoulders as you realize they were all waiting for you to speak up.

“he – oedipus – he’s sort of stupid, isn’t he?” someone chokes behind you. you ignore them, looking at jihoon. despite him putting you on the spot like an asshole, he’s still your boyfriend. his face isn’t harsh, isn’t judging as he watches you struggle for words. for a moment he isn’t your ta – he’s your boyfriend. he’s your boyfriend and you’re having a plain, casual discussion. “i mean. he knows the prophecy. but he just does whatever he wants anyways? he’s just – he’s got no common sense.”

jihoon hums, tapping his fingers along his forearms. “so his arrogance has made him entirely unlikable to you. are there any redeeming treats, do you think?”

you shake your head. “it makes him deserve his ending, i think. he thought he was above it all.”

jihoon nods. “i see. remember that argument for your paper. that’s a big question that needs answered: does oedipus deserve his ending? you could analyze that further and get a pretty solid base for your essay.”

he begins to question other students about whether they liked the story or not, leaving you alone. the remainder of class flows as such, ending with jihoon gently urging everyone to write down their thoughts to revisit for the essay.

you gather your things and put them into your backpack. mingyu loiters next to you, hands stuffed into the pockets of his dark jeans.

“what’re you doing after this?” he reaches down and grabs your backpack after you’ve zipped it up, slinging it onto his shoulder. “wanna hit the library? we could bounce some more ideas around.”

smiling, you begin to agree.

jihoon calls your name, having gathered his own things and lodging his foot in the heavy wooden door, keeping it ajar. “do you mind coming with me to the office for a minute or two? i want to talk about what you’ve said during class.”

you swallow back a sigh, throwing jihoon a firm-lipped smile. mingyu swings your backpack back off his shoulder, handing it to you. “good luck.”

you make a face at him. mingyu doesn’t know the true nature of the relationship between you and jihoon, but he does know that you’ve visited jihoon during office hours more than once. not a week has gone by without you setting foot into the little ta office, setting your printed-out versions of whatever classic the class was working on.

“print every story out,” jihoon had advised, voice carrying that air of superiority he always seemed to gain when the two of you were sat in the dark office. “mark it up. it’ll help you pay close attention to every line.”

jihoon leads you to the ta office, weaving through the throngs of students making their way through the marble halls. you sort of want to reach out and grab onto his shirt, just to ensure he stays visible. but you don’t.

another ta is in the office, steadily working away at their own homework. she throws a smile at the two of you as you enter. “hey, jihoon.”

“hey.” he crosses into the room, setting his laptop in front of the chair that he had, only a few weeks ago, received a rather satisfactory hand-job from you in. “your office hours are over, aren’t they?”

the other ta nods. “yep. just working now. never seems to end.”

jihoon settles into the wooden chair, flipping up the screen to his laptop. he had to change it from the selfie the two of you had taken during a hike, matching dandelion flowers tucked into your ears. now a mountain range greets him. “we’re gonna be discussing oedipus rex.”

“won’t be a bother to me!”

you push over a chair close to jihoon, the feet of it scraping against the floor.

“pull out your notes,” jihoon says. he pulls up his own version of the play on his computer; they’re scans of his own copy, scribbles and highlighted passages littering every single page. “we’ll go over what exactly prompted you to think this way about oedipus. it’ll help you get a real solid foundation for the essay.

“so,” he says once you have your notes spread out. “oedipus is a flawed character. there’s no doubt about it. the stage directions themselves reveal as much.”

as he talks, raspy voice droning on and words blending together in your mind, jihoon’s foot begins to slide across the floor. you can’t help but look at it, watch it. his black leather shoe moves from in front of him, slowly, silently, gliding across the floor to nudge against your own shoe.

“he does whatever he wants, that’s what you said?”

you nod.

“during discussion you mentioned that he knew the prophecy and ignored it,” jihoon says. his foot now fully rests against yours. it’s just one point of contact, and yet it seems to electrify you; warm you up. you can’t help but focus on it, like a cat watching a bird through the window.

“but he doesn’t,” jihoon says. “he thoroughly believes his parents to be the king and queen of corinth. according to oedipus, and forgetting the context we ourselves know, he has escaped his fate.”

his words fade out. jihoon’s hands settle on his keyboard, a single finger absentmindedly tapping at a key. it’s not hard enough to do anything. it’s just a simple tap, a fumbling gesture.

his shoe shifts. he presses his foot against yours from toe to heel.

the other ta in the room begins to collect her things. you listen to her as she moves about, closing her laptop and shuffling papers.

jihoon shifts in his chair. his knees spread out. his trousers strain, just slightly, against his thick thighs. the barest sliver of pale ankle slips out from beneath his trousers, his black socks hidden beneath the leather lip of his shoes.

the ta opens the door; closes it behind her.

“his character is one the citizens of greece would have identified with – at least the ones in athens,” jihoon says, and then he’s turning his face towards you. feeling rather caught, you meet his eyes. “so why do you think he deserves his ending?”

you furrow your brows. you’ve gone over this. “because he actively chooses it through his arrogance. he ignores the prophecy.”

jihoon sighs, lips pursing together. “you haven’t paid attention to a single word i’ve said.”

your mouth falls open a little. “i have!”

“haven’t,” he corrects.

jihoon stands from the chair. you miss being able to see the skin of his ankle. he crosses the room, hand falling to the door knob. he locks it. “i think we need to work on your attention span, don’t you?”

your mouth goes dry. he begins to unbutton the cuffs of his black shirt as he moves back across the room. he pushes up his sleeves, shoving off his thick forearms. “jihoon?”

jihoon sits back in his wooden chair, legs automatically spreading out. one of his hands rests on the armrest of the chair, while he set his elbow on the other, using it to prop up his head. jihoon raises his brows at you. “well?”

“what?”

he sighs, as if burdened. “take off your pants and underwear.”

you snap your head towards the door. after verifying no one had magically walked through, you look back at jihoon, hissing his name. “what are you going on about?”

“we need to work on your memory,” he explains matter-of-factly, voice taking on that arrogant lilt he so often gets when in this room. jihoon likes this, you think; likes being in a position of power over you. likes being able to boss you around; able to tell you what to do.

with one last glance at the door, you stand from your wooden chair. jihoon watches unabashedly as you work your pants down over your ass. you leave both your jeans and underwear on the hard floor of the office.

jihoon pats his thigh wordlessly.

you feel heat rush towards your cheeks. you’ve sat on his thighs before, have ridden them before. but it felt so fucking different to be lowering yourself onto the thick muscle in a university office, your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself, the backs of your hands lightly brushing against the wood of his chair.

you don’t do anything for a moment other than just sit on his thigh. the fabric of his pants is like silk against your skin, and you can’t help but slowly, hesitantly, rock your hips down onto him.

jihoon’s hands go to your hips. he tilts his head back, the curls framing his temples brushing against the corners of his eyes.

“now,” he says, “you think oedipus ignores his prophecy.”

you look down at your boyfriend, pouting at him. “you’re punishing me because i have a different opinion than you? about some old play?”

jihoon presses his lips together. then his hand is coming down sharply on your outer thigh, the sound acutely piercing your ears and reverberating in your head. he rubs roughly at the skin after, thumb swiping against the patch of skin as it turns violent with anger from his slap.

“because you’re ignoring the text,” jihoon says. his hand slides from your thigh around to your ass. his fingers dig into your asscheek, contemplating the weight of it. “it’d be one thing if you had actual evidence that wasn’t in conflict with what sophocles was telling us.”

“if you’re trying to get me wet,” you say, thumbs tapping against his shoulders, “i’m not sure this is the way to go.”

jihoon moves the hand that was on your ass back to your hips. he squeezes the flesh beneath his hands, and then he’s slowly leading you into a rocking motion. it’s not much, but there’s enough connection between your cunt and his thigh to have a gentle swell of lust licking at your pussy.

“don’t be smart,” he says.

“you act smart all the time,” you snap back. you keep rocking your hips. “why can’t i?”

he scoffs a little, nails slightly digging into your skin. instead of any pain, they send a little spark of heat through you. “i’ve got degrees in this,” he explains. “i’m literally allowed to talk about this.”

“now,” he says, “oedipus never ignores his fate. he says as much. he believes polybus and merope to be his parents. when he becomes doubtful, he confronts them: ‘. . . i went to mother and father, questioned them closely . . . so as for my parents i was satisfied . . .’”

for a moment you’re speechless. and then you let out a loud laugh despite yourself. “you little fucking nerd, reciting oedipus rex to your girlfriend while she’s rubbing herself on her thigh.”

jihoon’s jaw tightens. he moves, hands on your hips pushing you up and off of him. once you’re standing, he joins you. as soon as jihoon is on his feet he’s pushing you around, moving so your bare ass is against his front. then he pushes further, pressing your body against the table in front of you. the edge of your table reaches your upper thigh, and so it’s easy for jihoon to place his hand against the middle of your back and press you until your front is firmly against the surface of the table.

as soon as your chin is touching the cold table, jihoon is bringing his hand down sharply against your ass. you can’t help but let out a startled shout, body jerking from underneath him.

“be good,” he murmurs, hand now gentle as he rubs at your skin in apology. “listen to your ta. trying to help, baby.”

“you’re being mean,” you say, toes curling against the frigid office floor as his hand travels to rest against the curve of your ass.

“wouldn’t have to be if you’d be good,” he says. jihoon moves his hand down, the tip of his forefinger gliding against the area where your ass and thigh meet. “you gonna be good for me?”

you shift, moving one of your arms so you can rest your face against it. forehead pressing against your forearm, you nod.

“good. now oedipus believed polybus and merope to be his true parents. he was still desperate to avoid the prophecy, so he abandoned his princely title and corinth. he wanted to be free of it, baby.”

his fingers tip inwards. your entire body tenses as his fingertips press alongside your folds. he doesn’t do anything further; doesn’t insert them. instead he just keeps them there, absentmindedly shifting his hand.

“he is arrogant,” jihoon absconds, allowing you a single point. “we see that in the beginning. ‘. . . the world knows my fame: i am oedipus.’”

jihoon waits for a moment after quoting the play. when you don’t do anything other than let out a shaky breath, he rewards you. jihoon slowly moves his fingers against your cunt. he trails his fingers up and down your length. he maps out the full expanse of your pussy. his fingers slide up over your hole, which was now leaking and clenching properly. he brushes his digits over your clit almost clinically, giving it no more attention than the rest of you.

“but he doesn’t ignore the prophecy. he believes he’s foiled it until he forces the shepherd to tell his story. he refuses to stop; refuses to listen to reason. he’s arrogant, yes, and hurtles straight towards the horrid truth of his parentage and marriage without a second thought.”

jihoon slowly, tortuously, slips a single finger into your cunt. his finger isn’t so thick to cause any discomfort. instead your pussy welcomes it, clenching around the digit. you can’t help but bare down on his finger, hips searching for more.

later you’ll remember to be mortified by the fact your boyfriend got you wet while talking about sophocles.

but now you press your eyes shut, fingers lightly scraping against the surface of the desk.

jihoon pushes his finger all the way inside of your pussy. you can feel it when it’s fully in, his knuckles scraping against your flesh.

you cart your hips back, trying to get his finger to graze that special spongey place.

“be good,” jihoon says, and then he’s retracting his finger from your cunt entirely.

you let out a small gasp, brow furrowing. you turn your head to peer back at him. “hoonie….”

jihoon laughs at you, and then he’s lowering himself to press his chest along the line of your back. jihoon presses a kiss to the corner of your lips, one of his hands still holding tight to your hips. “you’re so cute when i’m fucking you,” he says, mouth moving against your cheek as he speaks. “you always get so cute. what is this?”

you pout at him. jihoon presses another kiss to your cheek, and then he’s standing.

this time jihoon slides in two fingers. you frown, insistently pressing your forehead against your forearm as the stretch of his fingers slightly burns. it’s not unpleasant, of course. just a gentle burn that signals the walls of your pussy stretching to accommodate him.

“there,” he says, satisfied. “now. where was i?”

he’s silent. you realize he’s waiting for you to speak, to prove you were listening.

you let out a strangled groan, trying to think back. he had a single finger inside of you and it wasn’t enough. you try to think. you try to think of a single word to say that isn’t fuck or more; try to think despite the way jihoon is slowly angling his fingers towards your front, pressing them up.

you can’t help but press your thighs together in anticipation.

jihoon clicks his tongue, and then he’s pulling his fingers out. you let out a whine, trying to push yourself away from the desk.

both of his hands go to your shoulders, keeping you firmly against the surface. “stay still,” he warns you. “i know you have a listening problem but i didn’t think it was this bad.”

there’s a rustle of clothing behind you. “don’t look,” jihoon says. “keep your face against the table.”

you can’t think of a reply, can’t think of anything to do other than what he says. you wonder if you should feel ashamed of how easily you become compliant for him.

“oedipus doesn’t ignore the prophecy,” jihoon restates, and then he’s pressing his front against your ass. he’s taken off his pants and is just in his underwear. you can feel the shape of his thick cock against your ass, can feel it’s hard length along you. “he just believes polybus and merope when they say they are his true parents. there’s no harm in that. anyone would want to believe it when the people who raise them say they are their true parents.”

jihoon rocks his hips against you. his hands are holding your hips still as he, essentially, humps against your ass.

“so in that regard your argument has a fallacy,” jihoon announces.

a fallacy?

you want to say something biting about how he’s able to even think about fallacies and arguments when he’s humping your ass, but then jihoon is returning two of his fingers to your pussy and you elect to keep silent.

“he is arrogant, though,” jihoon says. he pushes two of his fingertips into your hole. you clench hungrily around them as if your pussy was trying to suck them in. you wonder if you’ve always been so – so whorish for him, or if it was a recent development from not having been properly fucked in nine weeks.

“his pride is something that transcends time,” jihoon carries on. he doesn’t press his fingers any deeper inside of you. he rests the tip of his ring finger just barely against your clit. he doesn’t move it either; just rests it there, taunting.

“everyone can think of a political leader who is too arrogant for their own good,” jihoon says. “it’s a tale as old as time. sophocles set the precedent with this story. a king on top of the world who listens to no one, only to be brought down to his knees by fate.”

jihoon begins to slide his fingers in. he does it leisurely, slowly, as if he has all the time in the world.

“the evolution of his character is a fascinating one,” jihoon says, his ring finger leaving its place to instead rest against your hole. he doesn’t slide it in. you want to buck your hips back and force it inside. “arrogance to being humbled in every sense of the word. he is only wise until he can no longer see; only sees the truth once he is blinded

“do you remember,” jihoon says, “what he says after he blinds himself?”

you shake your head against your arm. his two fingers are nearly settled entirely inside of your pussy. you want them so deep inside of you that you can feel them in your throat.

involuntarily you clench around his digits.

jihoon clicks his tongue. his fingers stop moving in you. “what did i say? be good. none of this shit.”

you let out a little whine, your free hand curling into a fist. “sorry,” you say, unable to keep your voice from pitching up in desperation. “i’m sorry, hoonie.”

“say you won’t move,” jihoon instructs, voice seemingly detached. “say you’ll be a good girl for me and won’t move.”

your lower lip wobbles. you feel somewhat humiliated like this: your front pressing against the surface of a ta desk, shirt rucked up along your stomach and bare toes curling against the marble floors of the university history building. your boyfriend pressing all up against you, fingers stuffed into your cunt, telling you what to do as if you were some pathetic whore, desperate for a cock inside.

but, because you are exactly that, you repeat his words, feeling wetness trickle from your pussy. “i’ll be good,” you whimper out. “i won’t move. i’ll be a good girl.”

jihoon lets out a quiet, nearly-silent huff of laughter. he retracts his fingers from your pussy, and immediately you’re feeling panic strike you.

“be patient,” he chides you as you begin to press back against him. three of jihoon’s press against your hole. “be a good girl.”

jihoon pushes his three fingers into your pussy. you let out a high keening noise like a wounded animal, eyes squeezing shut and cunt eagerly drinking his fingers up. they’re nothing like his dick, aren’t as thick or delicious, but they’re something.

the stretch burns and you wiggle absentmindedly, relishing in it. the burn is acute and hot and you yearn to press into it, to take more and more and more.

“good,” he says once all three of his fingers are stuffed inside of you. “you look pretty like this, baby. you know that?”

you whine. you don’t move.

jihoon’s three fingers press up, and when they bump against your bundle of nerves you can’t help but wiggle back, searching.

“do you remember?” he repeats. “what’s the first thing oedipus says after he’s blinded?”

you shake your head. you don’t know how he expects you to think about anything. you feel as if you’ve been strung along, as if he’s been tugging at a chain and you’ve been stumbling behind him.

“‘oh,” jihoon quotes, and then he’s lowering himself to press against you. his mouth it against your ear, his fingers shifting within your pussy due to his change of position. when he speaks again you can hear his voice as clear as day despite how he murmurs, and it’s as if he’s wrapped entirely around you; as if he’s consumed you. “‘oh, the agony! i am agony.’”

jihoon presses his fingers back into you so the tips of them were pressing against your pleasure spot once more.

“he’s felt true agony now,” jihoon explains. he keeps his fingers still now. “he’s an icarus fallen to the earth. his wings of wax have melted. he’s a king with his word left in crumbles; with his queen dead and children made of sin. he’s nothing.”

jihoon’s nose presses against the shell of your ear. “his arrogance was his destruction. can you tell me more about it?”

you open your mouth to speak. you can’t. and even if you could, it isn’t as if your brain is working. there’s nothing inside of your mind. the lust, the desire, that takes over your body is so big it swallows up everything else and renders you dumb.

jihoon huffs out a laugh, mean. “fine. at least do this to prove you’ve listened to me: tell me the first thing oedipus says after becoming blind.”

you feel as if he’s surrounding you. you can feel jihoon’s weight along your back, can feel his fingers inside of your cunt, stretching you out. you feel so keyed up, so ready for something. not something – him. you want jihoon. you want him carnally. you want his dick stuffed inside of your pussy. you want his mouth on your neck; want his hands on your tits. you want him pressing your face into the desk and drilling into your pussy.

you open your mouth. an embarrassing noise comes out.

“come on,” jihoon says. “you can do it.”

“‘oh,’” you breathe out, trying to remember the exact words. “oh, agony! i’m — i’m agony!”

jihoon must judge your vague quotation as good enough. he moves off of your back, and you can’t help but whine, wanting his weight settled against you once more.

his hand shifts inside of you.

he slides his fingers out. you can feel your cunt resisting the slide, pussy clenching down on his fingers.

“hoonie,” you beg.

“be good,” he chides you. “remember. no sex.”

and then jihoon is thrusting his fingers so forcefully into your pussy that you can feel the sting as his knuckles hit your ass. the sharp noise of skin hitting skin rings out. you can barely process it before he’s withdrawing his fingers and fucking them back in just as quickly.

jihoon finger-fucks you harshly, as if it were his dick he was shoving inside. your ass jiggles with each thrust back in. you whine and cry, and you can feel your ass begin to smarten from the sting. but you still arch back and meet each thrust of his fingers eagerly, craving the pleasure-pain.

it’s rough and you can feel the orgasm, that string he had been messing with for what seems to be hours, begin to tighten.

“want,” you pant out, fingernails scraping against the desk. “want you, hoonie. please, please, please.”

“beg, baby.”

you let out a cry. there’s tears at the corners of your eyes. “please, hoonie. i want you. want you, want you. i want you, hoonie.”

your voice breaks off, tight with emotion.

jihoon lets out a curse, and then he’s dropping behind you. jihoon shoves your leg up, and you follow suit, placing your knee on the able and giving him access to your pussy. jihoon shoves a hand against your thigh, keeping it in place on the table.

his mouth licks a stripe from where his fingers plunge into your pussy to your clit, taking that aching muscle between his lips and suckling.

when you orgasm it’s harsh and loud, fluids gushing from your pussy and soaking jihoon’s face. he takes you into his arms, pulling you to the floor with him and pressing kisses to your face.

“good girl,” he murmurs, voice raspy and comforting. the office is drenched in the smell of pussy – of your pussy – and his nose shines with your release. he ignores it, his clean hand pushing back stray strands of hair from your face so he can press a sweet kiss to your nose. “good girl.”

W E E K T H I R T E E N

you think, fleetingly, that you’re not being fair.

but then you remember that girl – girl, because she can’t be any older than eighteen, fresh out of high school and far too young to be sniffing around your boyfriend – and how she pressed close to jihoon as she showed him something on her computer, and you can’t help but think you’re not being harsh enough.

with that in the forefront of your mind, you ease the hot pink dildo in your aching cunt. you can feel fluid gush from your pussy, a slick combination of your own desire and the generous amount of lube you had massaged onto the dildo.

the stretch burns, stretching the walls of your pussy. it’s a stark, acute contrast to the three fingers you used to stretch yourself, and you couldn’t help but arch your back up off of jihoon’s couch, toes curling and mouth dropping open.

you can feel the fluids leak down your pussy, sliding along the curve of your ass.

good, you think. sink into the fabric of the couch so from now on, whenever he sits here, he has to smell your cunt.

your hand stills once the base of the dildo is flush against your ass. you shift, hips tilting as you try to relieve some of the sting.

you stretch out for your phone, glancing at the time. the dildo is pushed from your pussy by the movement.

jihoon will be home any minute. your hand returns to the dildo, pushing it back into your pussy. your cunt sucks it in, eager and greedy.

clenching down on the dildo, you can’t help the thrill of satisfaction that shoots through you. you feel so delightfully full, as if some part of you was a gaping hole that needed to be filled.

well –

you suppose that line of thought isn’t too wrong.

you grab the dildo, fingernails digging slightly into the jelly-like texture. you slide the dildo from your cunt. despite how much lube you used, despite how wet your cunt is, the dildo still is slow to slide out, your pussy clamping down to try and keep it in place.

you pull it out until just the tip of the dildo is pressed against your hole. your juices glint evilly on the dildo, a long, thick string along the side of it.

slowly you ease it back inside. you tip your head back, foot pressing down on the cushion of the couch in an attempt to mentally steady yourself. it’s a dragging sensation that has impatience licking at your brain, trying to push its way to the forefront.

you pump the dildo in and out, in and out, until you are satisfied that the burn from your pussy stretching to accommodate it is no more.

you draw it out.

and then you force it back in, sharp enough for the gelatin balls to slap against your ass in a poor mimicry of the real thing.

your free hand goes to your tit, framing a pebbled nipple between two of your fingers. you massage it, pull it, as you harshly fuck the dildo in, soft pants escaping your mouth as your body begins to ignite with pleasure and the wanton desire for more.

you can’t help but want. it’s as if the desire is written into your dna, lining the fabric of your entire being. you want to be fucked, want to be thrown onto your front and taken from behind; want jihoon fucking his fat cock into your pussy in one swift motion, forcing your pussy to stretch around him.

you want jihoon.

you could devour him, you think as you crook the dildo up towards the front of your body, searching for your g-spot. you would devour him whole. you would take and take from him until he’s entirely yours, body and soul.

the lock to the door clicks. you hurriedly bring the fingers messing with your nipple up to your mouth, licking at them before taking the nub between them and rolling.

the front door to jihoon’s apartment swings open, your boyfriend stepping through. his eyes immediately catch on you, naked and wanton.

“what – fuck –” he shoves the door shut behind him, loud and firm. “what the fuck are you doing?!”

you slide the dildo from your pussy, slow and torturous, ensuring he’s watching. jihoon’s eyes, naturally, flick down to your pussy. the dildo is still slick with fluid, and you can where the more dense of your fluids stain the pink of the dick.

“what are you doing,” he repeats, dropping his leather bag to the floor.

“taking matters – ah,” you moan out, massaging your gummy g-spot with the head of the dick. “taking matters into my own hands, jihoon; what else?”

his hands go to his shirt. jihoon hurriedly pushes at the buttons of his white dress shirt, letting it fall to the floor after he’s done. his trousers follow suit, and he leaves them behind with his shoes and socks.

“what are you doing?” you grin at jihoon toothily, echoing his words. “no sex, remember?”

jihoon moves towards you regardless. he had done his hair that morning, gelling it back. now a few stray strands frame his temples, giving him a perfectly disheveled look. his tank top does nothing to conceal his collar bones, the line of his shoulders proud and wide.

his hands find your thighs. he separates your legs, baring your pussy entirely.

you still your hand, just keeping the dildo snug inside of you, refusing to move it further. “what are you doing, jihoon?”

“looking,” he retorts, eyes dancing around your body as he takes you in. you think you look like some perverted creature, carnal desire and desperation written onto every centimeter of skin.

“don’t touch,” you chide him, moving an leg from his grasp. jihoon tightens his hold on the other as you press your foot against his chest, lightly pressing in a piss-poor attempt to push him back.

jihoon rolls his eyes at you, nose crinkling and mouth twisting into a sneer.

“oh,” you breathe out, sheathing the dildo fully inside once more. his eyes meet yours. you let a grin take over, unable to help but tease him. “‘oh, the agony! i am agony!’ isn’t that right, hoonie?”

for a split second you can see shock take over jihoon’s features, catlike eyes widening. a strike of triumph hits you, feeling as if you are the cat that got the canary.

but then jihoon is grabbing the dildo from your hand. he pulls it out, the slide making your mouth drop in a gasp and body arch up off of the couch.

“h – hoonie –!”

“agony,” he hisses, and then jihoon is shoving his boxers down to his knees.

his cock bounces from his underwear, slapping against the fabric of his tank-top. it’s thick and angry, and when he runs his hand along it, rubbing at the head, a thick marble of precum leaks from it.

“no – no sex,” you say, voice hoarse as you subconsciously keep your eyes on his cock. you’ve been starving for jihoon’s dick for so long, and here it is, thick and pulsing in front of you.

and like a starving woman in front of a table overflowing with food, you eagerly welcome jihoon’s dick when he presses the tip against your hole. you spread your legs, knees knocking against his hips as he presses against you.

jihoon keeps his dick in hand, not entering you. he rubs his dick up between your folds, a soft curse escaping his lips at how wet you are. once he’s at your clit he stops, rubbing the head of his dick against you.

“fuck –” your voice is taking on a whining tone, and you can’t help but fleetingly wonder what happened to you showing jihoon who’s boss, making him witness just what he’s missing. but that thought is gone from your mind as soon as it enters, and instead you’/re pleading with jihoon. “please, hoonie – please fuck me, please.”

he sighs, the tip of his cock pressing against your hole. still, he doesn’t enter you. “i thought we agreed on no sex,” he says. “no sex until the semester is over.”

you cry out, hips trying to shift upwards and force his dick inside. jihoon pulls back. “please – put it in. it won’t count – won’t count if you don’t cum in me, yeah? won’t count if i don’t cum around your dick.”

jihoon lets out a loud, shivering groan that seems to release from the depths of his soul.

jihoon presses his dick into your cunt. the head pops past your entrance, and then he’s sliding home.

your pussy takes jihoon eagerly, sufficiently prepared by your fingers and the dildo. his dick is just slightly thicker than the dildo, and so there is a pleasurable sting that burns at your core. it’s not horrible, and you let out a moan as you cant your hips up.

jihoon doesn’t stop pressing into you until his balls are against your ass. his hands are on either of your legs, keeping you spread for him. jihoon uses his grip on you to push himself back, bringing his cock out of your cunt slowly. the drag of his dick is delicious, is everything you’ve been missing for months.

you’re not sure if this is just because you haven’t been fucked appropriately since august and it’s in the middle of november, but you feel completely overwhelmed by jihoon.

his cock feels so good inside of you. it’s thick and warm, and when he shifts his dick presses up towards your core. his blunt head presses against your g-spot, and you can’t help the little mewl of approval that escapes you.

“feels good,” he breathes out. his eyes flutter, nails digging into your skin. “you feel so fucking good.”

jihoon pulls his hips back, leaving your pussy save for the tip of his dick. he lingers, the fat head of his dick keeping you plugged.

when jihoon thrusts in, it’s rough and well-aimed for your g-spot. you let out a shrill noise, eyes rolling back. you don’t know if sex has ever felt like this before – if you’ve ever felt so overwhelmed just by a single thrust.

your hands scramble, grabbing at the couch. “hoonie!”

he slides out; fucks back in.

jihoon’s pace is rough, as if he’s making up for lost time. as if he’s determined to mold your pussy back into the shape of his dick. he uses your pussy, uses you. he uses your cunt in an almost detached way, as if you were some random fuck and not his treasured girlfriend.

eventually jihoon is pulling from your cunt with a strangled moan. his dick is drenched with your fluids, thick strings decorating it like lewd jewelry. jihoon palms his dick, and then he’s thrusting into his hand once, twice, thrice before he cums onto your stomach.

he lets out a moan, a gasp of your own joining. his cum is thick and hot. you want to shove it into your pussy.

jihoon’s hands go back to your thighs, and then he’s dropping to his knees.

“can’t wait to fuck you,” he groans, “can’t wait to fill you up. as soon as finals are over, you’re mine. got it? you’re mine.”

then his tongue is licking a stripe up from your cunt to your clit, and all other thoughts leave you.

W E E K S I X T E E N

the lecture hall, just like most of the rest of campus, is nearly deserted.

you had left your apartment as soon as the email about your final grade dinged your phone, delight and want immediately turning at your stomach. you had been looking forward to this day for months: the day you and jihoon were finally free to fuck (and publicly be in a relationship, but that wasn’t the most pressing matter at the moment).

jihoon was at the front of the large room, talking to the last stragglers of the exam he had to oversee. you rush down the steps, unable to help the broad smile on your face.

your boyfriend looks up as you thunder down the auditorium, and you catch the moment his own face breaks out into a wide grin.

he calls out your name as you step off of the last step.

the student he’s talking to waves goodbye, and you take the spot where he had been standing.

“hey,” you say, unable to keep your smile tamed. “how’s it going?”

jihoon rolls his eyes at you, folding his arms over his chest. this close to him you could smell his cologne, the sharp smells of amber and vanilla. he was wearing his white dress shirt again, though this time it was dressed up with a simple black tie.

“glad it’s over,” jihoon murmurs.

you glance around the room. there’s two girls at the back, talking excitedly as one of them packs up their things.

“took you forever to grade the exams.”

jihoon scoffs. “as if. you turned it in last night at midnight.”

you shrug. the girls begin to make their way out of the room, calling out good-byes to jihoon.

“all things considered,” he says, raising a hand in acknowledgement towards the girls, “this semester wasn’t so bad.”

you laugh at him. “it’s been agony to me,” you say, knowing how loaded the word is for the both of you.

the heavy wooden doors shut solemnly behind the girls. it’s as if a switch flicks off in jihoon’s mind. his eyes visibly soften before you, his smile taking on a gentler shape.

“i missed you,” he says. he doesn’t say anything else; that isn’t jihoon’s way. he’d write a thousand poems for you and keep them locked away. he’ll say three words, i missed you, and his meaning will include a hundred other things: i love you; i adore you; i want you close to me always; you bewitch me.

“i missed you, too,” you echo, hoping he feels the weight of your simple response.

jihoon keeps his face passive as he opens his arms, and you go easily into his embrace. you burrow your face into his neck, breathing him in. he wraps his thick arms around you, pressing you close to his body.

for a moment the two of you just exist in this little universe.

jihoon is the first to pull away, though he doesn’t go far. as if magnetic, you tilt your lips towards him, meeting his mouth halfway.

the kiss begins gentle and solemn. it’s the end of a sentence, finishing the semester, which had been filled with tension and desperation, with a sweet embrace and soft lips.

you separate your mouth from his. you skim your lips along his chin, following the edge of his jaw. you trace the edges of his face with your mouth, trying to memorize the shape of him.

“i missed you,” you say again.

jihoon is silent. he sinks a hand into your hair, cradling the back of your head. he guides your face back to his, his lips pressing a long kiss to yours.

this time when jihoon kisses you it’s firm. his mouth is insistent against yours, devouring you in a way that leaves you breathless. he presses you back, his tongue sliding past your lips.

jihoon walks you backwards until your thighs are bumping against the table. he keeps your head still, tongue licking into your mouth and exploring.

his free hand slides beneath your shirt, grabbing at the flesh of your hip.

“hoonie,” you say, pulling back from his mouth. jihoon hums, pressing kisses to the corner of your mouth. “want you.”

“got me,” he returns.

despite his gentle words, jihoon’s hands move quickly against you. he tosses your shirt and bra aside, mouth attaching to your neck as soon as you are bare. his hand slides down to the waistband of your pants, fingers dipping past it. jihoon presses open-mouthed kisses to your skin, eager to reefamiliarize himself with your body entirely. his nips at the curve of your tit, and then his mouth is suckling at a pebbled nippple.

you whine against him. you run your hands overh im. you feel the curve of his own pecs, feel the flat plane of his stomach, still hidden by his shirt. you tug at his tie, and then you’re molding your hand against his straining erection.

jihoon groans against you. “careful,” he says.

“we shouldn’t get too carried away,” you return. your fingers find the button of his trousers nonetheless. it’s the easiest thing to pop it through the hole, loosening his pants. “we should go home. anyone could walk in.”

“‘oh, the agony,’” jihoon says, and then he’s turning you around and pressing you against the table.

he’s quick to pull your pants and underwear to your ankles. jihoon helps you step out of them, leaving them in a discarded mess by the leg of the table.

he smooths his hands over your legs and thighs as he stands, his tough heavy and warm. jihoon positions you; slides his hand along your leg and pushes it up onto the table, foot dangling over the edge.

he slides two of his fingers inside of your pussy. you clench down on the intrusion, biting down on your lip.

“don’t –” you sigh out, turning over your shoulder to look at him. “i’m ready.”

jihoon blinks at you for a moment, and then he’s cursing. “slut,” he says, though his lips twitch up into a grin.

he doesn’t bother undressing all the way. you can feel the fabric of his pants bunch against your ass when his cock is buried deep inside. his cock stretches you so delightfully. you feel as if you’re finally whole after an eternity of missing something.

maybe you really are a slut.

jihoon slides his dick out slowly, making you feel every centimeter of his cock. the glide is nearly on the side of too-dry, but your eyes roll back nonetheless, nails scraping against the wood of the table.

“fuck,” he breathes out, and then he’s punching his dick back into your pussy.

you rock forward on the table, the edge of it digging into you. you don’t mind it. instead you push back, meeting his thrust.

“missed you,” jihoon says. you wonder if he’s talking about your pussy. you wouldn’t blame him if he was: you missed his cock, afterall.

you missed out his dick feels within you, heavy and stretching you out. you missed how he fucks into you, how his hips slap against your ass. you missed the sting of him fucking you, the sting of skin against skin coupled with the electric sparks of pleasure that shoot through you when the blunt head of his cock hits your g-spot.

jihoon fucks you as if you were reuniting. which, you suppose, you are. he fucks you as if he’s treasuring each thrust, as if he’s making sure each rock of his hips is perfect to make up for lost time.

you can feel the fabric of his shirt when jihoon presses his front against your back. his black tie dangles beside your face. he uses his weight to keep you against the table, his hips picking up pace.

he practically jackrabbits into your pussy, hips frantic.

“missed you,” he says, and then he’s grabbing your face to press another open-mouthed kiss to your lips. there’s no finesse: it’s just as messy as the way he fucks you. spit slides from mouth to mouth, tongues meeting and tangling.

he’s devouring you, you realize. he’s gobbling you up, owning you inside and out.

jihoon reaches down, his fingers finding your clit easily. he slips his fingers against your clit, the wetness of your pussy making the glide easy. his fingers against your clit are just as frantic as his hips fucking into you, and the combined sensation brings your orgasm crashing down around you more quickly than you would like.

he slows his hips to a stop as you cum around his cock, whining high at the back of your throat. it’s overwhelming. you haven’t cum around his dick in months. his cock stretches you still, and every minute shift of your hips back against him has his dick pressing against all the sensitive places.

“good?” his voice is raspy against your hair.

you nod.

jihoon pulls back, and you hiss at the feeling of his dick leaving your pussy.

he doesn’t stay gone for long. jihoon maneuvers you onto your back. he grabs each of your thighs, holding them up and baring you to him. you can feel the juices of your release as they slide down your cunt.

he thrusts back in. immediately you’re tossing your head back against the table, eyes rolling back. your toes curl.

jihoon hooks your legs over the crook of each of his arms, and then he’s setting a harsh pace once again. his grunts are loud againsts the quiet of the room, the slapping of skin against skin sending heat rushing up towards your face. you feel too high strung, feel as if your neurons and electrons are buzzing around underneath your skin. you want to move away from his cock and how it tortures you, pressing against your g-spot as sensitivity rears its ugly head; you want to fuck down onto his dick until you’re unable to walk.

when jihoon cums, it’s copious. it’s too much. you feel his dick throb within you as he spills, filling you with hot seed. it’s so much; you want more.

jihoon pulls his dick from your pussy only once he’s finished. he isn’t done with you, though.

he slaps his palm against your cunt, the sensation acute and electric.

you want to cry. you don’t want him to ever stop.

jihoon slaps your cunt again, and then he’s hooking three of his fingers inside of your pussy. he thrusts him inside in the same fashion he did his cock: harshly, roughly. the sting of his knuckles against your flesh isn’t unlike the sting of his hips.

when you cum, it’s with a loud sob. he presses the fingers of his free hand against your clit, rubbing it once more while his fingers keep pressing up against your g-spot, relentless in his mission of wringing you dry.

after it’s over, you hold out your arms.

jihoon gathers you into his embrace easily, pressing a kiss to your forehead. you know you should hurry and dress, know that it’ll be a matter of time before someone wanders into the room.

you don’t care.

instead you just bask in the attention of your boyfriend, forehead pressing to his shoulder.

#svthub #ksmutsociety #my writing #✏️— writing #lee jihoon x reader #lee jihoon fic #lee jihoon oneshot #woozi x reader #woozi fic #woozi oneshot #lee jihoon smut #woozi smut #svt #svt x reader #svt smut #svt oneshot #svt fic

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marstons-angel · 1 year ago

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WHAT SET YOU FREE, BROUGHT YOU TO ME BABY.

rdr2 men + short blurbs about their favorite sex positions.

ft. arthur morgan, john marston, javier escuella, and charles smith.

✧ tags : SPOILER HEAVY, fem + afab!reader, unprotected sex, light angst (in the horny post is crazy im sorry fdkjjkds), very gendered language, javier says one thing in spanish (thank u @nanamimizz), a little sprinkle of plot with each (and some canon divergency), john co-parents w abigail, otherwise just horny. 18+

✧ wc : about 1.4-8k each (6.3k total)

✧ a/n : sorry for making a multi character post for the cowboy game its cooking me to death. my john bias is showing rip. title is from rebel yell by billy idol but i listen to the bvb cover

sorry about charles and javiers but if i edit this anymore im going to level an entire city using hollow purple technique. please rb if you enjoyed i worked kind of hard on whatever this is.

sorry for . the THIRD repost of this i promise i wont after this. its just really bugging me. PLEASE

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆ ARTHUR MORGAN + PRONE BONE ;

It’s an odd feelin’ for Arthur.

Wanting something, he means. Wanting anything as much as he wants you. He’s lived a less than quiet life up until now. And he ain’t the brightest, certainly, but living this kind of life teaches you many lessons. One of them being, it’s better not to covet anything. Coveting something you’re not entitled to, well—it’ll lead you places you wouldn’t want to go with a gun.

Arthur has made the mistake of coveting love before, dreamed of a future so completely out of his reach he almost convinced himself it was possible. Dreamed of it so foolishly he’d even go visit a woman he very well ought to forget. It’s his problem, his burden to bear - always desiring outcomes unsuited to him.

He’s just that sort of man he reckons. But he learned his lesson. He tries (tried?) to stay away from it after that. Tried not to pine too much for normalcy when such hopes had failed him twice. The loss of his child completely on his account and the loss of his love at the same fate.

So, wanting you - well, he feels like the world's dullest fool. Really. How is it that Arthur had fallen in love with someone again? It had all just happened so quickly. You were another woman he’d saved from the O’Driscolls, though it wasn’t like you were no damsel. A lot of those men were dead by the time they arrived. That sort of perseverance would stick with you while you traveled together. Much like Sadie, you didn’t take well to housework - you liked to earn your keep. Though you’re not nearly so trigger happy.

You’re quiet, thoughtful, well-read. Plus you’re good at making money. That’s why Dutch don't complain about you joining them, he figures.

(Arthur tries not to pry into it too much at first, but he eventually learns that you’re gambling. Which is how you’re able to make such a fast turn around. A prim little lady like you makes for a fine poker player, and you love to play men out of their money. He thinks it’s one of the funniest and most interesting things about you. He can’t help but love you a little more for it. )

When the feelings in him start to stir, Arthur tries to overlook it. Arthur convinces himself, time and time again - that there’s no way he’ll grow more tender about you. Eventually, it’ll die down. You’re a decent woman is all, a kind one - who’s easy for him to love and even easier for him to confide in. In your time together, you often come to Arthur and you always seem to have some profound wisdom he is so sorely lacking. Someone easy to love, who does not expect much from Arthur at all. It’s only natural a lonely, covetous man like him would start to dream about you. He tells himself, it will pass eventually. Should he simply let it run by him, it will pass. But Arthurs a fool, you’ll remember.

Of course, by the time he understood all that - he already loved you enough that he couldn’t bear it. It was already too late and it wasn’t going to change any time soon. Especially not while everything changed around him.

So, Arthur is undoubtedly a fool, but he’s lucky. He felt divinely blessed when you’d returned his feelings for him so politely. A coy little smile on your face, a laugh like you thought he was silly for being doubtful. Arthur tried to explain himself but you wouldn’t hear a word of it. Maybe that’s another thing he loves so much about you. There’s nothing he ever needs to explain.

In any case, all Arthur seems to do lately is want you. Wants you when it’s inconvenient. Wants you before he wants liquor or a cigarette or some other vice. Any time anything goes wrong, you’re the first thing his mind can conjure up for relief. That pretty smile and that self-assured way of living. It’s hard to get time alone in camp. And Arthur is a man in love, so any touch could be enough to set him on fire. Last week you hugged his waist a little before giving him a kiss goodbye and he had to listen to you laugh yourself into a fit as he waited for…little Arthur to settle down.

He don’t get many chances to be with you. Lay with you in that way that grown folk in love do. Though, if the two of you book it somewhere for a few days - the camp knows better not to ask where you’ve been. But it’s not often you get to really be together, where it’s peaceful to do that. Someone’s always hounding one of you to do something.

Arthur is a lucky man though, like he said. Today he had time. Today he’s alone with you in a beat up little saloon and today he gets to do as he likes. He gets to be greedy. And it’s an odd feeling for him, really, to want something so bad he disregards everything else in the world for a little while.

Feeling you, though - absolves the guilt for wanting. He’d be stupid to want you any less desperately.

Arthur’s favorite way to have you is on your stomach. Laid flat, just barely pushed up against him as he fucks you deep. You’ll fuck like rabbits for a little while and Arthur will wear you out just like this, maneuvering you until you’re pinned all underneath his weight. You lose any fight you might have, too exhausted to worry yourself with pleasing him - and when you’re like that, you let Arthur take care of you.

(He really ain’t talented at much, but he’s good with his hands. Being dexterous is part of being a talented shot. When Arthur has the time to spread you sweet in his lap and make you cum all over his fingers, he does so for as long as he can. At least until you beg him so sweetly otherwise. The same hands, soiled with gunsmoke, look so good so deep in you. At least in his eyes.)

Wet and pliable and helpless. Arthur loves you like that. He knows, he knows you’re anything but - but he’d be damned to pretend this don’t feel best. Tight, wet cunt so welcoming from all the pleasure he’s ripped out of you. Your bodies pressed together, your heartbeat pulsing through your skin. All sticky, honeyed need and animal desire as Arthur lets all of him sink on top of you. His heavy, lumbering form crushing you in - trapping you somewhere you can’t run from him. The curve of your spine pushed against his chest, ticklish.

Every inch of his body that so wholly wants for you, Arthur aches to make you feel. Burn it in you lest anything happens that risks your forgetting.

He can feel his hips meet your ass, backside squished against him - desperate for deeper friction. Whining. You’re whining to him so pretty, a pillow pushed underneath you to give friction to needy clit.

Arthur can feel how much you want more. Maybe Arthur is greedy, but he likes that look much better on you. Your pussy is sucking him in so tight, silken walls pulsing with every shallow little measured thrust. Arthur lets his arm wrap around your neck, your face pressing into his bicep. You moan again and he laughs.

“Arthur,” Your words come out in a messy slur. He lets his scruffy face press against your neck, a kiss behind your ear. He wants to kiss you all over. There’s not enough hours in the day. “Oh, god, Arthur,”

“Still feels good, then, I’m guessin’,”

“Shut up,” You huff and press your cheek into his arm. He doesn’t bother stifling his laugh. “Still feels…big. Stretchin’ me out—hicc—so much,”

You really don’t try to rile him up - but you do a damn good job of it anyway. He groans, grunts as he pulls back and pistons himself in you. A gesture half-way between a kiss and the warning shot of a gun. The sound of skin hitting skin echoes, noisy and vulgar. Arthur don’t pay it much mind. He laughs against your shoulder.

“One of these days, that moutha’ yours is gonna get me in real trouble.”

You giggle back at him

“What kinda trouble is that now?”

Even from your side glance, you’ve got that lovely little smile on you. Fuckdrunk and ingratiating, like you know he’s wrapped so tight around your fingers. And he is, like nothing else in the world could have him. A wave of possession curls up over Arthur, makes him press more of himself into you. Onto you. Another deep push of his cock, sliding against the tenderest parts of you. Staking some silent desire in you. He wants and wants and wants, and hopes that whatevers above him can forgive him for making the same mistake thrice.

“Dunno,” Arthur comments, teeth grazing your shoulder and kissing the indentations “Got our whole lives together to find out, I reckon.”

“I’ll hold you to it, Mister.”

Arthur laughs. “Hope you do, Miss.”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆ JOHN MARSTON + COWGIRL ;

John doesn’t say that he loves you lightly.

Hardly a thing he says can be said that way. Could never afford too. In an alternate universe where nothing goes wrong in his life, maybe - but he has a hard time picturing what the hell that’d look like. A version of himself so untainted, without all of the violence and blood and gunsmoke? Foreign. John can’t picture it worth a damn.

Who John is without a deadbeat father and a dead Ma is somewhere far beyond his reach. Ain’t nothing about his life, at any point, lighthearted.

On top of all that mess, he’s got a boy at age four with a woman he ain’t married too. And that relationship is always on rocky waters, even though John’s decided to do right by his own flesh and blood sometime ago. Most things in the world he should feel good about he doesn’t, and most things he should understand render him clueless. He’s a mess on multiple accounts, and he still doesn’t know how exactly he’s meant to approach this life of his. He knows what he should do, but nothing about how to do it.

John doesn’t come to love you easily ‘cause he wouldn’t know easy love if it hit him in his face. Quickly and painfully, but not easily.

Your return to the gang was an odd one. You were an old presence and your disappearance was an even older story. John thought he’d never gonna see you again for sure. You’d been a part of the gang back long before all of the nonsense that took place in Blackwater and you left about the time Arthur’s boy died. John don’t remember why you left exactly. He thinks it was a fight with Hosea, of all things.

Dutch weren't too happy about it neither, but Dutch back then didn’t make a show.

So you left, and John buried every feeling he ever harbored. You found all them again up in Colter, where you’d been living out your days lately. According to you, in the middle of riding, you thought you’d heard Arthur. So, somewhat recklessly, you went chasing him. Didn’t matter if he was just something your mind conjured. According to you, if it was him, it was at least worth checking to make sure. You’d reunited with Arthur and after some tears, he rode with you back to camp.

Upon your return, the gang welcomed you with open arms.

You’d done a lot in your time alone.You spent most of that time just like that, a ghost wanderin’ the planes. You weren’t gonna stay with ‘em, but Arthur insisted and Hosea did too. That wasn’t enough to compel, so John was last to chip in. You should stay, at least until Valentine.

(Silently he thought, you should stay so John can trace memories of you. It was so long ago, he should’ve forgotten all of it. You were a year older than John and always on his ass but easy for him to talk to. Didn’t fuss over his failures. You just barely grew into your womanhood when you set your sights on running away. You wanted more than this life, and John never really forgave you for it. His first heartbreak, maybe - but it’s all too blurry for that.

You understood him though better than anyone, and one day you were gone. Nothing’s really the same.)

You changed tremendously and not at all. He missed you. God, did he ever. Missed you a long time. Didn’t realize how much until you came back and everything in him felt right again. Your return stirred up old feelings and everyone noticed. He wasn’t trying to keep it a secret, but he really wasn’t trying to fall back into anything with you. Not how he did.

Just like you did back then, you read John like an open book. And just like he did back then, he loved you all too helplessly for it. It was just all too easy again, to be with you.

You stayed out of the way at first, for the sake of his family.

But, John ain’t a half-decent man even when he’s trying to be. So he set himself on being with you. It wasn’t easy - most things with him aren’t as you’ll see. Having you around again straightened what was left of his common sense, at least. He told Abigail before telling you. He figured you wouldn’t even reply unless that was all out of the way. That turned out as well as you’d expect.

It was settled between the two of you thereafter. He’s lucky she didn’t toss him into the street.

Everything works out in a way. As best they can between broken people. You make peace with each other. His boy loves you like a third parent (you’re better with him than John is). Abigail commends you for straightening out such a worthless man though she’s a little melancholy. John just tries to stay out of the way. You’ll be together in the end. There’s a plan with the five of you.

But until it all falls apart, he doesn’t get all that much time with you.

There’s moments like tonight, though. Rare ones. Together out robbin’, cooped out some place in the woods where no one is around. A place so shaded by nightfall that John can absolve himself of every sin he’s ever committed in his life and pray at the altar between your hips. John is convinced he might find worship like he’s always hearing about there whenever he touches you, the marred skin of his hands and knuckles reading the scripture of your body with careful precision.

You might turn him into a literate man yet.

John glances up at you. Only the light of the fire and the moonlight there to accompany as he watches you over him. You’re beautiful. John couldn’t picture a single thing more perfect in his life.

Your hands against his bare chest, nails digging into the flesh as you lean forward. Your palm dug into the dirt, John finds his own hands rested at your hips. John looks at you awe-struck, cock twitching at the mere sight. His heart settles in his throat, but he’s calm all at the same time. With you, he forgets. All of it. The worst of himself.

Bare naked and so close, he watches your face as you strain. You feel soft. Every inch of you in comparison to him is. A bead of sweat slides down the valley of your breasts. John cranes his neck up to catch it with his tongue, licking a stripe up to your neck - letting his teeth sink into the space between your jaw and neck. You want to make it last and John doesn’t blame you. It’s so rare you get to have each other so unrestrained. John can feel all the ways you want him, can see it in your face - all pinched with need. You’re holding yourself back, trying to get it to last as long as the night will allow. It’s cute in a way.

It’s different than how he’s used to seein’ you, all cocky or otherwise. You’re needy like this. Just needy. His stomach turns with lust, jolting through him like a strike of lightning. His cock twitches against your folds, sliding against them. Pure admiration watching the sticky mess of his pre-cum and your own arousal mix together and smear on your mound. You make a soft noise in the back of your throat, faint and tender as you fall forward just a little. John laughs against your neck.

“Darlin’,” He says with a huff. Not malice. Something akin to bliss, where he can rarely afford it “Have I done something to piss you off today?”

You pick yourself up and look down at him and frown. John kisses the corner of your mouth, resisting some crude desire to fuck up into you.

“Just,” You grunt as the tip of his cock passes over your throbbing clit, your whole body wracking to a shiver. John looks awed. “Pent up. Goddamn it,”

John figures it out quickly after that. It’s this part of it he likes. The proximity. The closeness. Feeling the tremble in your hands as they struggle to keep up right, muscles strained in your forearms. Being able to hold you, to keep the pace or let you take the lead. The clear view of your face as pleasure travels up through your spine and melts into you. He grabs your hips, the fat dimpling underneath his fingers as he moves you along. He can’t wait. You don’t bother to protest seeing John can’t seem to bear it anymore. You collapse into his chest, your tits pushed flat against his pecs.

His cock throbs near painfully, sliding against your soft cunt before finding himself lined with you. He thinks to himself that it’s this he was looking for, as he tucks your face against his neck and lets his tip stretch you out slowly. Such a vice like grip, stretching - resisting him like your whole body can’t anticipate the sensation of fullness. You gasp against his throat.

“John,”

What a sweet sound from your mouth, even sweeter as he bucks himself up. Keeps you steady and lets his cock stretch you full, feel you deep. “That’s right, my angel. Didn’t think you’d remember my name when you’re all worked up like this.”

“You’re,” You gasp and John thrusts, thrusts hard until he’s buried to the hilt. You shudder, walls pulsing around him as he bottoms out and John laughs like the terrible man he is. He fucks you again, over and over - a wicked little smile watching “Awful. Just awful, John Marston,”

“Ain’t that the truth,” He hums against your mouth as his hand snakes between your bodies, thumb rubbing against your clit. “Wonder what kinda woman that makes you,”

“A foolish one,”

John laughs.

“I sure do love you for it,”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆JAVIER ESCUELLA + SIDEWAYS ;

Javier hasn’t thought about much other than surviving.

It’s been like that. Been like that for a while, probably much longer than he cares to admit. He’s sure any sane man would suffer the same plight if they lead the same life. Anything but survival is little more than a pipe-dream, so Javier tries not to go for anything too strongly. In that aspect he’s like many of the members of the gang he’s in, perhaps that’s why he sticks to them. There’s that phrase Hosea’s always saying - that misery loves company. Javier will take any decent company he can get. He’s desperate for it just like he’s desperate for most things - inwardly, silently.

Some of that desperation may be symptomatic of who he is. After he killed a man in a crime of passion for a woman he loved and ran from a government who would sooner exile him than change, Javier decided to not dream anymore. Every revolutionary who dreams too hopefully pays the price in blood.

(Javier thinks there’s probably nothing in the world as true as this. A form of gospel. He remembers the first dream he ever had after his uncle passed. Not a nightmare but a dream. He remembers the exact feeling of waking up, cold and confused. What is a dream, except a memento of survivor's guilt that loyal people cling onto fruitlessly. When hope starts to feel like a debt he’s going to waste his life paying back, Javier loses sight of everything. The beginning of the end in some way.)

His mind doesn’t occupy itself with anything bigger than that. Since Dutch found him starving, there was never a desire to try and live off aspirations. He pays his penance with loyalty and honor. Practices some form of humility and tries, not too desperately, to carve a place for him to fit. All without drawing too much attention or caring too much. If you ignore the bleeding in his fingers, his penchant for knives over guns, and his refusal to talk too long about the place he comes from - it’s nearly believable that none of it matters.

Except loyalty. All Javier honors is that. It’s the only thing he has some part in choosing, so he choses it every time. Living like that didn’t make any difference to him. He was surrounded by mostly decent people. He didn’t hate the life he was living.

It wasn’t important. It didn’t matter. His directionless-ness, his floating. Hadn’t since he joined the gang. At least not to anyone but him. He didn’t know what he’s meant to do or if he was meant to proceed with this forever. He was (is) loyal to Dutch. To the gang.

He hadn’t thought much about what comes after.

And it didn’t matter until he met you

He’d sworn off love after seeing where it got him, at least until he could love more dispassionately. When the women bring you back from their outing from Valentine and beg Dutch to let you stay, Javier doesn’t think much of it all. He thinks you’re pretty, if it counts for anything. But he doesn’t let himself linger on you too long.

But that’s the sequence with you two, really. The whole time. He doesn’t linger until he does. It doesn't matter until it does. He doesn’t think about you until it’s all he can think about.

You go for him first. And it’s in little, unimportant ways that might not mean shit to you but mean a whole lot to him. You have some kind of tenderness about you that you wear deep, runs through your blood like love ran through his once long ago. Some softness he can’t really measure with his own. It’s not that that gets him. It’s that sometimes you look at Javier like he's … someone you want to see. He forgot what that was like all together. It felt foreign to him the first time it happened. Seeing how you light up when Javier is around.

You wanted to see him. You noticed that he’s gone. If he sang by the campfire - you’d sit by him and listen. If he was out in the trees keeping guard, he’d hear the soft call of your voice to Grimshaw ask Where’s Javier? And sometimes the girls will make fun of you - but you wouldn’t deny anything they said. It’s so small and ordinary. He would’ve never considered himself simple before meeting you. Nothing is simple. Nothing.

(But then, Javier thinks of the kinds of songs he sings and the way he takes care of himself and the clothes he wears and maybe Javier has some kind of affinity for preciousness that explains all of it.)

When Javier confesses his feelings for you - he finds the affair to be like most things between you. Ordinary love, not really between outlaws but people. It’s up against a tree while you share a drink and he’s looking at the curve of your mouth and the plum color Karen’s so kindly put on you. And his head fills with kissing you so he does. A breathless confession between alcohol stains and the feeling of your hands curled in the lapels of his suit.

From there, Javier is your lover. He’s not interested in the business of secrets, but he tries not to let it show too much. Not that he doesn’t want to. He wants to show you off more than anything - at least some part of him does. But the other part wants to keep you away from prying eyes, keep his love for you only where the both of you can see. If he could keep that pretty lovestruck face you make all to himself forever he would.

When he gets a chance to whisk you away from everything, Javier jumps at the chance. Not often, but Javier makes time for you. Makes time to indulge in love he thought he’d never find again.

That’s why he’s here with you in the middle of nowhere, a ghost town where no one knows you.. A reserved room with a bed and lowlights all to yourselves.

Javier can’t keep his hands to himself and he doubts you expect him too.

For Javier, this sense of proximity is what intoxicates him most. The warmth of your bare skin in the slivers of yourself exposed. Javier is fond of finding you like this after a long day of horse riding. Of sneaking touches to your waist as you push back against him to sleep, only to find his desire for you - laid clearly. He likes hearing you whimper feeling his length poke against your back, the embarrassment when it dawns on you that he wants you after all. Always surprised, even though Javier tells you it so often. Whispers it along your neck and shoulders whenever you’re at camp together.

You like the feeling of his hands so Javier always starts with them. He squeezes your hips. Planes his palms over your chest before squeezing your chest, pushing the fat between his fingers. You like the way they look when they grope you, his chin resting against your shoulder as you spoon. In the lowlights of a cheap hotel - Javier gets the perfect view of your silhouette. Your body is sensitive over the fabric of your gown, heat prickling through you.

Javier who is always so gentle with you, rouses so deep listening to your whining as he explores your body. The suffocating closeness of a single bed intoxicates him.

“Javier,” Your voice is sweet and thin. Plays in Javier’s head like music and makes his mouth curl up into a catlike grin as you push back on him. You look slightly over your shoulder, lips pushed into a pout. “Please,”

He tugs at the fabric of your nightgown. The top half pulls haphazard underneath your tits, nipples perky and sensitive to touch while the skirt pools at your waist. What gets Javier like this is the desperation. Wanting so much but not being able to look too long. A way for you to mirror him, it’s a matter of possession. In some stupid way. Bunching your clothes up, pushing the fabric of your panties to one side, letting his arm wrap around your waist to touch and tease. All of these are imprints of his longing, tucked faithful into your side as he whispers sweet nothings into your skin.

His cock twitches as it pushes past your folds with finality, your hands curling up at your sides. You whimper softly, let your cheek rest against the sheets as Javier takes you on your side. Terribly close, you fuss as you feel him slide every inch into you slow, your hands reaching back for purchase. It’s the fit of you against him so perfect, the silent strokes of intimacy, the hush-hush giggles between the sheets that Javier loves most about fucking you like this. Too enamored with you to look too closely, he lets his eyes flutter closed. He could get drunk just being in your space.

He carves out space for himself inside of you, feels your cunt accommodate for him like it loves him. A feverishness breaks out as his forehead rests on the space between your shoulders, an uncharacteristic whiny quality in his words.

“Ser mío,” Javier says - as a reflection of what he really wants, to belong only to you. “Belong to me.”

Darling as you always are, you nod softly.

“All yours, Javier,” You whimper, finding his hand. “Forever,”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆ CHARLES SMITH + MATING PRESS ;

Wandering.

He’s been doing it his whole life. Not something he’s proud of. Or ashamed of either, really. Just how things have gone for him until now. Charles doesn’t think his life has been any better or any worse than anyone else's. At least not when he weighs it with the same kind of pragmatism he does most things. It’s been a hard life, and a miserable one in so many ways. Still, it’s not something Charles is too keen to dwell on.

There’s just something thematic about loss in Charles' life in a way he finds completely unpleasant. It’s more constant than anything. Loss of his home, loss of his mother, loss of his father in an attempt to find what’s best for him. It’s some overarching message that hangs over his head like a shadow. Everywhere he goes, trying to rectify his own solitude seems to come back to him. It doesn’t help that it’s an unfair world to start with, and would’ve been if he had just been black or just been native. But Charles is both, and has lived a life that reflects that specific injustice thoroughly.

There’s not really anything Charles can do about it, at its baseline. When he left his father, the name of the game had simply been survival. He was well-equipped enough for that at least. But after survival comes trying to live and trying to live isn’t something so simple. Jumping in and out of gangs who thought they could get away with slighting him or generally being surrounded by unpleasant people. Trying to find something in pages of book and scripture, or in the way water ripples when it rains.

He’s never felt any one way towards the gang. Even when he joined them all the way back in the Grizzlies. Lost in the cold, they’d crossed paths as Charles was out hunting. A lot of it feels like a blur. Of all the folks he’s met in his travels though, Dutch treats him fair and the rest of them (or most of them) are decent, honest folk. Charles stays in the Van Der Linde gang for such simple reasons as trying to stay alive and be somewhere that isn’t actively hostile towards him. He’s a good gunman, and a better fighter. The inner workings of gang politics and forging connection isn’t at the forefront of his mind, with the exception of the kindest few.

The Van Der Linde gang is just a place where he can figure out what his purpose is meant to be, even if he doesn’t find it there. He’s never expecting anything to come out from his loyalties to it.

Of all the things Charles expects of his life in the Van Der Linde gang, love is at the very bottom of the list.

Maybe it’s about time he stops being surprised by these things happening to him one or way another.

You were a member of the gang far before him, and someone Charles took to quickly. You’d joined the gang not too long after John from what Arthur tells him. Though the brunette speaks about you more fondly than he does his brother. A problem child at the start, according to Arthur - always getting into all sorts of trouble. Something you seemingly feel embarrassed about now and refuse to bring up. Charles has a hard time picturing it having only known you as you are.

The woman you’ve grown into is someone else completely, and Charles sees that in you all the time. Compassionate like Hosea but charismatic like Dutch, and clever. And you’re beautiful, too, though Charles feels a little shallow admitting that’s part of what drew you into him.

It wasn’t Charles that approached you first. You were the one who spoke to him, as often as you thought necessary but never in a way he found invasive. He doesn’t know what it is exactly about you that charms him near instantly. You’re enigmatic to a fault. It’s like you always know exactly what to say and exactly when to say it. Even more than that, you’re a terribly pleasant person to be around. Subtly warm and free of assumptions. When Charles talks to you about anything, you listen without making him feel like it’s any sort of burden to you. You don’t pry, don’t make missteps. Treat him fair, and then some.

It’s unbearably simple, just how quickly and how easily he comes to adore you. And, in some ways, Charles knows better than to believe that his purpose is loving someone. There’s more to it than that, surely - after everything.

But then, he’ll watch you do something. Watch you do some kind of menial work that he could do for you instead. Thinks of skinning animals for new clothes and chopping wood and rubbing the soap off of you and all of a sudden it makes him feel anchored. Everything he could do for you. You anchor Charles easily, with a wispy smile. Make him want to find purpose in life with you. He never wants to be somewhere you’re not.

He confesses it to you just like that, and like you do with most things - you accept and reciprocate without making too much of a fuss.

For Charles, making love is an extension of wanting to ground himself in you. A distant siren song - the intersection of lust and bone deep adoration. Like most things, you’re the one to approach first every time. A soft hand on his forearm, a whisper that you want him. It’s with ease that he draws you away. Drags from you camp during nightfall with his horse and blankets and picks a spot with the perfect view of the stars.

Charles watches you under the glow of moonlight, his vision adjusting to you easily. Naked underneath him, laid on your back with your legs folded at your knees - heaving deep breaths. He can see the sweat beading down your skin, your chest rising and falling - and the perfect view of your pussy. His hands and mouth are wet as you breathe out. He finds himself smiling at you, his own erection pressed against your thigh, pre-cum leaking out in a mesmerized haze.

You lift your hands up and he leans down, surprised as you wrap them around his neck and pull him closer to you. Your mouths meet like that, and Charles laughs against your lips as you kiss him so eagerly. You blink at him, pretty. You’re always prettier than he remembers you being the last time he looks.

“Charles,” You frown at him. “It’s impolite to keep a lady waiting,”

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Sorry, my love. I don’t want to hurt you,”

“Well, I’m fine with it,” You repeat, almost petulant. Charles frowns. “‘Sides, it ain’t my first time taking you, you know?”

“Well, I’m not fine with it.”

You pout, looking at him all endeared. Charles couldn’t help but love you even if he tried. “You ain’t gonna hurt me. C’mon. Please?”

“Please, what?”

You look at him aghast before breaking out into a faux-scandalized giggle. “Now you—please fuck me. Pretty, please.”

Charles feels something tickling against his spine hearing you say it. He couldn’t imagine getting sick of you in his whole life. “Yeah, that’s good to hear.”

You make an indignant noise but it’s silenced quickly as Charles positions himself against your entrance. He has plenty of discipline when it comes to matters like these, but right now - he feels like he’s going to lose his mind. Not nearly enough patience to wait. He lets his hands go up underneath your knees just to have something to hold onto.

You make a little gasp as the tip of his cock pushes into you. Your walls are so soft, likely after all the orgasms he’d given you prior. You stop him in a shocked gasp, and Charles immediately readies himself to pull out. As if sensing his hesitance, you shake your head.

“Charles,” You gasp, the words caught in your throat and hoarse “Deep. Want it deep,”

His abdomen tightens, cocking twitching hard at your words. He agrees silently to your desires.

When it comes to sex, there’s very little Charles dislikes.

But this is his favorite. He’s simple but no other position lets him see you so close. He likes the way your eyes widen as he pushes up underneath your knees and folds you underneath his weight. How you look pinned down under him, the perfect view of your eyes rolling back into your head and the proximity from your face to his. He lets his cock stretch you out slowly, throbbing each time your nails dig desperately into arms trying to keep your composure. Fuck you feel so tight like that. Soft pussy, dripping and sticky. You suck him in relentlessly, and Charles groans as he bottoms out. You take every inch of him so well. So perfect like the rest of you.

Your eyes flutter open as he stays there, buried in you in complete bliss. You’re dazed.

“Kiss?”

Surprise followed by adoration, he abides by your request easily. Overwhelmed with it as he presses a chaste peck to your mouth, he laughs. “As many as you want.”

Anything you want, Charles thinks, he would give to you.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆

#arthur morgan x reader #john marston x reader #javier escuella x reader #charles smith x reader #rdr2 x reader #red dead redemption 2 x reader #THIS IS THE LAST TIME. THE LAST FUCKING TIME !!!!!!!!!!!!!!#outlaws love letters

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bunny-norris · 1 year ago

Text

TEENAGE DREAM, L. NORRIS.

Word count: idek but it’s long af (oops)

Warnings: Smut, unprotected sex (wrap it up kids) i also can’t write smut too well so enjoy this monstrosity.

In which, his best friend was there all along, he just never realised it until it was almost too late. Best friends to lovers.

From the moment you were a little girl, motorsport was a big thing in your life. Your father and brother grew up being Formula One fans; it ran through your family. Your brother had decided he wanted to go karting, and ultimately you wanted to join him, wanting to compete against him.

It was on one of those early Saturday mornings at the local karting track, the air buzzing with excitement and the smell of petrol filling your lungs, that you first met Lando Norris. He was a scrawny kid with a mop of dark hair and a cheeky grin, looking just as eager to hit the track as you were. At first, you thought nothing of him, just another competitor in the line-up. But as the weeks turned into months, and the karting sessions became a regular part of your routine, you began to notice him more.

Lando was fast, really fast. But more than that, he was kind. In a world where everyone was trying to get ahead, he was the one who’d stick around to help you with your kart when it faltered, or share a laugh after a particularly tough race. Despite your fierce competitiveness and tough exterior, Lando seemed to see right through to the part of you that loved the sport not just for the thrill of victory, but for the pure joy of racing.

One rainy afternoon, after a particularly grueling session where you'd spun out twice and felt like giving up, it was Lando who came over and offered you his umbrella and a hug. "You'll get them next time, I believe in you, always." he said with that infectious grin, he wrapped his arms around you and whilst Lando was not the tallest boy you had ever seen, but he was much taller than you were, to the point that you hid your head in his neck as he hugged you.

"I'll never be as good as you Lan, you'll be a Formula One star one day I just know it." You told him, even though it was a tough day for you, you were happy for Lando, who had succeeded in winning the race.

"You're better than me, Y/N. And even if I do ever get into Formula One, i'll take you to every race, we'll always be together, always be best friends, I promise."

And just like that, from being just 11 years old, Lando kept his promise to you.

At just 18 years old, Lando Norris found himself catapulted into the world of Formula One as a driver for McLaren and you were with him every single step of the way. You were always his plus one to everything, every event he would beg you to go with him. Many people thought you were his sister, following him around everywhere, you were in every family photo, every red carpet photo.

But as you both grew older and Lando's career skyrocketed, your relationship began to shift. It was subtle at first, the way his touch lingered a bit longer, the way his smiles seemed warmer. Lando had a way of making you feel like you were the only person in the room, his blue eyes locking onto yours with a kind of intensity that made your heart race. He would cling onto you like you were his anchor, hugging you from behind, holding your hand in crowded places, and giving you soft kisses on your temple that left you breathless.

It felt like he was treating you like his girlfriend, and for a while, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, he saw you that way too. But then, there were the other girls. Lando was charming and handsome, and the attention he got from the opposite sex was impossible to ignore. He would bring home different girls, be seen with someone else on his arm, and every time it happened, it crushed your heart a little more. You tried to bury your feelings, to forget about the way he made you feel, but it was easier said than done.

Max, Lando's other best friend, was one of the few people who saw through your façade. He knew how you felt about Lando, and he never missed an opportunity to encourage you to go for it. "You should tell him," Max would say, his eyes serious. "You never know, he might feel the same way." But the thought of risking your friendship with Lando was too much. The fear of losing him completely if things went wrong kept you from saying anything.

So, you focused on your work, throwing yourself into your career and avoiding getting involved with boys. It was easier that way, not having to deal with the pain of seeing Lando with someone else. But deep down, there was always that glimmer of hope that one day, he would see you as more than just his best friend.

Your life revolved around him, and as much as you tried to deny it, your heart belonged to Lando. Every time he took the wheel and raced around the track, your heart raced with him. You were there for his triumphs and his defeats, always cheering him on from the sidelines. And through it all, he was your constant, the one person who made everything better just by being there.

You remember the nights spent talking until the early hours of the morning, sharing your hopes and dreams. Lando would often tell you how much he appreciated having you by his side, how he couldn't imagine doing any of it without you. Those words kept you going, even when it felt like your heart was breaking.

One evening, after a particularly grueling race, you found yourself alone with Lando in his hotel room. The exhaustion was evident on his face, but so was the relief of having you there. He pulled you into a tight hug, resting his chin on your head. "I don't know what I'd do without you," he murmured, his voice heavy with emotion.

You wanted to tell him right then and there how you felt, how much he meant to you, but the fear held you back. Instead, you held onto him a little tighter, savoring the moment and the warmth of his embrace. It was moments like these that made it all worth it, the pain and the longing. As long as you had him in your life, even as just a friend, it was enough.

But Max's words lingered in your mind, a constant reminder of the possibility that things could be different. "You're always going to wonder 'what if' unless you say something," Max had said once, his voice gentle but firm. And he was right. The fear of losing Lando was strong, but the fear of never knowing if he could love you back was even stronger.

—

The 'what if' thought became true though, soon enough you still hadn’t worked up the courage to say anything to your friend. You carried on as normal and that normal turned into him getting a girlfriend. Sure, Lando had been out with girls before but nothing serious, it was never serious, until now.

She was beautiful, kind, and perfect for him. At least, that’s what you told yourself. Lando still acted like your best friend, still hugged you from behind, still gave you those soft kisses on your temple, but it wasn’t the same. You could feel the distance growing, a subtle shift in the way he interacted with you. He wasn’t as close to you anymore, and while you respected his boundaries, it saddened you deeply.

You tried to be happy for him, to support him in his new relationship, but the pain of seeing him with someone else was too much to bear. So, you started to distance yourself. You didn’t go to his races as much anymore, making excuses about work and other commitments. You told yourself it was for the best, that you needed to give him space to focus on his new relationship.

One night, after a race in which he made the podium, there was a knock on your door. Surprised, you opened it to find Lando standing there, still in his race suit, his face flushed with emotion.

“You weren't there, why weren't you there?” he demanded, his eyes searching yours for answers. “I wanted you there, I needed you there.”

Your heart ached at the frustration in his voice, but you couldn’t hold back any longer. "It's not a big deal, Lan. I've missed other races before, I'm sorry I wasn't there but i've been busy." You told him, but he didn't want to accept that.

"You haven't been the same recently, Y/N, have I done something wrong? Please baby, just stop avoiding me."

You know deep down that you weren't everything to Lando, yet he treated you like a princess and treated you that way all the time. You'd had enough of the heart-stopping leap that occurred each time he called you "baby," "darling," or "sweetheart." He was using sweet nicknames for you, ones he should be addressing his lover, not you. Even though he may consider you to be his best friend, the nicknames weren't meant for you; they were for the people he loved.

You turned to face him quickly, something in your mind snapping with hurt. "You can't call me that anymore, Lando, do you not understand that? You have a girlfriend now, we've always been close, but maybe it's sometimes too close for me, it gives people the wrong impression."

"But you're my best girl, Y/N, we've always been like this, I don't understand what the issue is. It doesn't change anything between us."

“It changes everything between us, don't you understand that? You have a girlfriend now, Lando. You don’t need me following you everywhere. I have my own life, and I don’t want to get in the way of your relationship with her.”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him, his expression a mix of confusion and hurt. “You can’t have it both ways,” you said, your voice trembling. “I can’t act like your girlfriend when I never will be. I can’t keep pretending that it doesn’t hurt to see you with someone else. I love you, Lando, and I understand that you’ll never love me back, but I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep breaking my own heart.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then, Lando’s face twisted with anger and hurt. “You love me?"

“What does it matter now, Lando? It never has done before, so it doesn't need to matter now."

Without another word, Lando stormed out, slamming the door behind him. You stood there, your heart shattered, believing that your friendship was over.

You watched him leave, the weight of unspoken words and broken dreams pressing down on your chest.

Weeks passed in a blur of heartache and regret. You buried yourself in work, trying to forget the look on Lando's face when he stormed out of your apartment. The silence between you two was deafening, a constant reminder of everything left unsaid.

One Friday night, Max invited you out. “It’s just going to be a few of us,” he said, his voice casual over the phone. “No Lando, I promise. Just me, my girlfriend, and some friends. Come on, you need a break.”

Reluctantly, you agreed. Max’s girlfriend, Pietra, was one of your closest friends, and you missed her company. Besides, a night out might be exactly what you needed to get your mind off things.

When you arrived at the club, the music was loud and the lights were dazzling. Max’s girlfriend greeted you with a warm hug, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to relax. You didn’t see Lando anywhere, and for that, you were grateful.

You joined your friends on the dance floor, letting the music and the rhythm wash over you. For a little while, you felt free, lost in the moment. A man approached you, charming and handsome, and you found yourself dancing with him. He was a bit too close, his hands lingering a bit too long, but you tried to enjoy the attention, anything to distract from the ache in your heart.

Meanwhile, across the club, Lando stood at the bar with Max. His eyes scanned the crowd, and when he finally spotted you, his heart clenched. Max noticed the shift in his friend’s demeanor and followed his gaze.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” Max said, his voice cutting through the noise.

Lando tore his eyes away from you and glared at Max. “What are you talking about?”

“You love her,” Max stated bluntly. “You’ve been stringing her along for years, being best friends for years without telling her how you really feel, treating her like a princess but never actually telling her how much you want her. And now, you’re losing her.”

Lando’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Max sighed, shaking his head. “Yes, you do. I've been both of your friends since we were young, i've lived through every looking look, every pda sessions. And now look at her.” He nodded towards you, now laughing as the man you were dancing with moved even closer. “She’s trying to move on, and you’re just standing here like an idiot.”

"You're delusional," Lando says, rolling his eyes, sipping some of his drink. Max just huffs at him, "sure mate, really explains why you're just burning holes into the back of that blokes head that she's been getting quite close with tonight."

"He just shouldn't be touching her like that," Lando mumbles. "I think actually, if she consents, he can touch her how she and he wants him to. Looks like she'll be getting lucky tonight, at least one of us will." Max smirks, turning away from his friend, knowing his words will light a flame under Lando's arse.

And it does, before Lando even knows where his feet are taking him and stands just feet away from Y/N, and before he knows it, he's pushing the guy she's been dancing with all night. As he pushes the guy away he turns to Y/N cupping her face and pulling her lips onto his.

For a moment, the world seems to stand still for both Y/N and Lando. Y/N's mind went from dancing with a man she had met that night to now all she could think about the fact that Lando's lips were on hers in a way in which she never could've imagined.

Lando put his hands up in your hair and swiped his tongue across your lips, pleading for permission to enter, which you granted. You held onto his waist and drew him in closer, unable to let go of this moment. The fact that there were people around—both familiar and unfamiliar—did not concern you. You wanted all of him right now, so nothing else mattered. You never wanted this to end.

"My girl," Lando mumbled in between kissing you, going back to your lips, bruising them a little more with his mouth.

"Yours, always yours."

Lando let your lips breathe, learning his forehead against your own, his hands making their way up and down your back, getting close to below your waise almost towards your backside. "I love you, i'm sorry I stormed out, i'm sorry for everything. I've been in love with you since the moment you stepped onto that karting track, I never thought you'd ever want me so I never asked, and that was cowardly of me. But please believe me when I tell you that you truly are everything to me." He breathed, as you just stared at him, not quite sure what to say.

"What about your relationship?"

"The moment you told me you loved me, the moment I walked out your door, I ended it." Lando stared into your eyes, he chuckled slightly. "You think i'm going to stay with someone who I don't love when the girl i'm been dreaming about since I was a teenager told me she loves me. Do you know how many time I layed in bed thinking about you, about what I would do to you if I had the chance. I'm not letting that opportunity slip through my fingers."

Your eyebrow perked up at his revolation, wanting to know more. "You thought about me? In bed? Were you having some naughty thoughts, Mr Norris?" You joked, your hands going up to the back of his neck.

"All the damn time, I thought about your body every single moment, whenever you came to the races I would see you in those summer dresses, you have and always will be the most gorgeous person in the room. You have no idea what I want to do to you."

At Lando's words you felt a sensations rush right to your core, you had made him feel that way. Every touch he had ever given you, every kiss on the shoulder, on the head, every time he had wrapped his arms around your waist was now meaning something different.

"Then show me, you want me, I want all of you."

"Are you sure?" Lando asked, always the gentleman, wanting to know you were okay before anything else.

You felt brave, a new sense of confidence surrounding you. You weren't the most confident when it came to men, you never spoke your true feelings to them, you never spoke about your sexual desires with them. But now, something had lit a fire in you and you wanted nothing more than to have everything with Lando. "Positive."

You had both made a swift exit from the club and back to Lando's apartment, a place you knew so well, you had spent endless nights there, together as friends, cuddled up to one another. Some nights you would even join him on his stream, laughing with each other. But tonight was different, his apartment was no longer a hangout place.

The ride back to the apartment was full of sexual tension, and you felt it immensely. Whilst you felt surges of confidence, you couldn’t help but feel nervous. Lando’s hand stayed on your thigh the whole time, making small shapes with his fingers, every so often getting higher and higher. Every time he would get to the point where you hoped he would finally touch you, he moved his fingers away from you.

You let out a whine, desperate for his touch. After all these years of pent up desire, you needed him to do something, anything. He rubbed your thigh, smirking at you. “Soon baby, just be patient, i’ll give you what you want soon enough.”

“Don’t wanna wait Lando, want you now.” You weren’t quite sure where what you were saying was coming from, but the way he spoke to you made you want more, you wanted more than what anyone else had ever given you during sex.

You pouted slightly as Lando just raised his brow, “carry on with that attitude and you won’t be getting anything.”

“I’ll just get myself off then, been doing it for years, i’ve gotten pretty good at it, you know.” Now it was your turn to smirk, though it seemed Lando didn’t find it too funny, his possessive side coming out even more.

He slapped your thigh slightly, making you gasp. “You’ll never do that to yourself again, the only person making you cum will be me, whether it’s my mouth, fingers or dick, only me you understand?”

“Only you.” You nodded, as he kissed you lightly, smirking knowingly to what his words did to you.

Arriving at his apartment, you both practically ran to his floor all the way to his door.

Opening the door, he pushed you up against the wall, slamming the door behind him, his hands cupped to your face, kissing you like it was your last night on earth.

His hands were everywhere, as were yours. His hands made their way to your breasts, spilling them out of the dress you were wearing, pinching your exposed nipples. Every piece of you he wanted to feel, and you wanted to feel all of him.

“Please Lando, want you inside me, please.” You moaned as he kissed down your neck, making sure to leave little marks in each spot he kissed.

“So needy,” he mumbled, but you just huffed again, trying desperately to get out of your dress. You felt hot, like your skin was on fire, wanting to feel your skin against his.

You pulled on his clothes, pulling his shirt over his head, finally being able to touch him after longing to for so long. You weren’t new to seeing Lando without a shirt, it was common when you both went on holiday or even in the gym, but this time it was different, you knew he was now yours and you were his.

Lando led you to the bed, pushing you on your back as he climbed on top of you, getting rid of the last of the clothing on you. “Dreamed of you for so long, dreamed of your pussy, how you’d feel, filling you up.”

His words spurred you on, you had never expected him to be like this, but god, this was better than you ever could’ve imagined.

He wasted no time in attaching his lips to you, something you had never really had the chance to experience. His tongue moved in ways you never knew were possibly, sucking on your clit, dipping his tongue inside your pussy. You felt like you could practically explode, coming close to your release.

Arching your back, gripping the sheets, Lando finally came up for air. “Fuck, you taste even better than I imagined.”

Before you could even think, he flipped you over so he was on his back and you were on top of him. “Gonna fuck you so good, darling, gonna treat you so right.”

You felt practically drunk at this point, you lined up his cock with your core, sinking onto it slowly, feeling him fill you just right.

“Fucking shit,” Lando cursed, not being able to take his eyes off you, mouth slightly agape unable to find the words to say from the pleasure.

You started moving slightly as you got use to him inside you. Your breasts bounced as you moved, Lando’s eyes never leaving yours.

“Can’t believe I never did this sooner, so many years I could’ve had you all to myself, had you like this every night. Never fucking letting you go, gonna fuck you everyday, you’d like that wouldn’t you?” Lando purred, encouraging you to go faster.

You nodded, barely being able to form the words to reply. “Yes, yes, please.”

“Good girl. My dream girl, so good for me.”

Lando’s pace quickened, making you both come close to climax. Both saying incoherent words of love and pleasure, Lando chanting over and over again about how good you felt and how he never wanted to let you go.

“Lan, i’m gonna..” You said, as his hand gripped your backside, you knew there would be marks there in the morning.

“Me too, baby. Come with me,” he said as you both looked in each others eyes.

Coming together, you fell against his chest, exhausted.

“I love you,” Lando said, pushing your hair out of your face, kissing the side of your head. Even after everything that had just happened, he still managed to treat you like the princess he always had done.

Your teenage dream had turned into something real.

do i know how to finish fics? no. Bon Appetite.

#formula 1 #formula one #lando norris #formula 1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #formula one imagine #lando norris imagine #formula one smut #lando norris smut #smut #lando x reader #lando imagine

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le-trash-prince · 29 days ago

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Unpacking my Feelings on Kim Feeding Kenta

youtube

There's so much uncertainty coming from Kenta at the start of this scene. He hesitates to sit down, he hesitates to serve himself, and he consistently looks to Kim for guidance. And Kim sees this without Kenta needing to verbalize it. Where Kenta is constantly hesitating, Kim is constantly reassuring him with gentle but firm commands.

I want to make obvious how important this is specifically in the context of Kenta's relationship to Tony, who would get physical with Kenta out of nowhere for failing to do what Tony wanted, even when Tony's wants hadn't been made clear. And when Tony did give clear instructions, he would treat Kenta like he was stupid for needing them.

Where Tony's orders and expectations came from a place of cruelty, Kim's come from a place of kindness, and Kenta doesn't have to try and read Kim's mind, even for something as simple as eating.

And where Kenta was practically invisible against the walls of Tony's house, he sticks out so much more in the daylight of Kim's condo, making it all the easier for Kim to see him. Kim's eyes flick down, noticing that Kenta has his chopsticks in hand before he's grabbed a piece of lettuce, which will make it more awkward to assemble the ssam.

But Kim doesn't treat Kenta like he's stupid, the way Tony would. He doesn't sit back and watch him flounder or make fun of him or criticize him, he simply sees that Kenta needs help and immediately decides to help him. It's the most quintessentially Kim thing he could do.

There are a lot of ways that Kenta could have responded to this. He could have pushed Kim's hand away, he could have taken it as an insult, he could have pulled away or stubbornly kept his mouth shut. But Kim's guidance has already established a sense of security for Kenta in this scene, and his actions in previous episodes have established a sense of trust.

So Kenta has only the briefest hesitation before obediently bending his head forward and opening his mouth so Kim can push the ssam in. If I sound normal while typing this just know that I'm about to faint. Kenta has gone from putting up a weak and performative resistance to Kim's offers of help... to barely even hesitating before allowing Kim to feed him by hand.

Handfeeding is something that can be so normal, such a basic means of physical care that humans must have been doing it since time immemorial. So to know that Kenta has been deprived of this, to know that he is finally receiving this, an action that at its heart says, "I hope you live. I hope you eat well and you live." Well, I could go supernova.

Then at the last moment, Kim actually cups Kenta's chin 😭 Excuse me while I hide my face into my pillows and cry about it. It's such a physically vulnerable position for Kenta to allow himself to be in, and he doesn't pull away even an inch. He has zero expectation that Kim will hurt him in this moment.

Then Kim is so pleased by this interaction that he immediately goes back in for seconds. Kenta hasn't even finished chewing before Kim is already putting more food in his mouth, and again, Kenta just lets him. (many things can possibly be divined about their future sex life from these interactions)

I'm also just so charmed by the tone of Kim's voice when he says "Have this too." It's so low and gentle and caring.

I love the shots of Kim's face in this scene. He's gorgeous, he's glowing, the lighting is practically throwing shoujo bubbles around his face. It's such a visual representation of Kenta's feelings of warmth in this moment, and it pairs so perfectly with the music, which makes me think of butterfly feelings, of a racing heart. Kenta feels so deeply here that he immediately has to check himself by reminding himself that Kim is leaving.

And the shots of Kenta are drawn into sharp focus by comparison, showing how clearly Kim sees him. And I think it's significant that Kenta is seen most clearly by anyone in a moment when he's at his softest, dressed in a sweater style shirt, wearing socks and cozy slippers, his cheeks full, and letting himself receive affection. *explodes into a million pieces*

I think it is also worth pointing out that this is the first time we've seen either Kenta or Kim have a meal in the entire series. Kim has breakfast offscreen with X-Hunter, but we never actually see him sit down for food, and (aside from Willy, who's new), he and Kenta are the only ones in the cast who've never done so. Even Winner and Dean get celebratory snacks with their teams, but Kim and Kenta are the lone wolves of the series. They may ally themselves with other characters, but Kenta has been truly alone most of his life, and Kim comes and goes from teams as he pleases.

So it's meaningful that the first time they eat onscreen with anyone, it's with each other and it's in a way that establishes such a degree of trust and connection. One of Kim's first lines in the series was "I don't want to cooperate with anyone." But he suffered firsthand the cost of working alone, and now he's here sharing a table with Kenta, who has always been alone.

The very last scene we saw KimKenta in, Kenta was telling Kim that he'd devoted his life to men who never felt anything for him, and Kim responded by saying that one day Kenta would find someone who truly loved him. And then they follow that up with THIS and we're SUPPOSED TO BE NORMAL ABOUT IT????

#em post #pit babe #pit babe the series #pit babe 2 #kimkenta #pit babe meta #kenta pit babe #kim minsu #Youtube

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yearningforsolitude · 27 days ago

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All We Do Is Drive

Synopsis: Summer night drives with Tommy are routine. Hiding your feelings from each other is also part of that routine.

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: brief mention of rough childhood. Not a warning, but Tommy & reader are both around the age of 25. Tommy was in the military, but it is only very briefly mentioned. No outbreak!

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Austin summers could be brutal. The heat, the humidity that made your clothes stick to you, all of it. Even during the nights, it was definitely more bearable, but damn, was it still hot. It didn’t help that the air conditioning in Tommy’s old truck had kicked the bucket months ago. Your only reprieve was having the passenger window down—your arm stuck out, making waves in the blowing air with your hand as Tommy drove down the Austin roads, almost on autopilot now from how many times you both had made this same trip.

He tried to sneak glances at you, watching your arm glide through the wind, your hair blowing messily as you tried, and failed, to tame it with your unoccupied hand. Your knees tucked into your chest, your brown sandals discarded in the front floorboard below you. Sometimes, you would catch him. Meeting his eyes as your head turned in his direction. You always smiled, that infectious smile that he loved, and he would return it before going back to pretending that he wasn’t looking at you.

Austin had never felt truly like home to Tommy. Enough so that he left as soon as he could, but he somehow ended up back in the city after telling himself he would never return. Sure, it was the city he grew up in, but the unpleasant memories that tied themselves to the city made it hard to feel like this was the place he was meant to be. Though, being with you was making Austin feel more and more like home to him everyday. It was as if you were creating a sanctuary for him every time he was in your calming presence. Somewhere he could go to replace the uncomfortable memories with new memories that he actually enjoyed and was able to reminisce on.

Though, he could never tell you that, of course not. Proclaiming something that significant, that raw, would be the end, in his mind, to the comfortable relationship that you both had created together. It was easier to drive, ignore the growing feelings. Did you feel them too? He occasionally wondered to himself, but pushed the thought back into the basement of his mind where he could lock the door and throw away the key. Which worked, sometimes.

Your nights together were routine at this point.

Tommy would pick you up on Saturday night, order two banana pudding milkshakes from whataburger, then drive to your favorite lookout over the Austin skyline. Neither of you would take a drink of your milkshake until he put his truck in park. Sure, they tended to be slightly melted from the heat, but that was the routine.

And you both stuck to it.

“Mmm,” you hummed, taking the first big drink of your milkshake. “I thought maybe by the third time we had these that I’d be sick of them, but I don’t think I’d ever get sick of these milkshakes, Miller.” You admitted truthfully, swirling the large straw in circles through the thick milkshake.

“And I believe you have me to thank for that,” Tommy chuckled, setting his milkshake down in the cup holder between the two of you before adjusting his seat back slightly. “You know, introducin’ you to the banana puddin’ flavor? Isn’t that right?” He questioned, your name falling from his lips easily as he spread his legs slightly, making himself comfortable before turning his head your way.

“I’ll give you credit, it was a wonderful recommendation and I will forever be indebted to you for it, Tommy Miller.” You tease, turning to meet his gaze. You both hold it for a moment, not saying anything. His eyes are truly beautiful—especially when they’re directly fixated on you. They somehow look different. More alive? Now you know you’re just making things up. You end up being the first to tear your eyes away, focusing your attention back on the skyline, but Tommy’s attention stays on you.

You try not to notice it. Not to think too hard about it.

You both are quiet for a few minutes—taking in the views, listening to the faint voices coming from other cars. It’s peaceful. Being with Tommy makes you feel fully at peace. Just like Kintsugi, he fills your cracks with gold and mends all your broken pieces back together again. You hope that you can make him feel even a quarter as good as he makes you feel just by being next to you.

“So,” you break the silence, wiping the sweat from your cup from your palm on the rough denim of your shorts. “How long have you been coming up here? To the overlook?” You inquire, tilting your head to the left to see Tommy taking a long drink of his milkshake.

“Uh,” He clears his throat, resting the styrofoam cup against his jean clad thigh. “Since high school. I would take my dad’s car sometimes when he was sleepin’. Then I got my license and my own truck and I just liked to drive. Drivin’ cleared my mind when I needed it, which was most of the time.” You watch him shake his head lightly as his brow furrowed, thinking to himself. He was in a battle with himself over how honest he wanted to be tonight. “It was easier comin’ here and bein’ alone with myself than bein’ at home sometimes. I enjoy the quietness up here.” He says finally, and you know exactly what he’s saying without him actually saying it.

Tommy wasn’t one to often be open about his childhood, but occasionally he would let bits of information slip out. You were able to complete the puzzle of his childhood in your mind through the scattered pieces he would throw out at you. You didn’t meet Tommy until both of you had graduated, but Tommy’s childhood was something you wish you could have been there for. You only wished you could have scooped up the youngest Miller boys’ gentle heart and cradled it close to your body, providing it with warmth and protection from the harsh reality that he lived.

You could tell Tommy wasn’t wanting to venture too much further into the topic of his childhood tonight, so you eased both of you out of the conversation. “Well, baby Tommy chose a good spot,” That caused him to let out a small laugh and you gave yourself an imaginary pat on the back for successfully navigating the conversation elsewhere. “And thank you for sharing it with me, it truly is my favorite place in Austin.” You smile, finishing off your milkshake and setting the empty cup in the cup holder.

“Well, just add it to the list of reasons why you’re totally indebted to me for the rest of your life.” Tommy teases, mimicking you and setting his now empty cup in the cup holder beside yours. “So, you bring all the girls up here? Or only certain ones?” You say, playing it off as a joke, but regret it after the words fall from your lips. You aren’t sure if you want to know the answer tonight.

“Only the important ones. Only ever you.” Tommy says quickly, speaking before he has time to really think about his answer. Fuck. The words hang in the air, and Tommy knows it’s too late to swallow them back down and spit out a more casual answer.

Luckily for him, his small confession is quickly overlooked when a car alarm begins to blare in the small parking lot. In turn, it causes you to jump almost completely out of your skin and before you realize it, you’ve thrown your arm over and your hand has landed right on Tommy’s forearm that’s rested lightly on the console between the two of you. “Oh my God! Tommy, I almost had a heart attack!” You exclaim, turning towards him with wide eyes.

In turn, Tommy laughs. Truly laughs. The deep kind that rips its way out of his chest before he can stop it, the kind of Tommy Miller laugh that you absolutely adore hearing. You feel your heart rate falling back down to normal as his laugh calms your nerves almost immediately and you mimic him, beginning to laugh along with him without a care in the world now.

It takes a few seconds before your laughter begins to die down—before you realize you’re gripping his forearm still. “Sorry.” You say quietly, retracting your hand back to yourself.

Tommy’s arm is suddenly cold with the loss of contact. “Put it back.” He says quickly, firmly. He doesn’t know where his courage is coming from tonight. This is certainly not a part of your routine. Tommy silently prays that he’s not overstepping the invisible wall that he has fully convinced himself is between the two of you.

You replace your hand on his forearm. The invisible wall has taken a hit and it is beginning to crack.

You’re still looking at each other. Really looking at each other. He’s searching your eyes for any regrets, any reason or excuse for him to not do the one thing he’s wanted to do all night. Hell, the one thing he’s wanted to do for months.

Then,

“Kiss me, Tommy.” You whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. His breath hitches and he swears his heart stops beating in his chest. He recovers quickly, reaching across the center console and placing both hands on your cheeks, your small hand still resting on his forearm as he places a needy, but sweet kiss on your soft lips. The type of kiss that shows you that he, too, has thought about this very moment many times before. He feels your hand move to his curls, tugging on them to pull him in closer to you. He breathes your scent in, smelling the sweet vanilla perfume you wear. The perfume that lingers in his truck long after you’re gone—the perfume that drives him absolutely insane.

He pulls away first, but doesn’t retreat very far. He leans his forehead against yours, rubbing his thumbs against the apples of your cheeks. You’re smiling.

“Been waitin’ for you to do that for months, Miller.” Tommy can’t help but let out a breathy laugh, which you return, before gently pecking his lips one more time. The invisible wall between the two of you has now been demolished, completely obliterated as if it was never even there.

And Tommy? Tommy couldn’t be more grateful now that it was finally gone.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

an: i listened to drive by halsey while writing this <3 is the song 10 years old? yes. do i still love it? also yes.

any feedback is appreciated :) thanks for reading!

#tommy miller x reader #tommy miller x you #tommy miller tlou #tommy miller the last of us #the last of us hbo #the last of us #tlou hbo #tlou #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #tommy miller #tommy miller fanfiction #tommy miller fic #tommy miller fluff #tommy miller one shot #gabriel luna

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rigordoll · 5 months ago

Text

Sweetheart.

contains: college!AU, RE2Leon x Fem!reader, friends to lovers, kissing, suggestive at the end. This will have eventual smut in a future pt2!

Pt2 here!

I'm not an expert writing, English isn't my first language but interactions, reblogs and comments are appreciated!! enjoy :3

When you started college you were scared as fuck to be honest. All your teacher's from high school and even your parents told you that college was hell and it was a completely different environment for you, that you must be very careful and not go trusting in every person in your way.

They weren't wrong about it but to be honest college wasn't so bad as they pictured it. Yeah, there was some weird people that you wouldn't approach to them even if you got payed to do it but they didn't mess with you or something.

You would say that college was almost like high school if you weren't failing almost every subject in your first semester, that was definitely the hell part. However, you managed to improve in the second semester and it went 'easier' for you, at least you weren't failing anymore.

Well, actually...

You were failing mathematics.

Imagine your face when you saw the test and realized you didn't know a shit about algebra, you were most definitely cooked.

It was hard as fuck and no matter what, you wouldn't understand it. Thank God you had Leon, he was the first person that approached to you in college and since then you sticked to his side.

He was such a sweetheart and helped you a lot, made the study sessions more bearable with his incredible bad jokes and actually explained to you what you didn't understand in the class.

Even right now when he was seeing your test and explaining you why your answer were wrong so it wouldn't happen again.

"Now, seriously, what the hell went through your mind to think that this was the correct answer?" Leon said without looking at you, he was focused reading your failed test and he genuinely looked offended at whatever you put on there.

"It's not that bad! give me that." you said with a huff, taking the piece of paper from his hands and put it into your bag without much care.

"Oh it is bad..." He said with amusement, if he dared to laugh at you, you would punch him in the middle of his perfect face. "But hey, seriously... you need to get a better grade in the next test." Leon said softly. "You can come over to my room and I'll explain you the basics." He offered.

Leon always offered to help you with your studies and he actually did explain well. It's just that you sometimes didn't pay attention to him.

I mean, you did payed attention to him, just not to what he was saying...

In your defense, being alone with Leon in his room was an appealing idea... Just not to study. You wouldn't lie, you may have a little crush for him since the beginning but you always pushed those feelings aside because he only saw you as a friend.

"You mean, later today...?" you asked, raising a brown with curiosity which caused him to roll his eyes. "no, later next year. Of course later today, silly." Leon said with amusement and you huffed at him. "But it's friday..." you already had plans, going to a party, drink, dancing and maybe hook up with a guy and pretend that it was Leon. Last part is clearly a joke, don't do that! but anyway, college life is good.

"I don't care, see you at 6pm." He said playfully before leaving.

Fuck him, but you did wish that it was in the literal sense.

You were standing in front of his door and it was actually 7pm, ops.

but in your defense, you were busy getting ready to the party since you were lazy as fuck to to go to Leon's room then go back to your room, change your clothes, doing your make up and then go to the party, it would take her ages.

Before you could even knock the door, Leon had already opened it and it took him a moment to scold you for your tardiness since his cold blue eyes were roaming your figure and taking in your clothes option, now that was short skirt but the top was pretty, it was his favorite on you even if he never told you.

Leon cleared his throat before looking at you with a serious expression playing on his face. "first of all, you're one hour late. Second of all, why are you dressed like that?" He asked with curiosity, stepping aside to let you in before closing the door behind you.

"There is a party tonight at 9pm..." you said softly with a shrug before sitting on the edge of his bed and looking at him.

"I see, I hope that you don't drunk call me at 3am." He said playfully while sitting on the desk chair that was beside the bed. Anyway, he knew that if you called him he would pick you up without thinking twice but that isn't the matter here..

"I don't promise you anything.." you said with a chuckle while looking at him, he was dressed in grey sweatpants and a blue random shirt but damn, his biceps were on display. Focus, hoe!

Leon smirked at your answer and shook his head with amusement before searching for his notes. "Let's just get started with this so you can go to your party." He said softly.

An hour passed by with him explaining you the basics and teaching you how to do some exercises.

Honestly, you were having a bit of trouble focusing when he looked so fine and smelled so fine, you always wondered was cologne he uses because it smells heavenly. You also noticed him stealing some glances at you, more than usual.

Maybe it was because he was staring at your thighs and at how soft your skin looked... or maybe he was staring and your chest everytime you leaned closer to him to see what he was writing. he was most definitely having the time of his life when he caught you staring at him with pretty eyes while biting your pen before snapping back to reality and noticing how dumb you probably looked. He wouldn't call it dumb tho, more like hot but hey, he never said this.

"I think I got it, look." You said softly, passing him your notebook where you have just finished a exercise. Leon took notebook from you, his fingers grazing yours but seemingly completely oblivious of it.

He took a moment to check if it was good and you waited there patiently, when you heard a soft hum from him, you leaned closer. your head next to his and you rested your chin on his shoulder. "is it good?" you asked quietly.

Leon turned his head to look at you and now his face was mere inches away from yours. His eyes went directly to your lips and it took all his willpower to not kiss you right there since you were looking absolutely gorgeous there staring at him with doe eyes and glossy lips slightly agape.

Leon licked his lips and quickly looked back to your notebook. "Yeah, it's good." He said softly before looking back at you, you were smiling and looking at your book in his hands.

Leon didn't know why but his heart was beating against his chest, his hands felt sweaty and suddenly the room felt a lot warmer now, is the AC working or what the hell?

The tension was in the air and you when you met his gaze, you noticed his rosy cheeks and dilated pupils while he stared at every detail of your face. Suddenly, you remembered why you liked him. It's those cold blue eyes that look into you with intensity and adoration without failing.

You both just stared quietly in each other's eyes, none of you said anything or did anything even if your bodies were betraying both of you and itching for being closer to each others warmth.

It was such a comfortable silence, a silence that spoke volumes.

So it didn't surprise you when you hear the words. "I really want to kiss you." coming from Leon's mouth in a quiet tone as it was secret that he was telling you.

You just took a heavy breath while looking at his pink lips before nodding at him. that was enough for him to understand, he always understood your silence even if that happened rarely.

To be honest, you felt so cozy and warm when his lips touched yours. you swear that you felt butterflies in your tummy when he started to kiss you slowly, taking his time with you and his hand going to cradle your face.

It felt so right, Leon wonders why he didn't do this before. Why didn't he kiss you in every chance given?

It didn't took long before you were beneath him on his bed, kissing each other and exploring each other's body through the layers of clothes.

It seems like you weren't going to that party anymore... Leon's much better that any guy that you could found there anyway.

HEYYYYYYYYYY, I'll leave this here.

I'll probably make pt2 later that will included an attempt of smut since I still figuring out all this write thing, but anyway, enjoy!

(I'm taking requests BTW)

#leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy fluff #leon kennedy x reader #resident evil #resident evil x reader #resident evil 2 #leon scott kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy #friends to lovers

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pupslimes · 4 months ago

Note

cock warming charlie while hes editing and he tells you to get up because he needs to use the bathroom but you dont let him so he just. yknow. muehehahehaheuhahahehha

-totally not red definitely absolutely 100 percent not red yeah not me i mean red not red at all its not red im not red uhhmm anyways pisses everywhere

everyone say yippee for piss porn! i can't call this baby's first piss porn but it is baby's first charlie piss porn. so. wrote this in like an hour because the prompt went crazyyyyy thank you definitely not red. cw for like. the lightest dubcon. otherwise u know what ur getting urself into

the rules of liquid and containers don't apply when the container is horny

You were roused from your half asleep state as Charlie groaned, his head knocking against the desk several times. "Babe. Holy fucking shit. I can't do this right now. I literally can't."

"Can you take a break?" You stretched your arms over your head, groaning quietly.

He sighed, slipping his head from his desk into his hands, groaning. "Noooooo. I have to stick to my stupid fucking upload schedule,"

"You made the upload schedule yourself right? Can't you just change the schedule?"

"This is my two million subscriber special, I have to put it out on time,"

"Can I help you? Is there anything I can do for you?" Charlie's eyes glinted slightly as they met yours.

"There is… uh… something you could do for me?" He gestured to his lap, cheeks flushing red. Charlie loved when you sat on his lap.

You smiled at him, sliding off the bed across the room and padding over to him, before slipping a leg over the chair, straddling his lap. You curled into his chest, burying your face in his neck. Your arms twined around his neck, and you cuddled into him. "Love you so much, baby,"

"Love you too, babe," he hummed into your ear. Soon enough, the clicking and occasional typing lulled you back into a drowsy, floaty space. Eventually, you felt his hips stirring beneath you, once, twice, three times.

"Char?" Your voice was thick with sleep.

"Sorry baby… ah…fuck," His hips snapped up against you, and you felt his hard cock graze against your clit.

"Ah!" You ground back down against him. When you were all hazy and tired like this, it was so much easier for him to turn you on, and he took advantage of it often. Especially on nights like these.

"Please? " He begged you, voice high and reedy. You untangled your fingers from around his neck, sliding your hands down his chest. He pressed a kiss into your forehead as your hands made his way to his waistband. Slipping down his boxers was easy, since he never wore anything else around the apartment when it was just the two of you.

He shifted his hips to help you pull them down, which only halfway helped. Making room for you to slip down his boxers was great, sure, but the fact that he basically rolled his hips into you as you were consistently getting more soaked? Not optimal. You fell into his chest after, a choked moan echoing in the small room. He let out a breathy laugh. "Sorry, darling,"

You groaned lightly, tapping the side of your fist against his collarbone like you were beating on him, before settling back into the warmth of your boy. "Wanna go back to sleep, honey?" His voice was silky smooth, wrapping into your already tired consciousness. You nodded slowly. Moving felt sticky now. He laughed again, just a tiny exhale against you. "Okay hun, lift your hips real quick," You made a confused noise, but complied easily. His hands immediately shot to your ass, helping lift you slightly. If he copped a feel while he did it, fingers massaging into your ass while gently spreading it open, it was something you could ignore.

What you couldn't ignore, though, was when the head of his cock pressed up against your hole. "Nnngh?" You were too tired to even form words at this point.

"Shhh, love," he began to press into you. "It's all going to be okay. Just let me… uhhh, ah!!… get inside and you can go back to sleep, yeah?" At your next sleepy nod, he pushed in further, slipping in with ease. "Fuck, you're wet. Sure you don't want me to just fuck you?" You giggled, shifting to get comfy, and he yelped before sighing down at you. A gentle slap landed on your ass as he settled back in. "Tease,"

It wasn't too often you cockwarmed Charlie. It had basically become a last resort for him when video editing was going awfully, and he used the privilege of it sparingly. It was important to him you knew he wasn't just using you as a sex toy, not that you really would have minded. But Charlie loved and cared about you enough that you let him get flushed and nervous about it every time he asked, reassured him through it that you loved him. Which was why today was so unique. As much as you wanted to be there for him, your exhausted mind just couldn't stay up this time. The warmth of his skin through his shirt felt like it seeped into your bones, and your fingers slowly stopped tracing patterns on his back and shoulders, and you slipped into the rest of your nap from earlier.

You awoke to uncomfortable shifting and the bounce of a leg, not enough to move the cock inside you, but enough to shake you. It wouldn't have mattered if he was moving anyways. Charlie had gone soft in the time it took him to edit the video. Your eyes fluttered open as you took in all the sensations flooding you as you made your way out from dreamland. "Mmmmmm," was all you could manage.

His eyes flicked down. "Oh! Hi baby," He seemed distracted and uncomfortable, and you immediately tried to rectify it with a kiss to his jawline. He relaxed a tiny fraction, but it didn't seem to be enough.

"You finish editing, Char?"

"Almost baby. But uh… I have to go,"

"Go where?" The confusion overtook you, bringing with it a light panic at the thought of moving from where you were. You were far too comfortable to move, and still so, so sleepy.

"Oh, no baby it's okay!" His hands rushed to your sides, petting gently. "I just mean to the bathroom,"

Oh. Okay. Well, that was better than whatever you were imagining. But still, you just felt so nice…

"No," You wrapped your arms back around his neck.

"Sweetheart, what do you mean no?" His voice held a stressed lilt.

"Too comfy," You wiggled your hips, settling in again.

Charlie groaned at the pressure you were now putting on his bladder. "Baby. I really gotta go,"

"Ten more minutes?" you pleaded.

"Baby, I'm not gonna make it ten minutes. I'm not gonna make it ten… ah! fuck!!…"

And that's when you felt it, a spurt of boiling hot liquid splashing inside of you. Oh shit.

"Sorry! Fuck I'm so sorry I'm so so sorry," Charlie groaned out. You felt every muscle in his body tense, and he leaned over you. It didn't stop though. In fact, it only seemed to make it worse. Piss flowed into you, feeling like Charlie was cumming, filling you up, but it didn't stop. You felt yourself filling up further and further, stomach starting to gently distend with the sheer amount. Fuck… how long had be been holding it? You found yourself not particularly…disliking the experience.

Soon, of course, you reached full. But that didn't mean that Charlie was done. Absolutely not. His stuttered apologies turned into gasps and groans, his hands digging into where they lay at your sides. It seemed like he was still trying to push out apologies, to push you off almost, although that wouldn't have helped anyone here. You pushed back into him. And that's when you felt something else.

The piss dripped out of you, running first directly onto Charlie's lap where you were sitting, soaking into his boxers. You were sitting in what was basically a puddle of Charlie's piss. The thin, flimsy fabric though, could only keep up for so long. The puddle grew underneath you, liquid pushing up against you. Piss ran over your clit, over your ass, over every sensitive spot between, and you couldn't help but moan at the sensation. You couldn't contain it any longer. It spilled out between the two of you, and you could hear it fucking dripping onto Charlie's desk mat below you. The sound made you clench, which only, obviously, squeezed out more piss.

Lost in the feelings, and Charlie's whimpered half apologies fading into the background, you lifted your hips, the result exactly what you were looking for. The piss inside you flowed out faster, and the drops on the mat turned into splashes. You felt the blood drain out of your head with excitement, cunt pounding with your pulse, clenching around Charlie's still soft cock. Settling back down, you tried to pull yourself together, chest heaving. It was hard, trying to calm yourself while looking down at the man under you. He was bright red and panting, piss having crept its way from your pussy to his shirt, staining the hem of it dark.

"Baby?" he called. Your hands played with the wet hem, unable to meet his eyes. "Baby, I'm so fucking sorry," His cock twitched in you. Fucking caught. You met his eyes.

"I don't think you are,"

Charlie somehow blushed redder, stammering out disjointed sentences while you felt him getting harder inside you. You took a huge chance and covered his mouth, dragging the edge of his shirt into your own. You closed your lips over the fabric and sucked, the unmistakable flavor of Charlie flooding your mouth. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his cock basically sprang to life inside you. Best chance you ever took.

Ripping the shirt out and twisting it in your hand to pull him in, you took your hand off his mouth. Your gazes met again as he choked off a moan. "Charlie,"

"Yeah?"

"If you don't fuck me right now, I'll kill you,"

#pup growls #charlie slimecicle x reader #slimecicle x you #charlie slimecicle smut #slimecicle smut #slimecicle x reader #here be piss #cw piss

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oikarma · 27 days ago

Text

when you fall, you fly 𝜗𝜚 mv1, ln4

summary: (17k) you learn that winter doesn’t have to be cruel and brittle, spring doesn’t have to be full of new beginnings, summer is not only tangle of desire and heat, and fall. it ends the fall of ‘29. fall, beautiful fall, where the wrong things fall away, where home becomes where the heart is.

notes: read part one first!!

part one / part two

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

It’s a call. Lando.

“Took you long enough,” he says. Over the phone, his voice is low. That might be because of the volume, which you turn up.

“Sorry. I’ve been—”

“Busy? Yeah. I know. Too busy to text. To call. I had to find out from Instagram you were out with your friends last night.”

“It wasn’t a big thing,” you explain. We just went to dinner after the library.”

“You didn’t even tell me you were going.” Lando exhales, sharp through his nose. “And I was waiting for you, I thought you’d call me or something. I’m not trying to be the bad guy, okay? I just miss you.”

And I was waiting for you.

“I feel like you’re slipping away,” he adds.

Just like that, guilt surges in your chest. He was waiting for you. You should’ve asked first, maybe he thought you were avoiding him. You should be better at communication, stop overthinking. Two overthinkers never make a good relationship.

“I’m not, I swear. I needed to focus for a second. My professor, well, she’s making me check in every week. She was worried.”

“Worried about what?”

You say, “about me. About if I was okay.”

He doesn’t even hesitate. “You are okay, sweetheart. You already made it.”

“I didn’t, though,” you whisper. “I kind of stopped showing up for everything.”

There’s a lulling quiet, before Lando breaks it.

“And why do you think that is?”

You don’t understand. “What?”

“Why do you think you’re burnt out, hm? Who’s been there for you every time you needed to breathe? Me. I’ve done nothing but take care of you, sweetheart. You don’t know when you need a break.”

It’s not untrue. It sticks in your throat. He’s right. When you’re tired, he makes you nap, so you can focus better. When you’re just staring at the screen, he tells you to come back to it later. When you need a drink—fuck, he’s there right beside you.

He softens again. “Just come back. I’ll make everything easier. We’ll go somewhere, forget all this crap. Promise. You don’t even have to come to race week. No media, nothing.”

Your phone shakes slightly in your hand. You sit there, eyes unfocused, staring at your desk piled with papers. “I’ll think about it,” you say quietly.

“No, sweetheart,” Lando says, “don’t think. Just say yes.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

He hasn’t responded to you in a few hours, though there’s no ‘read’ to be seen yet. Maybe he’s just busy. You hope he’s busy. You take another bite of your sandwich and go back to your paper, flagged full of your run-on sentences.

Knock. Knock.

It’s late. Who could it be, at this hour? The cursor still blinks on your laptop screen, which you slam shut. You shuffle in your sweats to the door, aware of how raggedy you look. Your bun is barely a bun, more like a knot of hair, and your brain is fried. You must look like a panda. But you’re finally feeling like yourself again, or maybe just starting to. At least you know what you’re doing.

Knock. Knock.

You come to the door, pull it open, and who else could it be?

“You weren’t answering,” Lando says, by way of explanation. No hello. He has his hoodie on, the one you remember stealing in Miami, and a rolling suitcase stands by his side.

“I texted you,” you say, “you didn’t respond.”

“Too busy to say you miss me? You never ask about us, sweetheart, it’s always about your work and your life and I just…” You step back, letting him in before your neighbor gets a look. He drops his bag and starts pacing.

“Lando,” you say, trying to console him.

“What the fuck?” Lando’s voice isn’t raised, no, he would never raise his voice at you. “I haven’t seen you in how long? Two weeks? You’re not answering half my messages, and now you’re, what, academic weapon again?”

“Don’t. Don’t make fun of me for trying,” you snap.

His eyes flash. “I’m not. I’m not. I just,” he runs both hands through his hair. “I don’t get it. We were—God, we were so fucking good. And then you leave and it’s like you flipped a switch. Like I’m out of your life.”

You fold your arms. “I had to leave. My job, my grades, my life, I couldn’t do it if I was following you like a lost puppy across Earth.”

“Your life,” he echoes. “What about ours?”

Ours.

Ours. His and yours, yours and his, him at your job, you at his race, him in your apartment, you in his Monaco place, you in his bed, him, maybe, maybe, in yours. If you’ll just let him in.

“I booked Monaco. You never even replied. I won, and I was hoping you’d change your mind and maybe I’d see you out there, because you thought I was important and I tell you you have nothing to prove to anyone, but sweetheart, I have everything to prove to you. You’re gonna pretend that I didn’t mean anything to you?”

“I didn’t ask you to book it.”

“You didn’t have to.” You hear his voice crack. Your heart does a little, too. “You’re everything to me, you know that? You’re the only one who knows me.”

You don’t know what to say. He looks like he hasn’t slept, even though his skin is still as bronze as you’d expect a fallen deity. There are creases under his eyes to match yours. His fingers shake, like he wants to touch you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed. Those gossamer eyes, they mirror all you want, all you know you shouldn’t want.

“Can I stay, just for the night?” Lando asks. You’re going to say yes, of course, because you can’t leave him out, not when he’s done all this for you. You’re going to say yes, even though you know it’s not just one night. Once he’s back, it’s never just one night.

You nod.

He wraps his arms around you like he’s drowning. Honey and saffron invade your senses, so tantalizing. You hate how much you missed him.

“I’ll be good. I swear. I just needed to see you.”

You let him in. You know he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The coffee’s shit but it’s keeping you going, so it’s half-finished and sitting on the windowsill. Your coursework’s going well again. Your inbox is clean, your professor’s last email had actual praise in it, golly gee! and you finally caught up on shifts at the bar. It feels like your life again.

It’s background, really—you plan on going to Netflix, but the first thing that pops us is the weekend sports wrap-up. The screen fills with F1 coverage, highlights from team press conferences, shots of the paddock in Imola.

You hear a voice say, “still no Lando Norris at media day, we’re missing his presence.”

You glance over your shoulder. The Lando Norris in question is sitting on the couch, a hand on your thigh, like he can’t bear a single moment away from you. He looks up from his phone, to the TV.

“Turn it off,” he says.

“Lando…”

“Please, baby.” He sets his phone down, looks at you properly. “Just turn it off.”

You hesitate. “When do you plan to leave? You have to race, you know, you booked the tickets, yeah?”

“I know,” Lando assures you. “I’m going. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re not doing your press. Your training. You’re barely checking in with the team—”

He cuts in, lifts his hand from your thigh and intertwines it in yours. “Because I want to be here. I like this. You. This flat. Waking up and seeing your books everywhere, you making shitty coffee in that sweatshirt with the bleach stain.”

“But you have a job, too,” you say, treading carefully. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Lando brushes his thumb over your wrist. Softly: “No, you’re not. But I’ve never had this before. Someone who doesn’t just want me for that other stuff.”

You should feel flattered. And you do. You do.

Yet part of you feels like you’re taking something from him. He’s slipping, a little, away from his life, and you’re letting it happen. You’re causing it, really, because would he be here in this place—probably costs less than what he gets a day—if you’d never met?

And he’s so happy, so happy he doesn’t see you freezing before you move to turn the TV off. Doesn’t notice the small frown on your face as you close your laptop, too. He’s so happy. You don’t want to ruin it.

This is perfect, you think. This is perfect. You won’t ruin it for him, for you.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

He lingers in the flat even though he’s gone. Lando only bothered taking the important things: identification, phone, charger, etc. He leaves his clothes, a bottle of his cologne, and everything else with you. It’s a sign of trust, that he’s planning on coming back. The reminder warms you, like you’re a home for someone. That someone feels comfort in your presence.

As promised, you’re watching the live F1 feed. Lando’s on screen again, this time in the post-qualifying interview. You see his caps pulled low, eyes flicking off-camera like he’s itching to leave. He answers the questions, yes, but even you know he’s doing shit at it.

“P3. Not bad at all, Lando. Car performed great today, I hear. But you look a little tense today. Everything alright?”

“Yeah. Just tired,” he says. “Car’s great, yeah.” He keeps saying ‘yeah.’

The moment his back is out of the frame, your phone vibrates next to you for the third time in ten minutes.

lan why aren’t you picking up

lan i hate thisi wish you were here

lan i feel like i can’t breathe without you

you i’m watching. you did great, baby

Three dots appear. Then they go away. You don’t blame him. What you sent wasn’t enough.

The broadcast cuts to the paddock camera. Lando’s walking fast, alone, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets. He looks out of place, the second time you’ve ever seen him like this. The first time…well, it wasn’t the best situation for him to be in. You’re worried.

Your phone buzzes again.

lan i’m sorry baby i just can’t sleep without you

lan i can’t even eat the sameit’s not fair that you’re not here i know you’re busy i just

lan it hurts

You rest your forehead in your hands.

You want to be strong. You want to stay on track, the way he always said you should. But the truth is, you’re not sleeping either. Not well. There’s a bottle of ambien, open, useless. Your grades might be up, your shifts handled, your life back on its rails. Fuck. None of it feels good without Lando. It’s like he brings you purpose and when he leaves he takes it all with him.

You look at the screen again. He’s already disappeared. Some other driver is talking.

You wish you were in his hotel room. Wish you could take off his fireproofs for him, kiss the red lines from his suit off his shoulders, trace the imprints of the earpiece on his face, tell him he doesn’t have to be perfect when he’s with you.

Because you’re not perfect either. You just want to be his.

You open your texts again. He deserves a little more.

you babyyou’ll win tomorrow

you and then you’ll come home, yeah?

you i miss you too, lando

Your phone lights up again almost instantly. You see his contact photo, him curled up around your knee, eyes closed. He’s calling.

You press ‘accept,’ and before you can even say ‘hello,’ his voice fills your ear.

“Thank god,” Lando breathes. “I was going insane.”

You sink back onto your pillows. “I’m here.”

“I hate being without you,” he says. “I, well, I was in the paddock today and nothing felt right. My helmet felt too tight. My engineer was talking and I wasn’t even hearing him. You’re just in my head all the time.”

You take in his words. “I watched quali. You looked…”

“Like shit?” he offers, trying to laugh. It falls flat.

“No. Like you needed to be somewhere else. Are you okay? Fuck, no, you’re not.”

“Yeah. I’m not,” he whispers. “Know where I need to be? With you.”

You press your lips together.

Lando says, “you’re mad at me.”

“No, I’m not. I just…I don’t know how to be good at both.”

“What do you mean?”

You murmur, “This. Us. And school. And my job. I feel like when I’m with you, it’s all I want. And when I’m away, I feel like I’m betraying you somehow.”

“You’re not.” He’s fast with it, so fast. “You’re not. You’re so good, baby, you’re everything. I just—” Lando inhales, voice shaking, and you hear in it the same desperate plea as when he called out to the Universe, why, why; it breaks you, “I need you to want me enough to come back.”

“I do, Lan. But I also want other things. Things I gave up for a while. And I’m trying to get them back.”

More quietly: “I just miss you so much it makes me sick.”

You don’t hesitate before you say, “I miss you too.”

“I don’t sleep when you’re gone,” he murmurs. “I barely eat. I just…wait. It’s like, baby, you’re what keeps my world spinning.”

You wonder if he knows he’s saying all this to make you come back. If he knows it’s working. But Lando does look terrible, not like how he looks when he’s with you. You don’t want to hurt him, not like this. And it’s always better when he’s by your side, isn’t it?

“I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll win for you tomorrow. And then I’ll come home to you.”

Home to you. You’re his home now. You don’t know exactly what that means.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The trophy’s heavy in his hands, but it doesn’t feel like anything. P1, win, what does it all matter? All the chaos and sweat and perfect tire management and everything. It worked. It fucking worked. Good to the team, yeah, he says, while scanning the crowd like a lunatic. Hoping. Just in case.

You never said you’d be here. Never promised. He was the one who promised, said he’d win—he did—said he’d come home—and if he’s not on his way right now, fuck.

Lando’s cap is pulled sideways by one of the crew, doused again in champagne. He laughs on instinct, because that’s what you do when the cameras are rolling. He doesn’t think it’s funny, actually.

He wants to leave. Just get on a plane. He wants the hotel room dark and cold, wants your hair on his chest, your voice low, telling him he’s good, good enough for you, good enough for all this. Needs yo, right next to him. He wants your thigh thrown over his, and the weight of you making him feel like the world stops for a second. You make it quiet. You make it better.

Magui’s voice cuts through the haze: “You coming? Everyone’s going to the club.”

Lando blinks at her, like she’s speaking a different language. “I don’t want to fucking party.”

“You just won,” she points out. “You’re supposed to be happy.”

“I am happy,” he snaps, instantly regretting it. “I just. Fuck, Magui, can you let me breathe? I want to go.”

“Where?”

He doesn't answer, not like she’d understand. Lando just shoves a hand through his hair, reaching for his phone. No texts. No missed calls. Just your name in the recents, staring back at him.

God, he misses you. And you’re not even his. Not really. He wonders why you stay. The money? You don’t ask for it, never ask for it first. He always offers. He wonders if he’s really enough, if that’s all you want.

He won. And all he wants is you.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

lan hi baby, don’t know if you’re up yet but i won

lan i thought you’d be here i don’t even know why you never said you would

lan just wanted you to see it

He doesn’t send the last message he types: Come back to me already.

you hey no i’m up, i was watching you

you you deserve it lan i’m proud of youi wanted to come i really did

you sometimes i don’t know how to be around you when you’re like this. when you win and the whole world wants you and all i can give you is me

you miss you

lan you’re everythingi don’t want the world i just want you

lan please

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The first bottle doesn’t break.

It bounces. Pathetically, a dull thud against the floor of the hotel suite, spinning once on the carpet before rolling to a stop near the base of the bed. Lando stands there for a second, swaying slightly, glaring at the empty bottle of gin. It tasted like shit.

Then he picks up the second one.

That one shatters. Glass explodes against the wall, clear liquid dripping down in sharp streaks like tears. His breath comes out rough, uneven. He watches his work then grabs the nearest object—some expensive hotel vase—and hurls it at the window. It cracks, just slightly. Not enough. Not enough to match what he feels. The vase, not the window. The windows are remarkably strong.

“Fuck,” Lando says under his breath. Paces the room in fast, angry steps. His bare feet crunch over broken glass, probably bleed, he doesn’t care.

The room is a mess now. Pillows on the floor. Curtains yanked half off. The minibar gutted. Two chairs overturned. A lampshade split down the side. It still isn’t enough. Still doesn’t touch what was under his skin.

Your smile haunts him. Your text: “i wanted to come i really did”

Bullshit.

You said it. What does that mean? I love you I really do but then I run off with another guy. Words mean nothing. You’re back at school, posting dumb little stories with your friends and smiling like everything was fine. Like you don’t have a boyfriend losing his goddamn mind three countries away.

Boyfriend.

No, he doesn’t get to use that. Officially, he is your sugar daddy. He trades in money, you trade in companionship and favors. Officially. The ugly truth is that his mind had ignored that a long time ago. You mean things to him.

Clearly, he doesn’t mean things to you. You look happy and he can’t fucking stand it, because Lando doesn’t know how to be happy without you. Not anymore. Doesn’t know how to sit still, or think clearly, or go more than four hours without checking if you’re online. You made him feel real. You make him feel real, when he’s next to you. Without you, he doesn’t know what he is anymore, just a shaking, destructive mess of ego and want and desperation.

He takes another drink straight from the bottle—vodka this time. Bitter and burning and useless, just like him. He thinks that blithely. Lando wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and snarls, “she says she wants me but she’s fucking fine. She’s fine without me.”

He’s trembling now. He swears he can smell your perfume, feel your skin under his fingers, hear your laugh from across the room. He hates how much he misses you.

It feels like being fourteen again. Like being small and lonely. Like everyone good eventually leaves.

Two knocks on the door. He doesn’t register it at first, too wrapped up in his own fury.

“Lando?”

He turns around slowly at the sound of your voice. Like a man possessed, he’s turning the door handle. You, an apparition, in the doorway. Your expression is caught between confusion and fear. He can’t speak, can only stare at you.

“Lando,” you repeat, gently this time. You look around the mess of a room. “What the hell is going on?”

“You said you wanted me.”

“I do, baby.”

He knows he sounds childish when he says, “then why the fuck are you smiling in pictures with people who aren’t me? Why does it look like you’re happier when I’m not there?”

You step in and shut the door slowly behind. “Lando. I came back.”

“Not because I asked you to,” he says, bitter. “You didn’t come when I needed you.”

“Don’t be an ass, Lando. I came once I could.”

“Me? You left.”

“I didn’t leave you. I just went home. I told you I’d be back. I told you I wanted you. Why can’t you believe that?”

He doesn’t answer. Can’t. His face twists like he’s trying not to cry. But then he is already crying—just quietly now, silently, the kind of tears that come when there is nothing left to throw or scream or burn.

“I don’t know how to keep you,” Lando whispers.

“You don’t have to keep me. I’m not going anywhere.”

He doesn’t. But he can’t say it, so he falls into you instead, hot with shame.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The hotel bed smells just like him. You’re overwhelmed by the sheer amount of sensory details—honey and saffron, Lando curled into you like a child, one arm around your hips, his hair tickling your jaw.

You remember that night, how you found him. Trowing things like the rage might turn into wings and take him somewhere far from the hollow ache of missing you. You’d stood in the doorway, too stunned to speak at first, your suitcase still in hand. He had looked at you like salvation. Then he collapsed.

Now he sleeps, days later, face pressed to your skin, like nothing happened.

You brush a hand through his curls. Lando sighs, burrows deeper. You don’t move. You don’t breathe too loudly. There’s something fragile about this moment, like if you shift wrong, you might tip him back into that chaos.

It worries you, really. He wrecked a whole place over you. To be flattered or frightened, that is the question.

Lando stirs. “You’re awake,” he mumbles, voice sleep-warm.

“Yeah. You okay?”

“Mhm. You’re here. I’m okay.”

It’s simple. Sweet.

He opens his eyes and you see it: the desperate joy, the relief so intense it makes his hands tremble as they skim your back. “Don’t leave again,” he whispers. “Please.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t promise. Something inside you knows you can’t, not if he keeps unraveling like this. Not if his love starts to feel like a trap lined with silk sheets and broken glass.

You hold him anyway, for as long as you can.

Bzz.

“I’ll get it,” you murmur, untangling one arm to grasp for your phone.

He makes a quiet noise of protest, tightening his grip on your waist. “No. Stay.” You slip out of bed as gently as you can.

Your phone is face-down on the floor, near a toppled plant. You crouch, pick it up.

“Baby, c’mon. Leave it.”

You turn slightly. He’s watching you now, chin in his palm, yes sleepy but alert.

“Is that work?” he asks flatly.

“No, Mara.”

“Of course it is.” Lando flops back onto the bed with a sigh, one hand thrown dramatically over his face. “She wants to take you away again.”

“She’s just checking in. Haven’t texted her in a bit.”

“You’re here now,” he says, sitting up suddenly. “That’s what matters. Right?”

You don’t answer right away. He climbs out of bed and pads toward the kitchen. “I’ll make coffee. You want breakfast? I got those stupid little French pastries you like.”

“Lando—”

“I’m fine, really,” he calls over his shoulder, cheerful in a way that feels like armor. “You being here fixes everything.”

mara(malade) you know if you run off you should really turn your location off

mara(malade) look babe i think you both need space

mara(malade) is he okay?

mara(malade) more importantly, ru okay?

You want to say yes. You want to believe it. Lando—beautiful, brilliant, broken Lando—is now singing softly to himself in the kitchen. You move to sit at the counter, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“I warmed up the croissants,” he says, placing a small plate in front of you with a flourish. “Fig jam, your favorite. You’re spoiled, you know that?”

He’s smiling too much. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You pick at the corner of a croissant. “Lando.”

“Black or oat milk?” He’s already reaching for the mugs.

“Lando.”

He pauses. “What?”

“I just…I wanted to talk about…that night.”

“What about it?”

“You were upset,” you say carefully. “And the suite—”

“I said I was fine.” Lando won’t look at you.

You set the croissant down. “I know. But seeing all of that, it scared me a little.”

“You’re not scared of me.”

“I didn’t say I was. I just, well, I want to understand.”

He laughs under his breath. It’s not happy. “Understand what? That I missed you? That I didn’t know if you were coming back? That I was losing my fucking mind because I thought you were gone?”

Your heart twists. “You weren’t losing me. I texted you that morning.”

“I don’t know that.” Lando’s staring at you now. There’s something wounded in his eyes. “You don’t need anything from me. Not money, not help. You have this whole life without me, and I’m just—fuck, what am I supposed to be if you don’t need me?”

“I want you, Lando. That’s supposed to be enough.”

“You say that like it is.”

He doesn’t mean to sound cruel. You know that. His hands curl into fists on the counter. You stand up, come around slowly. Place your hand over his.

“Then let it be enough. Let me want you. You don’t have to break everything to make me stay.”

Finally, he exhales. Presses his forehead to yours. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know how to be okay without you.”

You don’t answer. You hold his hand tighter. You don’t say what you’re thinking, which is you didn’t know how to be okay when your mom died, that’s how I found you. I made sure you didn’t die that day. Will you always associate your escape loneliness with me, now?

The coffee finishes brewing, but neither of you move to pour it.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You’re watching a sitcom on the television. Lando loves making fun of you for your taste, but you know he secretly enjoys them too.

His phone buzzes on the counter. Lando looks at it and groans. “Manager.”

You don’t say anything. He answers on speaker. “Yeah?”

“Lando,” the voice is clipped, slightly exasperated. “We need to talk. We just got the hotel’s report.”

“About what?”

“You know what. Smashed mirror, broken fixtures, bottle damage, water damage, hell, they said there were footprints on the mini bar.”

You stare straight ahead at the show. People are laughing. You try to remember what the joke is about.

“I’ll pay for it,” Lando says, flatly.

“That’s not the problem. They’re asking if you're okay. We’re asking if you’re okay. Lando.”

He doesn’t respond.

His manager continues, “they’re saying you’ve been off since Miami. We all saw you show up with someone. You know. She’s not in the tabloids, her reputation isn’t a problem. We don’t know who she is. The problem is that ever since then, you’ve been unpredictable.”

Lando raises an eyebrow, though the person on the other end can’t see. “Unpredictable?”

“You trashed a hotel room,” his manager snaps. “You skipped media. You haven’t answered half your PR scheduling emails. You’re supposed to be gearing up for Monaco, and instead you’re—”

“What? Instead I’m where? Taking a fucking break for once? Letting myself feel something?”

“We’re not saying she’s the problem. We just don’t know what this is. And you won’t tell us. You’re shutting us out.”

“Because you treat everything like damage control,” Lando mutters.

“We need to know if we’re dealing with a temporary shift or a full derailment. If we’re going to step in.”

He lets out a bitter laugh, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Of course. Step in. Right. You stepped in real well when Luisa was getting death threats. You stepped in real well with Magui and look how that turned out. What the fuck do you ever do right?”

“Lando. You don’t get to disappear without people asking questions. You don’t get to change overnight without consequences.”

In response, he snaps, “I’m not changing. I just—fuck—I finally feel like myself. And you’re mad it’s not the version you can market.”

You shift on the couch, quietly turning off the TV.

“She’s not the problem. We just need to know if she’s going to become one. For the team. For you.”

Lando hangs up. He stands, frozen, then walks back to you, lying on the couch with his head in your lap. “They don’t get it,” he mutters. “They never fucking get it.”

“I don’t think they’re trying to blame me.”

“I know. They just don’t know what to do with you.”

You blink. “Is that bad?”

He looks up at you. “No. It’s perfect.”

He says it’s perfect, you want to think it’s perfect, but the way he clings to you tells you exactly how tightly he’s holding on. How scared he is that the world is trying to take you away.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

“Can I use your laptop for like ten minutes? Just email stuff. Mine’s broken.”

He yawns over his phone. “Yeah, yeah, it’s in the office. The black one. Passcode’s your birthday, you know.”

You kiss his forehead. “Thanks, baby”

You sit cross-legged in his desk chair, crack open the laptop, and type in his passcode. Mail is already open.

The first email, unread, sits bold at the top of the inbox:

Subject: RE: PR Proposal - Confirming Relationship Partner for Next Quarter Re: Images from Miami

You click before you can talk yourself out of it. The thread is long, too long. God, this is invasive! Someone from marketing has pasted photos of you and Lando at Miami. Lando leaving your bar. Lando and you at dinner. Another of him reaching for your hand when you cross the street—bloody hell, when was this? You don’t remember half of these.

Below that: paragraphs discussing “optics,” “alignment with brand image,” and suggestions for “alternatives with higher familiarity quotient,” i.e., influencers with cleaner public profiles. One name is underlined.

The last message, from his manager, is curt:

Let’s discuss timing. If we move forward, need confirmation he’s on board by Friday. Otherwise we’ll have to talk to her.

What? Who is the “her” they refer to? You? Too many questions. You log in to your own account, reply to your professor Back in the living room, Lando’s messing with his new camera lens. He perks up when you return. “You find it, sweetheart?”

Yeah. Thanks.”

He pulls you back onto the couch by your wrist. Tugs you into his lap. “You’re quiet.”

“Just tired, baby.”

His fingers skate down your spine. Don’t work too hard. You don’t need to, you know? You could just not worry.”

There’s something curling in your chest that you don’t have the words for yet. You can feel it: the ache of being wanted, and the sharp sting of not knowing exactly why.

It’s late afternoon when he brings it up. You haven’t brought up the email, and he hasn’t asked why you went quiet, but you know he noticed. Lando notices everything when it comes to you. He finds you on the balcony just before sunset, staring out at the curve of the harbor. “You saw it, didn’t you?” His voice is low.

“Saw what?”

“The email.”

You don’t answer. Not really a point in lying.

“I was gonna tell you. I just didn’t want it to ruin anything.”

You stay quiet, waiting.

“They’ve been on me since Miami,” he continues, looking down at the tiles. “Didn’t tell you about it, didn’t think it would affect anything. They think you’re making me weird. Like I’m not showing up the way I used to. Like I care too much.” He laughs once, bitter. “Can you imagine? Caring being a problem? They’ve always pegged me as a crybaby, that kind of thing. Don’t know why it changes now.”

“I told them to fuck off,” he says. “I didn’t even open it until today.”

You turn fully now. “But you read it.”

“Yeah. Only because I knew you would. They don’t know you,” he murmurs. “They don’t get it. They think I’m just distracted. But I’m not. I’m clearer than I’ve ever been.”

“You’ve been drinking every night,” you say softly. “You’ve skipped stuff.”

“Because they don’t matter. Only you do.”

Not receiving a response, Lando brushes your cheek with his thumb. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. I know what this is. I’m not going to let them replace you with some model who smiles for photos and goes away when the weekend ends. I’d lose my fucking mind. I already have Magui, you know? Why do they have to fix me with someone new?”

You flinch at that, because you’ve seen what that looks like.

“I don’t want to be a problem for you.”

He tilts your chin up. “You’re not. You’re the only thing that makes sense.” And then, softer: “Please don’t leave again.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Sundays are race days. Today is Friday, the last day before race weekend, and he’s not here. He has a meeting in person.

He comes back scowling. “Lando?” you ask softly.

“I’m going to have to do it.”

You sit up straighter. “Do what?”

“The PR thing. They’re making me.”

You blink. “What do you mean making you? I thought you said—”

“I thought I had a choice. They pulled out numbers. Sponsorship clauses. Told me my Q-rating dropped after Emilia Romagna. Isn’t that bullshit? They’ve never cared that much about my Q-rating before. Said I wasn’t showing up right, too emotional, too impulsive, not focused enough.”

You stand. “That’s bullshit. You’ve been winning.”

“I know,” he snaps.

You reach for him, but he flinches back like your touch might break him. “They said you’re the problem. They showed me photos. You walking into the hotel. Me leaving early. That night I skipped the debrief? They think I was with you.”

“…you were.”

“Exactly.”

He looks at you for a long time. His eyes are glassy. He’s holding something in

“If I don’t agree, I risk my contract. Maybe not officially, but it’s leverage. They’re not going to make it look like a relationship,” he adds bitterly. “Just appearances. Photos. Maybe a dinner or two. Smiling next to a pop girl they can tag in headlines.”

“And me?”

His face crumples. “You stay here. You stay mine. No one touches this. I’ll lie to everyone else if I have to. I just can’t lose you.”

You think. “I don’t want you to lie,” you say.

“Sweetheart, just let me do this so I can keep everything else. So I can keep you.”

He says it like you are the only part of his life worth telling the truth for.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Lando’s wearing a shirt he didn’t choose, sitting at a table he didn’t reserve, waiting for a girl he didn’t ask to meet. She’s late. His manager checks his watch three times in the span of a minute.

When she arrives, it’s obvious why they picked her. She’s radiant, perfectly curated. Every strand of hair in place, nails glossy, lips done in the exact shade the camera likes. Based off the briefings, she’s basically Magui with no scandals. Some kind of television actress-slash-model, too. How coincidental.

“Lando,” she greets, sliding into the seat across from him like they’ve done this a hundred times. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

He forces a smile. He can do this, has done this before. “Yeah. You too, uh,” he remembers her name. “Camilla.’

Click. Someone’s taking pictures. Subtle. Just a phone angled from behind a wine glass. Another click. He doesn’t even bother to turn his head. She leans in, conspiratorial. “I think we’re supposed to look like we’re flirting.”

“Aren’t we?”

“Not unless you want to.”

Lando gives her no reply.

She reaches for the menu. “So here’s what I heard. We’re doing one dinner per city, you tag me once a month, and I show up in your team colors at Silverstone.”

“That’s what they told you?” He wanted to take you to Silverstone.

“Yep.” Camilla gives him a look. “Calm down. I’m not trying to ruin your life. I’m just trying to sell a dream. You drive fast cars, I look good in photos. Everyone wins.”

He looks down at the menu, even though he’s not hungry. He doesn’t want food. He wants you, hair wet from the shower, curled up on the couch in his hoodie, scrolling through your busted old laptop even though there are so many other things you could be looking at.

She must catch the change in his face.

“They told me about her, too. She’s not part of the deal, you know,” Camilla says, almost kindly. It startles him.

“I saw the photo,” she explains. “The one they showed you. Don’t think I’m stupid, they put you up to this because they didn’t like her. Or you, when you’re with her. You look different with her.”

Lando swallows. Charming and smart. Fuck.

“Don’t worry,” Camilla says, settling back into her seat, voice returning to breezy indifference. “Your secret’s safe. Just so you know, pretending gets easier. Eventually. I’m sure you already know.”

The hell’s that supposed to mean?

He wants to walk out. But he’s already here, already in it. Damn it. One dinner, one photo, one fake smile at a time. He wonders if you’re still at his apartment. If you’ll still be there when he gets back. What if you’re already back at school? He checks his phone under the table. No messages, but Lando opens your chat anyway. He types something, deletes it, closes the app.

Click. Another photo.

When they come out, people notice he’s not smiling in any of them.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The crowd is loud, even from his balcony. Here, high above it all, you’re watching on TV. Not from the paddock or hospitality, because they thought it was better if you weren’t there.

“We just think,” Lando’s manager had said yesterday; his name is Mark, you think, “that it might be best if you keep a lower profile during race weekends. There’s a lot of media interest, and it’s distracting him, and we need him focused. I’m sure you understand.”

You nodded. You didn’t really mind. Lando had a nice apartment, good food, nice views. On the other hand, Lando had been furious. “It’s my pass,” he’d snapped. “I get to decide who comes.” But then he’d gotten quiet, and you could all but hear what he was trying not to say. They told him it wouldn’t look good, that he’d already raised flags by skipping events and showing up late. That they needed him to toe the line a little.

When the camera cuts to Lando in the garage, your breath catches.

He’s focused. Calm and zoned in, of course, but you can tell he’s tired. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until he crosses the line and the commentators shout P2.

You don’t scream. You just smile and hug the pillow close.

The door unlocks forty—maybe an hour?—later. You stand from the couch instinctively. Lando walks in like he owns the world. His curls are damp with sweat, and he looks exhausted but triumphant.

“Back so soon, baby?” You say, then his arms are around you. “I thought you’d have interviews and all that. Tell Charles congrats for me, yeah?”

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he mumbles into your neck. “Stop talking about Charles.”

“Sure, sure. I watched,” you say. “You were incredible.”

“I would’ve gone faster if you’d been there.”

You pull back. “Don’t say that.”

Lando snaps, “I hate that they’re keeping you away like this. Like I’m some kid who needs managing.”

“You don’t want them pissed before the race.”

“I don’t care,” he says. His mouth is on yours. “You’re not a distraction. You’re the only reason I’m even still here. Y’know that, right, sweetheart?”

You kiss him back, but it makes you a little sad, his words. You don’t want to be the reason he’s spiraling or winning. You just want to be his.

After he’s taken a shower and fallen asleep on your legs, you let yourself open your laptop. Race day is tomorrow and your flight back home is tomorrow, too. You think he’s sleeping. You’re mistaken.

“You working?” Lando asks, the words causing a sensation along your skin.

You coax, “just a little.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know, baby. Just have finals to get through and I’m all your for the summer.”

You feel him frown. “What, now? For how long?”

“A week. Maybe two.”

He shifts, props himself up on his elbows. “So you’re gonna go back?”

“I need to.”

He doesn’t answer right away. You can see it all flicker across his face in real time, how quickly the relaxation falls away.

“You just got here,” he says finally.

“I’m staying ‘til your race is over, okay?”

“I’ll come with you,” he says.

“You can’t. You have Barcelona in a week.”

Lando mutters, “fuck that.”

“Lando.”

He looks at you then. “So what? You just disappear now? I did all this without you in the paddock, without even seeing you all weekend. And now you’re leaving again?”

“I’m not leaving, I’m doing my finals. Like a normal person. like someone who has other things going on.”

That’s what does it. The line stiffens him completely. He says, “I’m not enough, is that it?”

“No—” You shift closer instinctively. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

“No, it’s not. You’re enough. You’re more than enough. But I can’t lose everything I’ve worked for just because I love you.”

His eyes flash at the word. Love. You’ve said it before, but not like this. Frazzled, worn out, spine slightly hunched under the weight of everything you’re trying to balance. Suddenly, Lando straightens and pulls you in for a kiss. When you break apart, he’s quieter.

He says, “I just don’t know how to do this when you’re not around.”

“Then learn,” you say, not unkindly. You mean it.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The café isn’t crowded. You still choose the booth in the corner, where the shadows feel soft and safe. You stir your tea until the milk clouds settle into a forgettable grey, and then Mara slides into the seat across from you.

“You look—” she starts then stops.

“Tired?” you offer.

“I was going to say thin.”

You glance down at your sleeves, tug them a little lower. “Not even a little tan?”

Mara doesn’t push. Just says, “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Only for finals.”

“I know.”

“I miss him,” you say eventually.

She watches you. “I figured.”

“It’s not that he’s bad to me,” you add quickly, because she has that look again, that braced-for-impact stillness. “He’s not. It’s just that he needs me. Like really, really needs me. All the time. It’s like I’m the only thing that keeps him from—” You break off. “He didn’t take it well when I left.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No.” Your response is immediate. “But he drank a lot. Broke things. I came back and his hotel was a mess. And he was so happy to see me, like I fixed everything just by walking in.”

“That’s a lot to carry, babe. Over-dependency isn’t good.”

You look down into your cup. “I think part of me likes it. Being the only one he wants. The only one he lets close.”

“But?” she presses.

“But I can’t do this forever. I forget who I am when I’m with him too long.”

Mara doesn’t say anything for a moment. You don’t have to prove your love by breaking yourself to keep him whole.”

“I know.”

Your throat is tight. You do, but you’re not sure Lando does.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Lando feels like an animal in a glass box.

Across from him, Camilla looks like she’d stepped out of a commercial. Her smile is perfect. Always just enough teeth, just enough warmth. She even reached for his hand when the first camera flash went off outside the window. He didn’t take it.

“So,” she says, tilting her head. “Did your team tell you about my Vogue piece? They want a few shots of me by the water. Something soft, romantic.”

Lando took a sip of his wine and didn’t answer.

“You’re in such a mood tonight,” Camilla says.

He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to be here. Everything about this was wrong. Your voice had sounded small on the phone earlier, when you said you had to study. That you weren’t sure if you’d make it to Barcelona. You’d been quiet all week, and now he’s sitting here with a girl who knows which angle to turn her face toward the lens but doesn’t know shit about him.

“Still no word from your girlfriend?” Camilla asks lightly, swirling her drink.

Lando glances at her. “She’s not—” He stops himself. You are, to him, just not to you, maybe he should talk to you about that sometime. He doesn’t know how to hold onto you anymore.

Camilla leans in. “It’s just…people notice, you know? You haven’t been this moody in years. You were calm after Miami, happier. And now it’s, well.” She gestures vaguely. “The hotel room. The yelling at your engineer. You don’t seem yourself, Lando.”

“You don’t know me,” Lando says flatly.

She blinks once. Smiles again, this time a little too knowingly. “But I do know what they think of you. And how quickly the story shifts when sponsors get nervous.”

I don’t care about the fucking narrative.”

“Sure you do. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Lando looks away. He wants to throw something. Instead, he reaches for his glass again. Third refill. He doesn’t feel it yet.

“I get it. She’s the one who makes you feel real. Like you’re not just a brand. That must be addictive.”

That catches him off guard.

She leans back in her chair. “It’s okay. You can hate me all you want. I’m not going anywhere.”

He stares at her, something bitter rising in his throat. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”

“I enjoy doing my job well. You should try it sometime.”

Lando scowls at her, about to get up. “Tell them I smiled. Tell them I held your hand. I don’t care. But don’t talk to me like you know what this is.”

“I had a boy like that, too,” she says, and Lando stops in his tracks.

“What?”

“I had a boy like that, too. Worshipped the ground he walked on. You know why he left me?”

He’s confused.

Camilla continues, “left me ‘cause he found someone less suffocating. Who didn’t want me and all the shit out there, too.”

“All the shit out there?” he echoes.

“Press. Money. That kind of thing.”

“Are you saying I’m superficial?”

She points out, “you’re on a PR date with me.”

“She’s going to leave me for someone more real? Like her?”

“No, that’s not what I said. I said that’s what happened to me. Sorry if I’m a little cynical about it all,” Camilla says, not sorry in the slightest.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You had the photo saved. You didn’t want to, obviously, but it was there, at the bottom of your camera roll, right after a screenshot of your calendar and before that blurry video of Mara singing in the kitchen.

Lando. Camilla—that was his new PR girl, he told you; didn’t even tell you the name, you found out by clicking the tagged accounts. Outside the restaurant. Standing close.

He told you.

And still, when you looked at her, at how easy she looked in her dress and the way her face didn’t flinch under the camera flash, you felt it. That gross, clawing thing in your chest. Jealousy.

You’d googled her once. Just once. (Okay. Maybe four times.) She’s an actress, breakout role in some Netflix show. Dating history: one boy for the majority of her career, break-up four years ago, coinciding with when her show got popular. You watch Buzzfeeds where she plays with dogs, does lie detectors.

The interviewer asks, “you’re single, Camilla?”

“Yes.” The lie detector makes no noise.

“What happened to you and long-time boyfriend Jude?”

Camilla, half-smiling, says, “oh, you know Jude. He has a book out now. We’re still friends, but it didn’t work out in the end. I think he wanted someone who didn’t care as much. Not about him, you know, just preferred a quiet life.”

This is a different Camilla, less composed. The wranglers haven’t gotten ahold of her yet. You sense she wouldn’t say these words now. Too revealing. You stare at the subtitles for too long.

Mara walks in with two mugs of tea. “What now?”

You shake your head. “It’s not even the photo. It’s just. Why does he have to do PR?”

“You know why. You told him to go for it, babe.”

“Yeah but juggling is unfair. I hate that he has to be one thing for the world and another with me.”

“You’re not wrong,” Mara said, settling beside you. “But you also knew what this was. Who he is.”

You groan. “I know. I know. But I saw that photo, and she looked like she belonged there. And I don’t know how to not care. I want to be okay with it. I want to be cool. I want to say, ‘it’s PR, it’s part of the job.’ But sometimes I think I’m the problem. That I make him look messy. That I love him wrong.”

“There’s no such thing as loving someone wrong,” Mara says.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

He asks to see her. Not his team, not his friends, but his fake girlfriend. The car’s already waiting when she steps out of her building. When she climbs in, Lando’s quiet. He has sunglasses on even though it’s dusk.

“Thanks for coming,” he mumbles.

Camilla raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize it was urgent.”

“It’s not,” he says quickly. “I wanted to talk. About stuff. And this is good for PR, right? We’ll look like we have something going on.”

She waits.

“About your ex,” he elaborates.

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

She leans back on the nice, plush car seats. “You’ve got PR girls, therapists, a race engineer, assistants, a 12-million-follower fan base, and you’re asking me for relationship advice? Your fake relationship?”

He shrugs. “You said you dated someone who wanted less of you? Or the public shit, whatever it was you said. Who wanted someone that didn’t care so much about everyone else.”

“Yeah,” Camilla admits. “I needed more than he could give.”

Lando nods slowly. “I think I’m doing that to her.”

Camilla stares at him. For a second, she thinks maybe he’s being dramatic. But then she notices his hands: how hard he’s gripping the edge of the seat. How he won’t stop bouncing one leg.

“I’m not trying to. I just, well, when I’m not with her, I lose my fucking mind. And when I am, I don’t know how to calm down.”

She notes how he’s being weirdly earnest.

“She came out of nowhere,” Lando says. “Didn’t care about the sport. Didn’t care about the attention. I liked that. I liked her. Y’know, I tried to pay her and she wouldn’t take the money. Had to show up at her job like a lost dog to get her attention. She hated me, you know? Despised me. Now she’s back home, and I’m here, and I feel, fuck, I don’t know. And I keep dragging her into this PR stuff and she’s probably sick of it, me having this double life.”

Camilla muses. She studies Lando’s face, says, “you’re not like me, you know.”

“I think I am.”

She shakes her head. “As much as that flatters me, I don’t think you care as much as me about the media.”

Lando scoffs. “Still sucks.”

“Yeah,” she agrees.

“You’re alright. Not what I expected.”

“Am I supposed to say thank you?”

“No.”

She says, “okay,” and they leave the conversation at that. So Camilla thinks.

Then Lando says, “but you said he wanted someone less suffocating.”

“What?” Not this again.

“It’s not just the media part. You said he wanted someone who didn’t want him and the media.”

“No, no, no,” Camilla says. “It’s the juggling, I think. You have to pick one. I was trying to do both and he realized before me.”

“What did he realize before you?”

“Doing both wasn’t just hard for me. It was hard for him, too. So he left.”

Lando frowns. “You’re saying I have to pick one. I can’t make her go back and forth while I want to just have her.”

“Oh, young love,” Camilla says.

“Seriously.”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. My life isn’t your life, Lando. What happened between Jude and me isn’t what’s going to happen between you and your girl. We are not the same people.”

“I’m just looking for examples.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Lando is in Barcelona. Camilla is sitting next to him in the car. They’re talking while the car is parked. Late night conversation. He didn’t tell you about this.

The caption reads: “F1 driver Lando Norris and actress Camilla Young getting serious? Not the first time we’ve spotted them.”

You stare at the image. The angle doesn’t help. They’re leaning toward each other, talking like no one else is in the world. You can’t tell what he’s saying. You just know he’s engaged. He’s looking at her like she’s enough, that she’s answering his problems.

Your mouth is dry. You remind yourself that he told you. He said there’d be PR stuff. Dinners. That it didn’t mean anything. But this isn’t a PR dinner. They’re out at night, for fuck’s sake. You’re not even allowed in the paddock anymore.

mara(malade) babe i know you’re scrolling

mara(malade) stop thinking about it

You just photos i don’t care

You do. And Mara knows you do, because she doesn’t respond with “okay” or “cool.” She sends a voice memo.

“Look, you said this was PR. You know it’s PR. That girl probably got handed a clause and a Chanel bag. You’re the one who knows where he lives. You’re the one who sees him without all that. And he’s the one who broke a goddamn hotel for you, remember? Flew across the country for you? Look, I think he’s clingy but in this case, I think that’s something to reassure you.”

You leave her on read.

What you keep thinking, the thought you can’t get out of your head, is that maybe he likes it better this way. When things are clean. When it’s professional. When the girl across the table doesn’t cry at night or ask for space or say, “you scare me sometimes.” When he knows he’s loved and doesn’t have to fight for it.

You know it’s unfair. You’re the one who asked for time. You’re the one who told him you had a life. Still. It feels a little like juggling. And you’re not winning.

Your phone lights up. You think it’s Mara, again, asking why you’re not responding. It’s Lando, and he’s blowing up your phone. He won’t stop texting. Calling. Double texting. Triple texting. Guilt-tripping you with voice notes that sound like they were recorded half-drunk, half-panicked.

You hate this. You hate that you love him like this. You also hate that you’re starting to feel like you can’t breathe.

He won’t tell you where he’s been. You saw the photos. You know it’s PR. You know it. He told you about it, technically. (He just didn’t mention the part where he spent the whole ride talking about you, asking Camilla how to not be too much. He’s embarrassed. He thinks you’ll leave if you know how desperate he is.)

You press call.

When he picks up, sounding like he sprinted to the phone, breathless, you don’t even let him speak.

You say: “I think we need a break.”

“Just for a little. I need to breathe, Lando. You’re everywhere and I love you but it’s starting to feel like I’m all you have and I can’t be that for you all the time. It’s not healthy. I don’t want you to be not okay if I’m not there.”

Still silence. You check if the line dropped.

Then he laughs. “Fucking knew it. This is what Camilla said happened. He told her the same shit. ‘You’re too attached. It’s not healthy.’ It’s not healthy to love someone that much, is that it?”

“Lando—” You say. What did Camilla tell him? About her ex? What does this have to do with you and Lando? You’re trying to make things make sense.

He cuts in, “no, no, just say it. You don’t want me like this, even if I love you. You don’t want me if I’m not put together and calm and acting like I don’t need you. You want someone who doesn't have a PR girlfriend, too? Look, I want you to be my girlfriend. We haven’t even talked about this.”

Even if I love you.

This is the first time he’s said those words.

“That’s not what I said,” you say, and his tangent is really confusing you. What about being his girlfriend?

“It’s what you meant.”

“I just need a little space. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

Lando: “If you did, you’d be here.”

That one stings. You hang up. You don’t mean to, but your thumb slips and that’s it. Silence.

Lando stares at the “Call Ended” screen. He flings his phone across the kitchen. It hits the marble and clatters. He doesn’t care. It won’t break, fucking case. He presses his palms to the counter and breathes. In. Out. He’s not Camilla. He’s not. Right now, he can’t tell if he’s any better.

He has whatever’s left in the wine bottle on the counter. Red, too warm, acidic. Doesn’t care. It makes his throat burn and that feels like something.

He doesn’t even blame you. You didn’t sign up for this. For the cameras. For the pressure. He wanted you because you saw him inferior, wanted you so no one else could know that side of him. You didn’t want him, not at all. Not for the money, not for…so why did you end up staying? And now, he’s like this—spun out and raw and clinging too tight to someone just because she said I love you and sounded like she meant it.

He’s scared. He doesn’t know who he is without you, isn’t that fucking crazy? A few months into your life together and he’s nothing without you. Lando grabs a dish towel and wipes at the tears that surprise even him. Tries to pull himself together. He’s better when he’s with you, he thinks. How did you even start liking him? Maybe you liked him when he was suave and just playing cat and mouse.

It’s so pathetic, and he knows that, but he can’t stop thinking:

She said she loves me.

Why doesn’t that feel like enough?

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

mara(malade) u okay??? i saw your location was back at the library so. finals or breakdown?

you it’s both i think i told him i needed space and he flipped like fully lost it i think i broke him

mara(malade) hey no you’re not responsible for his spiral

mara(malade) and if you are then that’s… kind of the problem no?

you yeah i just feel like i made a promise i can’t keep like i said i loved him and now i’m backing out

you but it’s not that it’s that i can’t breathe around him sometimes and he’s scared all the time that i’ll leave

you but him being scared is making me actually want to

mara(malade) that makes sense

mara(malade) that’s what i meant before when i said he’s not all bad but he’s heavy

mara(malade) like intense love is beautiful but not when it burns you alive to keep him warm

you man when you’d get so poetic

mara(malade) when my own life started going good and your life became a soap opera

you fuck off

mara(malade) ❤️

you he talked to Camilla about it

you apparently she had an ex who left her bc he said her love was too much and lando saw himself in her

you and now i feel like i’m just proving him right

mara(malade) babe if he’s projecting that onto you that’s not fair

mara(malade) you’re not her ex. he’s not camilla. you’re YOU. he’s HIM. and if he can’t tell the difference, maybe a break really is the right call

mara(malade) even if it hurts

you he didn’t even tell me they talked that’s the part that’s pissing me off the most

you he didn’t tell me anything he just bottled it and drank and spiraled and then begged me not to leave

you it’s exhausting

mara(malade) i’m so proud of you for saying you needed space

mara(malade) i know that wasn’t easy and i’m here if you need me

you ty

you i think i just need to remember who i was before him for a second like just me

you not someone’s everything

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The sun’s out, annoying as hell. He hasn’t opened the balcony doors. His phone’s dead, face-down on the counter since last night. No new notifications. No new you.

Lando slumps lower on the couch. He hasn’t eaten. There’s a coffee from yesterday he keeps sipping, even though it tastes like shit. All it does is remind him you used to steal the first sip and make a face when it was too bitter. The front door buzzes. He ignores it. Buzzes again. The spare key turns, and Max Fewtrell steps inside like he’s done it a hundred times. Which he has. Just not lately, because Lando’s always with you. He can’t even say your name.

“You look like shit,” Max says cheerfully, dropping a bag of pastries on the table. The same pastries you used to like. Like, probably, you’re not dead. “I assume that means you’re not dead.”

Lando grunts. His friend kicks his feet up next to Lando’s and starts unpacking the bag. “I brought the fig ones.”

The exact ones you like. Lando doesn’t move. Max says, “you wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Lando presses the cold rim of the coffee cup to his lip. Finally: “She said she needed space. That we were too attached.”

“Was she wrong?”

He closes his eyes.

No.

Yes.

Maybe.

“She said I scared her, Max. She said I made her feel like she’s all I have. That I don’t know how to be okay without her. I thought I was just loving her. The way she needed.”

Max says, “you did. You do. Sometimes people still drown in that.”

Lando huffs, “that’s what Camilla said. Suffocating.”

“You’re taking relationship advice from your PR cover girl?”

“She’s been through it.”

“Yeah, but she’s also an Oscar-nominated woman who drinks red wine before noon.”

Vaguely defensive, Lando says, “she’s nice. How do you know that?”

“Friends of friends,” Max says, “looks nice, yeah. Half the stuff I hear about her, though.”

Lando looks down at the half-eaten pastry on the plate. “I thought if I was good enough, if I just loved her enough, she’d stay. That she’d choose me, even when it was hard.”

Max says nothing.

“She said I made her happy,” Lando says. “I’m the kid who thought love would be enough.”

“Maybe it still is. But not like this.”

Lando’s hands drop to his lap. He stares ahead, eyes dull.

He doesn’t know how to love you less. He’s not sure he wants to learn.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Someone’s yelling about football, someone’s crying in the toilet, and you’re perched on a sticky barstool with Mara, laughing so hard her cheeks ache.

“Okay,” Mara says, poking you with a straw. “You’ve been smiling all night and I don’t trust it.”

“I’m done with finals,” you say, shrugging like that explains everything. “Also, I think I flirted with a guy who works in Parliament. On accident. He was like, shockingly boring. But hot.”

Mara snorts. “You’re deranged.”

“I’m fun.”

“You’re healing,” Mara corrects, more gently.

You don't flinch. You just knock back the rest of your drink and make another. You haven’t thought about Lando—really thought about him—in two hours. That’s a record.

When your phone buzzes, you don’t check it. You know who it won’t be. Instead, you fish a crumpled envelope out of your purse and slap it on the bar.

“What’s that?”

“My future, apparently.”

You unfold it with a little dramatic flair, sliding it across the counter. Mara scans the letter and immediately goes wide-eyed.

“Wait. Belgium?”

“Mhm.”

“For six months?”

“Yep.”

“With some freaky academic?”

You say, “little out of my area of expertise, but you know, work’s work!”

“You’re going to become a nun.”

“I’m going to become a scholar,” you say.

The offer is real. Your grad professor sent it over that morning, saying you’re one of the top students they’ve ever had. That a colleague in Amsterdam is running a new deep-dive research team. Your name came up.

You haven’t told anyone else yet.

Not even your mum. Not even Mara until now. You just wanted to sit with the idea. Let it feel like yours. Like something that isn’t about a boy or a breakdown or a stupid Monaco apartment you couldn’t breathe in.

Mara bumps your shoulder. “I’m proud of you, you know.”

“I know.”

“And you’re kind of glowing right now. Are you wearing highlighter or is that just the joy of emotional detachment?”

You kick her. “Shut up.”

“You know what I mean. You’re laughing again. You’re thinking again. You’re living again.”

You swirl your straw through your drink. “It’s weird. I think I loved him. I think maybe I still do. If I see him I don’t know what I’ll do. I think part of me maybe always will.” You pause. “But I don’t think I like who I was with him.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

"You’re sure you have your passport?" Mara says for the fifth time, clutching her chai latte.

You nod, bouncing on your heels. “Yes. And the visa letter. And the housing confirmation. And my reading list for the first three weeks. Mara. I’m not an idiot.”

"You are, though,” Mara says, voice thick with pride. “But a brilliant idiot. A Belgium-bound idiot. A—”

“Please stop.”

Mara does, but only to hug you again, tight and fast. It feels so final, standing there in front of the departure gate with your suitcase, your passport, and a hundred unread chapters in your inbox. Your coat is slung over your arm, your phone is buzzing with a reminder to change your SIM card once she lands, and your cheeks are flushed with the kind of nervous excitement you haven’t felt in years.

“I can’t believe you’re actually doing this,” Mara whispers.

“Me neither.”

They sit down on a bench near the gate, just to wait. Your heart is doing that jittery dance again. You lean back and watch the world pass by. Your future is somewhere over the Channel.

Then you see it.

Him.

Not him, not in the flesh. Him, plastered over a luxury advert. Sharp jaw. That same signature stare. Lando Norris, standing on a balcony like he owns the sun. You can almost smell his cologne.

Your stomach sinks. “I hate airports.”

Mara follows your gaze. “Want me to key the ad?”

“No. It’s okay.” You don’t cry. You haven’t cried in weeks. You just stare for a moment longer, then blink it away.

Your flight’s boarding. Your life’s waiting. And he isn’t part of it anymore.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The door doesn’t open.

He’d left it unlocked this morning. Not on purpose—he tells himself that, at least—but when he walked back in after his run, he paused by the foyer and waited.

For you.

He keeps using your shampoo.

Not because he wants to, but because it’s just there. It smells like winter, when you first met; like spring, when you warmed to him, like snow thawing; like summer, when you were in love. If he closes his eyes, it almost feels like you’re in the next room.

He sits on the edge of the couch in the hoodie you left behind. He scrolls through his phone, not really reading anything. Sometimes he retypes messages to you and deletes them. Other times he just stares at your contact name.

The cafe you loved, with the fig pastries, closed down last week. He didn’t know until he walked there this morning.

The press says he’s locked in, matured.

What they don’t say is that he doesn’t go out anymore. He hasn’t brought anyone back to this flat in months because the idea of someone else sleeping in that bed, in that indent in the shape of you, makes him sick.

People notice. His friends don’t mention your name anymore. Max does, once, and Lando doesn’t answer.

You’re gone. Left. Disappeared into a world that doesn’t include him, with grad school and espresso and maybe, someday, someone new. He doesn’t want to think about that. He might puke. Lando breathes in the smell of your shampoo, trying to hold it fast. Pathetic.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You sit across from two of the most brilliant people you’ve ever met. It’s warm in the little canal-side restaurant, all amber candles and slow jazz. Samantha—Sam—orders for the table. And Johannes, with his thick-rimmed glasses and absurd vocabulary, keeps asking you questions like your opinions matter.

It’s disorienting.

You tell them about your undergrad thesis, and instead of blinking politely, Sam leans in and goes, “wow, you could expand that. Something publishable.” Just like that. Like it’s a casual thought. Like it’s no big deal. And she likes it. You try not to blush and fail, so you smile anyway.

Johannes, you learn, is only your age. He looks older, has the beard to make up for it. He speaks with a thick accent, tells the funniest jokes with the straightest face. Sam is a little more serious, but only a little more.

Sometime around dessert, her phone buzzes. She checks it and turns the screen toward you. You’re already friends. Oh, you love these people.

“This is my idiot cousin. You’ll probably meet him, he likes hanging around and trying to understand stuff. Don’t let him get into a debate unless you want to lose a full afternoon.”

You glance down. The photo’s grainy, taken outside in harsh sun. A man in a zip-up jacket stands half-turned to the camera. He squints mid-laugh, holding what looks like a massive trophy. Shit. You’ve seen those trophies. He has dimples, you note. You read the contact name aloud, “Max?”

“Unfortunately.”

The name rings a faint bell, like a headline you scrolled past once, or a conversation you half-heard. Something Dutch. Maybe racing? Definitely racing. Lando has the same trophy. Had? You push him out of your mind. Max. You’ve heard it before.

“He thinks he’s very charming,” Sam says. “He’s not. But he is useful. And he’s blunt. Sorry if he scares you off, I promise the rest of my family is normal.”

You smile politely and hand the phone back, already forgetting the photo. Just another face, another cousin.

You, on the other hand, have work to do. You walk home after, cheeks pink from wine and wind and compliments you’re still trying to believe were real. Sam is a big deal in the scholarly world. A big deal. Your flat is tiny, one room and a kitchen nook, but it’s yours. You unpack slow and careful. Books first, then the photos you didn’t think you’d hang but now decide to. Lots of Mara, of your mum, of your uni friends. You check the group chat, send a meme, and turn off your phone.

The reading list is already waiting: annotated articles, an attached PDF from Sam with a note—“welcome to the real world.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Sam’s office is beautiful. You want to live here. She also has great tea, which you poured a mug full of while Johannes argued about a footnote. He lost, so you’re laughing and choking on the hot liquid.

Knock. Knock.

Sam doesn’t look up, just calls, “it’s open!”

The door swings in, as does a tall man. His hoodie sleeves shoved halfway up his forearms, blonde-brown hair a little messy. He doesn’t look like he belongs in an academic office, but he does look like he belongs in a room.

“Sorry,” he says. He sounds like Sam with a stronger Dutch accent. Not exactly, just the same cadences. “Didn’t know you were in a meeting.”

“No meeting, Max. Come in,” Sam says. She gestures to you, “hey, this is my cousin. Max. Max Verstappen.”

Oh, you’ve heard that. Definitely. Max Verstappen, Formula 1 world champion, retired. Lando’s talked about him.

You offer your hand, “hi.”

He shakes it, firm and quick. “Nice to meet you.”

You introduce yourself. His eyes pass over you like you’re just some grad student in a knit sweater and boots. Which, to be fair, you are.

“I came to borrow the espresso pods,” Max adds, glancing at Sam.

“In the cabinet. Far right.”

He starts rummaging through the drawers. You go back to your notes, trying not to think about the gossip photos, or the phone calls you haven’t answered. Sam is saying something to Max in Dutch, and you’re relieved. You’re not excluded, just invisible. It’s peaceful.

He says bye a minute later, espresso in hand. You glance up once, watch the way he ducks his head when he smiles at Sam. After he leaves, Sam murmurs, “ignore him. He doesn’t sleep. He also haunts this place because he has no friends.”

You laugh a little. “He seemed normal?”

“He is. Mostly.”

Martine, Sam’s good friend, says, “you’re just annoyed he always takes the good pods.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You’re squinting at the back of a box of cereal, trying to decode the language with your phone translator, when someone brushes your arm.

“Sorry—oh.”

You look up. He’s flushed from running. Max. You hadn’t expected to see him again, let alone here, at this random corner store five minutes from your apartment.

He blinks, equally surprised. “Hey. You’re Sam’s intern, right?”

“Yeah,” you say, setting the cereal down. Hopeless case, your translator. All it told you was the brand’s name. “You’re Max.”

“Didn’t expect to run into anyone I knew.”

You don’t really know him. Still, you nod. “You live here?”

He gestures vaguely behind him. “Just outside the center. Needed air.” Awkward. What else are you going to tell him? “You finished shopping?”

“Almost. Unless you have cereal recommendations.”

“Not really. I buy whatever has the least sugar and looks edible.”

You grin, grab a random box, and fall into step with him outside. Somehow, you’re walking together. You don’t ask where he’s going and he doesn’t ask where you’re heading either. You go along with it, the silence. Not too bad, actually. Neither of you feel like you need to talk.

“How’s the internship?”

“Hm?” you say, startled by the question. “Honestly? I’m kind of loving it. Sam’s great.”

“She’s a menace. Not actually. Sam’s good at that. Letting you find your footing.”

You both cross a street, the sky softening overhead with hints of fall. Bree isn’t big, more quiet than Bristol. You like that nothing demands too much from you here.

“She mentioned you were coming. Didn’t think you’d actually show. She scared the last one off.”

You smile. “Funny, she said you’d be the one to scare me off. Anyway, I almost didn’t. Needed to get away from some things.”

Max looks ahead while he walks. “Yeah. I get that.”

You pass another block in silence. When you reach the turn for your place, you turn your head in that direction. Max nods once. “Good luck with the cereal.”

“Good luck with the running,” you shoot back.

You’re not sure what that was. It felt okay. Max Verstappen is a lot more down-to-Earth than you would’ve expected.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Today’s your day off! You start by taking a long nap, after which you see that dearest Mara has texted you.

mara(malade) soooooooooooooo

mara(malade) up up up!! rise and shine!! wakey wakey!!

You facetime her.

“Someone took their sweet time,” she says snarkily.

“I love you too.”

Mara smiles, “oh, you’re sappy today. What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing. My DMs are as dry as the Sahara desert.”

With a cackle, she says, “funny, funny. You’d be a wonderful comedian, you know?”

“Sure. How’s Dan?”

“Cut his hair. I’m mourning.”

“Hah.”

“You make any friends?”

“My boss is great. My coworkers are great,” you say.

“Work is going to eat you alive,” Mara scoffs. “I mean actual friends, babe. You go out to drink?”

You make a face. “Surprisingly—I mean surprisingly, I worked at a bar for so long—no.”

“Your life is miserable,” she says, but she doesn’t mean it.

“Actually,” you say, “I think I do have a friend. It’s funny, though. Don’t laugh. I know it’s ironic.”

“Go on,” she says, expecting the worst.

You blow a raspberry. “So, this guy who used to race with, well,” you can’t say Lando’s name, not yet, “he’s my boss’s cousin. And he’s a big deal.”

“Driver?” Mara interrupts, “let me guess which one. Dan’s educated me.”

“Go ahead.”

“No, I need details. Personality? Don’t give too much away.”

You think. “Um. He’s Dutch—”

“—Max Verstappen.”

“What? How’d you get it so fast?”

“It’s that or Nyck de Vries. You said big deal.”

Bewildered, “who?”

Mara rolls her eyes. “Doesn’t matter. That’s crazy. He’s a biiiiiig deal.”

“Thanks, Mara. I didn’t know.”

“Is he nice in real life?”

“Yeah, I’d say. We’re not super close, though.”

“Well,” Mara concludes, “one half-friend is better than none. Miss you.”

“Me too. You visiting me anytime soon?”

“My broke ass? I wish.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The thing about living in Bree is that everything’s walkable, and that’s a bit dangerous when you’re used to structuring your life around needing a car or a schedule or something big to do. Here, your calendar is soft. You have a little structure in the meetings, reading hours, and grocery runs.

Max keeps showing up on those.

You never plan it. Yet, most Saturdays, when you walk the streets toward the market square, you’ll hear the soft rhythm of footsteps behind you—quicker than yours, like he’s jogging—and there he is.

“Do you time these, or is it just fate?” you ask him this morning as he falls into step beside you.

“I have a sixth sense for overly ambitious grocery lists,” he says, pretending to peek at your phone. You’ve learned about his sense of humor. You enjoy it. “Tell me you’re not buying three different types of mushrooms again.”

“I like mushrooms.”

“You bought oyster mushrooms last week and forgot them in the fridge.”

You scrunch up your face. “Snitch.”

“Clean your fridge. You’re going to die of something,” Max says, straight-faced.

The walk to the market is short. You both pause by a new flower stall. He eyes the tulips. “Too obvious,” he mutters.

“Excuse me?”

“If I brought someone tulips, they’d think I picked the first thing that came up when I searched ‘romantic flower Belgium.’”

You tease, “You spend a lot of time thinking about being romantic?”

He gives you a look. “I spend a lot of time around Sam. She tries to set me up with her yoga instructor every time I breathe.”

“Is she cute?”

“Very,” Max deadpans, “but she thinks Formula 1 is a type of protein shake.”

You laugh harder than you should. At the produce tent, you hold up a tomato. “Good or bad?”

Max squints, shakes his head. “Looks smug. Pick a different one.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m helpful. It’s my only marketable skill.”

“Sure, driver,” you say. You’re halfway through your list when you realize he’s carrying half your items. Max has two apples in his hoodie pocket, a baguette slung under one arm, and a jar of honey that he’s twirling idly in his hand. “You know you don’t have to do this with me.”

“I know,” he says easily.

And he does. He always makes it feel like he’s just passing by, just joining for a bit, just walking you home because it’s on his way. There’s a difference between obligation and presence, and he’s never once made you feel like a chore.

He pauses outside the bakery, staring at the cinnamon buns in the window. “Do I want one or will I regret it?” he asks you.

“You always regret it. But you also always eat it anyway.”

“Sounds like a metaphor.”

You lift a brow, say, “about?”

Max shrugs. “Something Sam said. About people, who we trust, that kind of thing, bad decisions. You know Sam. I think she’d be a psychologist if not…whatever she does.”

You don’t laugh, even though it’s funny. It rings a little too close to home. “Get your cinnamon bun. I’ll go grab the milk.”

When you meet again outside, he’s already taken a bite, cinnamon dusting his fingers. Max tears off a corner and offers it to you, which you accept.

The walk back is quieter. You’ve said enough for now. You know he’ll walk you all the way to your front step. He always does. As you unlock the door, he leans against the wall, still chewing thoughtfully.

“You ever think about staying longer?” he asks suddenly.

“In Bree?”

He shrugs. “Here.”

You don’t answer. You think about tulips and expired mushrooms and his hoodie pocket filled with apples.

“Maybe,” you say.

Nodding, Max responds, “See you Monday.”

“Don’t forget your bun wrapper on the ground this time.”

“Wow. No faith.”

You hear him chuckling down the street long after you close the door. You open your bag of groceries and see another cinnamon bun inside. It makes you smile.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The article William sent you makes your head swim. You need to talk to him about it, not now, he’s never in the office. He’s always running around and finding new papers other people should read. Must be fun assigning work.

Sam walks in with two mugs of tea. Hers always smells like something earthy and medicinal, yours sweeter. She sets one down beside you without comment, then plops into the chair opposite.

“You and Max went shopping again?”

You shrug. “He just shows up. I don’t invite him.”

Sam lifts a brow. “Of course not. He just senses your lack of upper body strength and offers to carry potatoes.”

You grin, half-embarrassed. “That was one time.”

“Mmhmm.” She lifts her mug to her mouth. “You know he doesn’t do that for everyone, right?”

You blink. “Do what?”

“Grocery walk. He likes his solitude. Usually dodges people like they’re reporters.”

“Maybe he’s just bored,” you say, a little too fast. “Or being nice. Or, I don’t know, we live nearby, it’s easy.”

Sam gives you a look. “Max doesn’t do things just because they’re easy. He’s too stubborn for that.”

You glance back down at your article.

“He told me,” she adds, “that you gave him grief about his cinnamon bun habits.”

You groan. “He eats so much, I’m concerned about his health. I know they’re good. That many, though, he’s going to get diabetes.”

“I think he likes that you tell him things no one else does.” You pause, your pen frozen in hand. Sam watches you quietly. “He talks about you, you know. Not much. More than he talks about most people.”

You don’t know what to do with that.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” she says gently. “You just seem happier.”

“I’m still me.”

She agrees, “You are. But you’re not looking over your shoulder anymore. Anyway! William has notes for you. Thank me, not him, I requested them.”

Later, after she’s gone and you’re packing up for the evening, you find a folded receipt tucked inside your notebook, from the market bakery. Two cinnamon buns. Scrawled across the top, in Max’s messy handwriting:

you’re right.

regret but worth it

You stare at it for a while. You don’t throw it away.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

As you said at the very start of this tale, the death of what, exactly? You don’t know. The death of the old Lando. You mourn, sometimes, what could have been. If you had been an artist, maybe you would’ve captured it like this, him the fire, you the tinder. Eventually, you would’ve burnt out. It was a matter of keeping yourself alive. Would you have died for his happiness? Maybe the old you. There, the death of that too.

You see him in the tabloids, less than before. He’s still single, as far as you know. Camilla has a boyfriend, but they seem to remain friends. His career’s going great—this, Max tells you. You trust him on that. You think, good for him. In the end, he didn’t have to choose between loving his sport, his fans, and you. And he seems happy. He smiles on the podium. Smiles everywhere. Not the same smile he used to give you, of course, but he still smiles. That’s better than nothing. Then again, it’s none of your business, not anymore.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The second-hand bookshelf you picked up from a Facebook group is stubborn. You accept the truth: you are going to break it, or yourself, or both. Your toolbox is open. Your patience is waning.

So, somewhat shamefully, you text Max.

you ru busy

you i have a shelf that’s defeating me

You’re not even sure he’ll reply. It’s a Thursday afternoon, and he’s probably on one of his mysterious forest runs, or on his SIM machine again.

Three minutes later, he responds:

maximilian On my way.

maximilian Don’t touch anything. I mean it.

He types like an old man. You always say his name wrong, on purpose. Maximilian, like it’s one word. That’s how you greet him at the front door.

“Why are there two fucking screwdrivers?” he asks.

“Dunno.”

He snorts, crouches beside the pile. “You have it upside down.”

“Oh.”

You sit on the floor again while he sorts the screws into neat little piles with a strange kind of reverence. You watch him from the side, the way his brows draw together, the precision of his hands.

“Is this what you do for fun?” you ask.

He glances at you. “You invited me.”

“Fair.”

You laugh whenever he swears under his breath in Dutch. He teaches you a few of them, a favor you can’t return because English doesn’t have enough. Godverdomme, you now say instead of goddamn.

At one point, you accidentally knock over one of his carefully balanced structures and you think he’s going to die from exasperation, but instead he says, “you’re lucky you’re cute.”

“What?”

He blinks, unfazed. “I said—”

“No, I heard you.”

“Okay then. Don’t get a big head about it.”

Eventually the shelf stands, slightly uneven but proud. You both sit back against the wall, staring at it like it might collapse just from your gaze.

“Honestly,” you say, “I hate to say this, but I might never put anything on it. Too risky.”

“Probably smart.” His arm is warm beside yours, close but not touching. You look over at him and find him already looking at you.

“What?” you ask, trying to sound casual.

He shakes his head. “You’re different from when I met you.”

“Different how?”

“Less sad.”

You blink. You hadn’t realized how much you’d carried into Bree, how much of it had slowly started to peel off without you noticing. You don’t answer, and he doesn’t push. Instead, Max tilts his head toward the shelf. “Think it’ll hold at least a book?”

“No,” you say honestly. “But maybe plants.”

“Plants are good.”

He gets up, stretches, and offers you a hand. You take it.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Wine, what a glorious thing! Sam had left you both a bottle as a thank-you—something about helping her rearrange boxes in the archive room—and you’d cracked it open after dinner, half as a joke, half because you were too lazy to leave your apartment to get anything else. Max is sitting on your floor again, following your choice.

He asks, “you always sit on the floor?”

“You always ask obvious questions?”

“Fair.”

The wine is good, warm in your chest. Your bookshelf, the one he built, is already half full. He noticed earlier and made a quiet joke about it. Something like, “you didn’t even wait a week to tempt fate, huh?”

The new development is that he brought up Lando a week ago and you went completely still. You knew they were friends, yeah, but not still in touch. Max knows you dated, just didn’t tell you. He knows. What to do with that? He offers, “was he really that bad?”

The ‘he’ needs no clarification. You don’t talk about Lando, not here. Not in Belgium, your new life. But Max’s voice is careful. Just curious in the way of someone who might actually care.

You sigh. “No. I don’t think so. Not at first. It wasn’t supposed to be anything. You know how we met? He was drunk at the bar I worked at. After he lost his mum, yeah. Then he kept coming into my life, wanted me to be his sugar baby, then I guess I was his girlfriend. Then it was everything. And then it was too much.”

The sentence stops there as you watch your wine catch the light.

“He got really intense,” you say, finally. “Jealous, mostly. Not of anyone in particular. He just needed to feel like I needed him.”

Max nods slowly. He looks at the carpet. “That’s a hard kind of person to let go of.”

“He told me he loved me when I said I needed a break.”

“Did it work?”

You shake your head. “I felt bad.”

Then: “He ever hit you?”

You look up sharply. “No. God, no.”

Max breathes out, almost like relief. “Okay.”

“But it still felt like I couldn’t breathe,” you add. “Like I was being watched all the time. And the worst part is, I think he thought he was being romantic. Like, that he was proving something. That he loved me more than anything else in his life.”

“Some people mistake possession for love,” Max says quietly.

You repeat, “he didn’t hit me. But he scared me. A little.”

He nods again. You appreciate that he doesn’t tell you what you should have done. Doesn’t offer advice. Eventually, you nudge his socked foot with yours. “You ever been in love?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“Thought I loved someone else. Too late when I wanted to turn back.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Probably for good reason. I didn’t know how to be soft with her until it was too late. Then I just stayed with Kelly. We had a happy family.”

You look at him a long moment. You know Max is divorced, that was a stupid question. But the love he talks about is not his ex-wife. It’s a girl, a woman before her. Love is complicated, hard to understand. Something in your chest folds up quietly into itself. You can understand this much of Max.

You don’t say any of that. Instead, you pour him the last of the wine, and when he bumps your glass with his in a quiet toast, you grin.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Sam might be a terrible cook, but she makes great bread. So the house smells like rosemary, just how she likes it.

Max stands near the edge of the kitchen. His free arm rests loosely against the counter. Familiar voices cloud his senses, people he’s known forever. He watches the doorway.

He doesn’t mean to. He tells himself it’s just curiosity—you said you might come, after all. Said you had to finish a draft for Johannes, but maybe you’d show up later. No promises, just the kind of answer you give when you’re trying not to assume you’re expected.

Then you do show up. At the right moment, when people have stopped glancing at the door, when the first bottle of wine is already gone and Sam is mid-speech with a cookie in her hand. Max sees it before anyone else. You looks around the room, scanning. Max doesn’t think. He just moves.

“Hey,” he says, reaching you before anyone else can.

“Hey.”

“You came.”

“Yeah. Sorry I’m late. I couldn’t figure out what to wear, and then my email crashed, and—”

“You look good.”

You stop, brain short-circuiting. “Oh. Thanks.”

It comes out too fast, too easy. He doesn’t take it back. He watches your shoulders drop a little, relaxed. “You want a drink?” he asks, already stepping toward the kitchen.

Later, you end up on the balcony together.

It’s colder than either of you expected. You wear a thin sweater, shivering slightly, so he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders without asking. You smell like cinnamon, or maybe it’s just the drink you’re nursing.

Inside, someone’s laughing too loudly. Sam, probably. She’s a little drunk. Everyone’s a little drunk.

“Happy birthday,” you’d said earlier, pressing the tiny bag into Sam’s hands. “It’s just a notebook. But it’s handmade. I saw it and thought of you.”

Sam had actually teared up. Max hadn’t even brought a gift. Whoops. He did bring drinks, though, which makes it up a little.

“You’re good at this,” he says now, tilting his glass toward you.

“What, parties?”

“No. Showing up.”

You look over at him, brows drawn slightly. “Is that a compliment or an accusation?”

He shrugs. “Maybe both.”

“You’re weird, Maximilian.”

“You’re not the first person to say that.”

You lean forward on the balcony rail, letting the wind lift your hair slightly. He watches you in profile, the curve of your jaw, the way you press her lips together when you’re thinking.

It hits him then, low and sudden and unannounced. He wants you to stay.

Not just tonight. Not just in Bree, even if you have to leave after these six months are over. He wants you in his routines, in his late grocery runs, in the silence of his mornings. In the spaces he never thought anyone could fill without making noise. You’re not doing anything extraordinary. You’re not even looking at him.

Max thinks about how easily you fit into this evening. How naturally you’ve been showing up in his days, one by one.

Shit.

He knows, now. He knows.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You’re halfway through brushing your teeth when you stop. Just stop, mid-circle, toothpaste foaming, because the way Max looked at you tonight won’t leave your brain. Not in a creepy way, not even necessarily in a romantic way. He noticed something and didn’t rush to define it. You spit and rinse before grabbing your phone.

Mara picks up on the third ring, groggy. “It’s like, two a.m. here.”

“Okay, sorry—”

“No, I’m awake. I’m awake. Are you okay?”

You sit on the edge of your bed, still in Max’s jacket because, yeah, you forgot you were wearing it. “I think I have a crush.”

“Oh my God.”

“Don’t. Don’t say anything yet.”

Mara’s silent. Which is worse than anything, actually.

“I didn’t mean to,” you say, curling your legs under yourself. “We were at Sam’s birthday party, and he gave me his coat, and then we were talking outside, and he made this weird joke about how I ‘show up,’ and like, who says that? But also, it was nice. And I didn’t feel weird. I didn’t feel like I had to try.”

Mara exhales. “Woah. Stop. Max Verstappen?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure he’s not just being polite?”

“No. I mean, well, maybe? But no. I don’t think so. He helps me carry groceries sometimes. And he built my bookshelf. And he remembers how I like my coffee. And it’s not like. I don’t know. It’s not like Lando.”

There it is, his name, the pause it still pulls from you.

Mara catches it too. “You think he’s different?”

“I know he is. It’s not the same thing. Max is so calm. He doesn’t ask for anything. He’s like an old man, you know, he’s retired and has money and just does what he likes. Not a lot, surprisingly. He doesn’t need me to reassure him. He just shows up.”

She hums, “so why do you sound like you’re trying to convince yourself?”

You bite your lip. “I think I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

You look at the ceiling with its yellowing corners.

“I think I’m scared it won’t last. That I’ll ruin it. That I’ll care and he won’t. Or worse, he’ll care, and I won’t be ready. I don't know if I'm capable of doing this again, Mara. Not after what happened with—”

“Hey.” she cuts you off gently. “You’re not the same person anymore. And he’s not Lando.”

You say, “he stayed on the balcony with me. Didn’t even check his phone once.”

“Then maybe start there,” Mara says. “One small thing at a time. You don’t have to fall in love. You can just let someone care about you.”

You sniff, smile. You didn’t realize you were crying. She adds, “also. If you do fall in love, please tell me before the internet does this time?”

You laugh. “Deal.”

You leave his jacket on when you hang on. You don’t need to decide anything tonight. But Godverdomme, it’s warm.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Your canvas tote is a little heavier than usual, but Max carries most of it without asking. Like always. Like always. You're going to miss this. You're already missing it, and you're not even gone yet.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says, looking at you.

“Just thinking.”

He doesn’t push. Like always.

You say, “I think I don’t want to leave.” You don’t mean it to sound so honest. Still, it comes out that way.

“You’re not going far, are you?”

“No. But it’s not here.” You admit, “I didn’t think I’d like it so much. When I first got here, I didn’t even know what side of the street to walk on. I was scared all the time.”

Max says, “And now?”

You smile, looking up at him. “Now I know which stall has the best tomatoes. And that Sam always brings pastries on Mondays. And that you take the same running route every morning.”

His mouth quirks into a smile. “You’ve been spying?”

“I have eyes.”

He laughs. You walk a little longer, past the bookstore that always has one light still on, even when it’s closed.

“I’m going to miss this,” you say.

He’s quiet. Then Max says, “I’ll miss it too.”

You glance over at him. “Do you ever think about what it’d be like to stop moving?”

“Sometimes. But I’m not very good at standing still.”

“You seem like you are.”

“That’s because I like walking with you.”

You stop walking. He does too, but doesn’t look away. You eye the bread in your hands, and say, “it’s still warm.”

“You want to eat it now?”

“Obviously.”

So you sit on the nearest bench and tear the loaf in half. It’s no cinnamon roll, but it’s good. No promises, you think, just this. You, and Max, and something that might last even if you leave

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

It’s been a long week. Final paperwork, goodbye emails, thank-you cards. Everyone at the institute has been kind. Sam said you’ll always have a place here. William, in his way, offered to write you letters of recommendation for any program you wanted. Johannes gives you a nice pen with your name on it. He says he presents a similar one for each of his good colleagues.

“Hi,” Max says, on your doorstep.

“Hi.”

You step aside.

“Are you busy?”

You glance at the half-folded t-shirt in your hand. “Nope.”

He nods. You shut the door behind him. He stands in the center of your living room before holding out the bag. “I brought those stroopwafels you like.”

Your brows rise. “From that café near the canal?”

With a grin, Max says, “I bribed the guy. He’s closed Mondays.”

“You didn’t. Max!”

“I did.” He shrugs, smug and sheepish all at once. “I figured if you’re leaving next week…”

You take the bag gently. “Thanks.”

He looks around, sees the half-packed suitcase near the kitchen counter. “So it’s real, huh.”

“Yeah.”

“Feels fake.”

He doesn’t say much. He never has to. You just fell into him, quietly, slowly, like water finding the cracks. “So,” Max asks, “what happens when you go back?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’ll go back to your life. That guy?”

You shake your head quickly. “No. No. That’s done.”

He studies your face. “I think I forgot how it feels. To want someone and not have to perform it. Not for cameras, not for anyone. Just want them.”

You look at him expectantly.

Max says, “you made everything quiet again.”

“Max…” You look at him, look at his eyes. Lando’s were clear and only reflected what you wanted. Max’s are the color of the ocean, more green than blue, resolute in the way he holds himself, knows himself.

“If I kiss you,” he says, “are you gonna pretend it didn’t mean anything?”

“No.”

“Then don’t kiss me unless you mean it.”

You’re already moving. You don’t know who leans in first, just like you don’t know most things with him. It just happens, a breath you’ve been holding in for weeks, maybe longer. His hand cups your face, slow and reverent. He’s asking with his gentleness.

You answer him in how you don’t pull away. In how your hands find the hem of his hoodie.

It deepens. Max exhales into your mouth. “That okay?” he murmurs.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He drops his hand, pulls you in by the waist for a hug. “Good.”

You sit like that for a while. This is, you think, the aftermath of something that’s been building since your first grocery run. You think, this isn’t complicated.

It really isn’t.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

It ends the fall of ‘29.

Maybe ‘30, if you want to be specific with these things. Somewhere late in ‘29 is when you fall in love with him. ‘30 is when you start dating “officially,” meaning that the rest of the world finds out. It takes a while. It’s never easy, learning a new pattern, a new language that means love; but with him, it’s never difficult. There’s no question of reassurance. But you don’t feel like categorizing everything meticulously. With Max, you take what comes and he’s always full of surprises, so that’s not a problem.

This is where you’re meant to be. This is something real, something that stays even when the autumn leaves fall, when nights get cold and neither of you want to leave the bed’s comfort. He stays, as do you, through all the seasons, all the moods, all the years.

You gave a part of yourself to Lando, fit it into his heart—saying his name doesn’t hurt; you look back and maybe even smile—and the emptiness no longer bothers you. It’s no longer there.

“Lieverd?” you hear the familiar nickname. Sweetheart, Max calls you, in his own way, in Dutch. Sweetheart, just like how Lando used to. You tell him this and he only laughs.

Same and different, he comments. You mull over his words. Same and different. Same love, different love. You stop thinking about it. Max calls for you again, so you hurry over. Tonight’s dinner is his patat special, your favorite, too.

Max: how do you begin? He is not your life, not all of it; he makes everything that is better. You included.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

a/n: thank you for reading! please let me know any of your thoughts <3 i love hearing them

#formula one #max verstappen x reader #f1 #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #mv1 #ln4 #lando norris #max verstappen #fanfic #oikarma ᯓᡣ𐭩

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