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sunsburns · 5 months ago

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30 for 30 (i.) — vi (league of legends) !

⟢ synopsis. you swear you would be in peace if it wasn’t for her. but this kept you on your toes, you guessed. just the way you liked it. besides, everyone knew that falling in love with your best friend’s older sister only led to trouble.

⟢ contains. afab!reader, arcane!vi, feminine characteristics, angst, lesbians, lots and lots of longing, the reader is lowkey insane i cannot lie, vi is kinda toxic but we love her anyway, modern!au, nsfw, fingering, oral, really bad ending sorry, SMUT 18+.

⟢ word count. 17k+

⟢ part two: 30 for 30 (ii.)

⟢ authors note. i have been working on this for the last 6 weeks and i have lived so many lives through this fic. christmas passed, then new years, and then my abuelo died a few days ago. no one talk to me for a while, please.

You were totally, utterly smitten.

Every curve, cave, and mark of your heart was tainted, etched with her name in invisible ink only you could read. It felt like liquid gold ran through your veins, molten and alive, heating your body from the inside out. The rush of it coursed through you, fingers buzzing with static, your chest tightening as if you were holding your breath for years without ever exhaling.

Your vision blurred, a tunnel of light where every refraction became an iridescent heart, glowing faintly in the distance. And yet, over it all, denial bubbled and crackled in your mind like a sputtering fuse. You told yourself it wasn’t real—just a trick of adolescence, a fleeting desire, the way your brain played with shadows and feelings to make you feel like this.

It wasn’t unusual, you reasoned. Lots of people thought their best friend’s older sibling was cool. Admiration was natural, harmless even. Powder sure loved to tease you about it.

And maybe, when you were younger, the way your chest fluttered when Violet smiled was just a childish crush, the kind you’d laugh about later.

But you didn’t laugh.

Because the years kept moving, and the feeling never left. It dug in, shifting from an innocent admiration to something heavier, harder to ignore. It was a slow burn—each year adding fuel to a fire you couldn’t destroy. Every glance she threw your way, every offhand comment that lingered in your mind like a melody you couldn’t stop humming, every time she showed up for Powder with that effortless swagger, the heat in your chest built.

She wasn’t just cool. She was intoxicating. Destructive. The kind of person who drew people in and broke them apart without meaning to, leaving them scrambling to put themselves back together again. And you were no exception.

You told yourself it was a passing phase, a silly infatuation that would fade as you got older. But it didn’t. Instead, it grew roots, wrapping itself between your ribs, tightening its grip with every stolen moment, breaking the bone until it seized your heart too.

She became a constant—there, just out of reach.

But then, there was a glance that lingered too long. And another. And then another. Shy gazes turned knowing, wanting. Kind smiles started to curve on themselves, smirking, teasing.

Then her hand brushed yours one night, deliberate, the press of her fingers against your wrist sending a jolt through your body.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice low, the kind that made you feel like the world had narrowed to just the two of you.

You weren’t.

How could you be when her breath was warm against your neck, her hands mapping every inch of your skin with an urgency that left you breathless? Her touch was fire, consuming you, leaving marks you swore she’d never see. She kissed you like she was trying to memorize you, her lips and teeth and tongue tracing the parts of you that ached for her.

The nights that followed were stolen—whispers exchanged in the dark, her body tangled with yours beneath sheets that smelled of her and regret. She’d show up unexpectedly, her knuckles rapping softly against your window, her grin equal parts cocky and sheepish when you let her in.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you whispered once over the pounding of your heart.

But she just kissed you in response, her hands holding your face, her touch rough but reverent.

It was reckless, a secret you both held tightly, but it felt like falling—wild and thrilling like nothing else mattered.

Until it ended.

You should have seen it coming. The signs were there, subtle but unmistakable, like the way her touches lingered less, her smiles carried an unfamiliar edge of hesitation, or how she started showing up later and leaving earlier.

She pulled away first. Her body still sought yours in the dark, her kisses still burned against your skin—but something else tugged her away. The linkage you’ve made, fragile and unspoken, began to crack under the weight of what neither of you could say.

And then, one night, it just stopped.

There was no confrontation, no goodbye. Just a shitty note, scrawled in her rushed handwriting. An apology that didn’t explain anything and only left you with more questions than answers.

Sorry, can’t keep doing this. Take care.

That was it.

What the fuck? Who fucking does that?

You used to think you knew Vi, considering the two of you have known each other for years but for fucks sake. A fucking note?

You were left hollow, raw, trying to patch yourself together while carrying the weight of what you’d lost. The ache wasn’t sharp or explosive; it was slow and steady, a dull throb that settled in your chest and refused to leave. Like an old injury, it reminded you of her every time you tried to move on.

And then there was Powder.

The one thing both of you could agree on is that Powder could not know.

You couldn’t look at her without guilt sinking its claws deeper into you. Every laugh felt tinged with the shadow of what you were hiding from her. You’d never wanted to hurt her, not Powder—your other half, your best friend. But now, even sitting in the same room as her felt suffocating. She didn’t know why you pulled away, why you avoided talking about her sister, but she noticed. You saw it in her eyes, the way they clouded with quiet confusion and hurt.

Shit. You fucked up. Really bad.

You tried to fix it, pouring yourself into your friendship with Powder to make up for what you’d broken. But the cracks were there, widening with every forced laugh, every moment her gaze lingered too long, silently asking you what was wrong.

Did this make you a bad friend?

You told yourself it didn’t, that you were doing the right thing by keeping the secret buried until the day you died. But Violet was everywhere.

She was in every corner of that house, in every fucking memory. Her laughter echoed in your mind when the silence stretched too long, and her absence hung heavy in the air, turning a place that should have been safe into something haunted.

Now, the crunch of snow beneath your boots was deafening in the stillness of the night. Your breath hung in the air, visible and fleeting, mingling with the sharp scent of winter. The cold was unrelenting, biting through the thick layers of your coat and scarf, nipping at your cheeks and fingertips despite your gloves.

Ekko stood beside you, adjusting the knit hat pulled low over his ears. He shifted from foot to foot, his warm brown coat dusted with snowflakes that clung stubbornly to the fabric. His scarf was wrapped snugly around his neck, and his expression was relaxed, a stark contrast to the tightness in your chest.

You tugged at the sleeves of your coat, pulling them further over your hands as if that could keep the cold—and your nerves—at bay.

The house before you looked like something out of a holiday postcard. Twinkling Christmas lights lined the rooftop, casting a golden glow over the snow-laden yard. Frost framed the windows, and a simple wreath adorned the weathered front door, its red bow vibrant against the muted greens. The faint aroma of pine and cinnamon drifted from inside, wrapping around you like a bittersweet memory.

You stared at the door, every second stretching longer than it should. Standing here again, in this place so familiar yet painfully different, you wondered if coming back was a mistake.

Ekko nudged you gently with his elbow. “You good?” His voice was soft, a puff of mist forming with each word.

You nodded, though the knot in your stomach said otherwise. “Yeah,” you murmured. “Just... cold.”

Before either of you could knock, the door swung open.

Vi stood there, her presence commanding even in the soft glow of the porch light. Her once-vibrant pink hair had grown longer, the colour almost red at the ends, with dark roots framing her face in uneven strands that still carried that effortless charm. She wore a sweater and a jacket that stretched over her broad shoulders and dark jeans tucked into worn combat boots.

Her gaze landed on you, and for a moment, something flickered there—recognition, maybe even surprise—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. Her lips curved into a faint smile, but it wasn’t warm. If anything, it felt like a placeholder for something she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say.

“Oh,” she said after a beat, her voice carrying an edge of surprise but little warmth. “Hey, guys. You’re early. Like, two days early.”

“We’re staying for the night,” Ekko said, brushing snow off his coat. “I thought Vander told you. He and Powder invited us.”

Vi blinked, her expression shifting almost imperceptibly as her jaw tightened. Her eyes flickered toward you—briefly, like looking too long might hurt—before she stepped aside.

“Oh,” she murmured, her voice quieter this time. “Right. Yeah. I was just heading out... but, uh, come in.”

The warmth of the house hit you immediately as you stepped through the door, but it barely thawed the chill lingering in your chest. The soft creak of the wooden floor welcomed you back like an old friend, though the once-chaotic energy of the home was subdued. The living room was tidier than you remembered, with carefully placed holiday decorations that hinted at some change within the walls.

Ekko stomped his boots on the mat and shrugged off his coat, but you hesitated, taking in the quiet. The faint murmur of laughter from upstairs made you smile, though your focus was pulled back to the sound of the door clicking shut behind you.

Vi lingered in the entryway, her frame silhouetted against the soft glow of Christmas lights spilling through the frosted windows. She looked different—older, sharper. Her pink hair was darker now at the roots, the faded strands falling over her face in a way that made her seem distant, untouchable. She shifted her weight, the leather of her jacket creaking softly, and the tension in her shoulders was noticeable.

Before either of you could say anything, a blur of blue came bounding down the stairs.

“ Finally! ” Powder’s voice carried through the room as she launched herself at you, arms tight around your shoulders. Your bags hit the floor with a dull thud as you caught her, laughing despite the ache in your chest.

She hadn’t changed much. Though her hair was shorter now, spiked at odd angles and choppy. Her hair was shorter now, spiked at odd angles, and choppy in a way that screamed ’last-minute experiment.’ You remembered her midnight call a few days ago, her voice buzzing with nerves and excitement over the impulsive haircut.

You hugged her back with the same force and you could feel the warmth of her cheek against yours. There was something undeniably comforting about being near her again.

When you pulled back, your gaze drifted to her hair, and you reached out instinctively, teasingly tugging at one jagged edge. “It looks worse in person,” you said with a smirk. “I thought you said Silco would fix it for you?”

Powder rolled her eyes dramatically, though her grin stayed firmly in place. “Jesus Christ, I just got home a few hours ago. Cut me some slack.”

“I’ve missed you,” you said, your voice softening as you leaned back to really look at her.

“Missed you more,” she shot back instantly, her arms still lingering on your shoulders like she was afraid to let go. “God, it’s been way too long.”

“Not that long,” Mylo called from the end of the stairs, “We literally saw each other at Thanksgiving.”

Powder’s head snapped around, glaring. “Fuck off, Mylo.”

“Just saying,” he muttered, disappearing into the kitchen with a shrug.

Powder turned back to you with a huff but couldn’t suppress the laugh bubbling up. “What an asshole. I swear he hasn’t grown up a day.” She pressed a quick kiss to your cheek before bounding toward Ekko, who barely had time to react before she threw herself into his arms.

Ekko froze for a split second, his hands hovering awkwardly before resting on her waist. You stifled a grin as she leaned up to kiss him lightly on the lips. His ears turned crimson against his dark skin, and the sight almost made you laugh, but you held it in. Powder, of course, acted like nothing had happened, grabbing his bags and darting further into the house.

“Vander and Silco aren’t home yet,” she called over her shoulder, barely breaking stride. “They’re doing last-minute shopping with Claggor and Isha.”

You and Ekko exchanged a glance—his flustered expression made you grin wider—and then he followed her further inside.

You reached for your bag, your attention wandering as your eyes traced the wallpaper. It was new—bright and floral—but seemed oddly out of place against the worn, scuffed floors and familiar marked walls. Your fingers brushed at the strap absently, your mind still half-caught on the contrast between the house's old and new pieces.

A warm touch startled you.

Your hand stilled as you glanced down, finding Vi’s fingers barely brushing the strap of your bag. She froze too, her hand hovering awkwardly next to yours. For a moment, neither of you moved, the shared hesitation thick in the air between you.

“I just…” Vi’s voice broke the silence, softer than you’d expected. “In case you needed help,” she added, her tone careful. Without waiting for an answer, she slid the strap off the floor and into her hand. The weight didn’t faze her—of course it didn’t.

She stepped back immediately, her hands dropping to her sides. Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t argue. For a second, it seemed like she might say something more, but the moment passed.

You waited—just a beat longer than you should have—but when she didn’t speak, you turned toward the stairs. Each step thudded softly beneath you, the weight of her silence trailing after you like an unwelcome shadow.

The grooves in the banister felt familiar under your fingertips, grounding you as you looked back. Vi hadn’t moved. Her hands were shoved into the pockets of her jacket, her shoulders hunched forward as though she was trying to shrink in on herself. Her jaw worked tight, and her gaze was fixed on the floor, unyielding.

Something about the set of her shoulders tugged at your stomach, twisting it into an uneasy knot. But before you could decide whether to say something, she turned on her heel and slipped out the front door, letting it click softly shut behind her.

The ache in your chest lingered as you moved down the hall toward Powder’s room. Slipping in through the open door felt like stepping into a memory.

Nothing had changed.

The posters on the walls curled at the edges, faded from sunlight and time, but they were the same ones Powder had painstakingly arranged in high school. Her desk was a familiar mess of old art supplies, dried-up bottles of nail polish, and a tangle of wires from unfinished projects. A precarious stack of sketchbooks leaned against the desk lamp, and the familiar scent of vanilla candles mingled with something faintly chemical.

You smiled softly, running your fingers along the edge of her desk. It was comforting, in a way, to see how untouched it all felt, as though the past few years had been frozen in this space.

“What's the mattress for?” Ekko dropped his bag onto the floor with a loud thud.

Powder, kneeling on the ground by the end of the bed, didn’t look up as she smoothed the worn blanket over the mattress she’d pulled from the closet. “The three of us won’t fit on the bed.”

Ekko scoffed. “Don’t really want to share, anyway.”

You crossed your arms, arching a brow at him. “Not sharing a bed with me, or Pow?”

“You can’t just claim the bed,” you shot back, indignant.

“Why not? First come, first served.” Ekko leaned back, folding his arms behind his head like he was already settling in.

“Oh, come on.” You kicked at the mattress. “You’ve got this nice old mattress right here.”

He narrowed his eyes, clearly enjoying your indignation. “ You’ve got a nice old mattress.” Then he smirked, playing his trump card. “I’m the boyfriend. So I should get the bed with her.”

“By that logic, I’m the best friend,” you countered. “Therefore, I should get the bed.”

Powder glanced over her shoulder, her face split into a wide grin. “Flip a coin for it. I don’t care who gets the bed or not.” Then, as if anticipating neither of you would back down, she added, “Both of you can sleep on the floor if you really want.”

Her teasing pulled the tension out of the air, and Ekko shot you a victorious smirk as he rolled to the center to take up even more room.

You rolled your eyes, giving up the fight for now.

As the moment passed, your gaze drifted back to her desk. Amid the usual chaos of supplies and half-finished projects was something new: an open gift box. Curious, you stepped closer.

Inside was a framed collage, a carefully arranged mix of photos and clippings. There were pictures from Powder’s childhood, moments preserved from long-forgotten holidays and all the Christmases Vander and your parents had documented. A mix of photos showed her with her family, you, and Ekko in the snow. There were clippings of ribbons Powder used to wear in her hair, pressed flat against the collage, and notes you didn’t recognize.

“This is so cute,” you said, your curiosity piqued. “Who gave you that?”

Powder glanced up from the bed, her grin softening. “Vi. She gave it to me early—said she couldn’t wait until Christmas.”

Her tone was casual, but there was a warmth in her eyes as she spoke.

“Vi made that?” you asked, surprised.

Powder nodded. “She’s got her moments, you know.”

Ekko leaned back against the wall, chuckling. “You sound surprised. Vi’s the most sentimental person in this house.”

You blinked, caught off guard, your gaze flicking back to the collage. The little details stood out now—tiny notes scribbled in the margins of photos, careful placements that could only come from someone who knew Powder inside and out.

The realization settled slowly in your chest, like the soft weight of something long overdue. In the past few months, you’d let Vi’s tough act make a fool of you. You’d seen her through a lens warped by anger and frustration, letting her sharp edges and rough words overshadow everything else.

But you were wrong. You’d always known that, deep down.

Growing up, Vi had been a force of nature. Unstoppable, brooding, fierce in everything she did. She carried herself like someone who didn’t know how to back down, who didn’t know how to break. And maybe, as a kid, you’d believed that too—that she couldn’t break, that she was untouchable. But even then, there had been moments that broke through the storm, glimpses of the person she really was.

She’d always been the first to defend Powder when other kids teased her. She’d always been the one to step in when fights got too rough, when someone was about to cross a line they couldn’t take back. She was the one who stayed up late patching up scrapes and bruises with whatever supplies she could scrounge up, her hands gentler than you’d expected them to be.

Vi had always cared. Too much, maybe.

Her choices didn’t come from cold calculation or detached logic. She wasn’t distant. She wasn’t indifferent. Everything she did was rooted in emotion—raw, messy, overwhelming emotion that she couldn’t always hide. The same fire that made her so strong was the thing that burned her most. And somehow, you’d forgotten that.

Maybe it was because she played you. After all, she used you, used you like some toy until none of your tricks worked anymore. Until she got bored, you think.

Sorry, can’t keep doing this.

It had been months and the note is still tethered in your mind.

Powder, though, had never stopped seeing her for who she was. Powder fucking worshipped Violet. She always had. Even when they bickered, even when Vi’s temper flared, Powder talked about her like she was invincible. Her superhero big sister, the one who could do no wrong, who could fix anything.

To you, Vi had been more than a superhero. She’d been a storm. Something to admire from a safe distance, to watch in awe as she tore through the world around her. She was all the things you weren’t—bold, unyielding, unafraid. And maybe that’s why you couldn’t see her vulnerability. Maybe that’s why it was so easy to forget that she wasn’t just a storm.

Your gaze drifted back to the collage, to the careful placements and tiny notes scribbled in the margins. Every piece of it spoke to how well Vi knew her sister, how much she’d paid attention all these years, even when it looked like she wasn’t watching.

For all her strength, Vi had always been just as vulnerable as the rest of you.

Whenever Vi was around, you got quiet.

It wasn’t something you consciously decided. It just… happened. Words that usually came easily suddenly felt too big in your mouth, so when you were younger, you kept them locked behind your teeth.

The Last Drop was always noisy, the usual crowd of patrons filling the air with drunken chatter and the occasional crash of bottles. You weaved your way through the chaos, eyes scanning the room for Powder. She had a habit of disappearing into her projects, sometimes forgetting the world outside entirely, but she usually stuck to places where you could find her.

Though, she wasn’t at her usual corner table.

You hesitated outside the back room, your knuckles brushing against the door. It was already slightly ajar, faint light spilling into the hallway. You debated leaving—Powder would show up eventually, probably dragging some new contraption behind her—but then you heard the low murmur of a familiar voice.

Vi.

Your heart stuttered.

You pushed the door open cautiously, stepping inside. The smell of oil and something acrid lingered in the air, mingling with the warmth from the old, flickering light above. Violet was sitting at the edge of a workbench, her hands occupied with one of Powder’s unfinished gadgets. Her fingers worked with surprising precision , twisting wires together and securing pieces in place.

She looked up when she heard you enter, her sharp blue eyes pinning you in place.

“Looking for powder?”

You nodded, suddenly unsure of what to do with yourself. You’d been so prepared to ask Powder if she’d remembered to grab Ekko’s spare slingshot, but now you were just... standing there, your mouth slightly open.

“Is she... here?”

“Yeah, she went to get somthing.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“You wanna wait here?”

You nodded again, like it was the only thing you knew how to do.

She kept looking at you, “You can sit, you know.”

There weren’t many places to sit. The workbench was cluttered, and the rest of the room was lined with crates and boxes that didn’t seem sturdy enough to support anyone’s weight.

But then Vi slid over to the side of the workbench, her boots scuffing lightly against the floor as she made space, and she glanced at you expectantly.

You hesitated, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, before finally taking a step forward. Your movements felt clumsy like you were an awkward puppet trying to figure out its strings. When you finally sat down, you perched on the very edge of the workbench, choosing the spot farthest from her. Your legs dangled awkwardly, your hands gripping the edge of the bench.

It wasn’t that you were scared of her—not exactly. There was something magnetic about Violet that you couldn’t put into words. Powder had talked about her endlessly, weaving stories that sounded too cool to be true: how Vi could talk her way out of anything or fight her way through anything she couldn’t. How she always stood her ground, even when she was scared. Those stories had made Violet seem larger than life, someone untouchable and unreal.

But now she was here and suddenly all those stories felt real.

You’d only seen her in passing before—a fleeting glimpse in Powder’s hallway or her shadow leaning in through a doorway. Those encounters had been brief, easy to escape. This? There was no escaping this.

Vi must’ve noticed the space you’d intentionally put between you both.

She smiled, slow and lopsided, a faint shake of her head betraying her amusement.

“What’s funny?” you asked, defensive.

“Nothing,” she said, her voice edged with a chuckle. She leaned back on her hands, crossing her legs casually as though to make herself smaller—less intimidating, perhaps. “You’re just… I don’t know. Skittish.”

“I’m not skittish.”

“Right,” she teased.

Your hands curled tighter around the edge of the bench. You could feel your heart pounding so hard you were convinced she could hear it.

“Relax,” she said after a moment, her tone lighter. “I’m not gonna bite.”

“I know,” you blurted out, the words coming out louder than intended.

Vi chuckled softly, shaking her head again. “So,” she began, as if trying to put you at ease, “you and Powder—friends, huh?”

“Best friends.”

“You guys get into trouble?” she asked.

“No,” you said automatically.

Her eyebrows lifted. “You lying?”

“…No.”

The pause was too long to be convincing, and Vi’s smirk widened as she leaned forward slightly, her elbows resting on her knees. “Uh-huh,” she murmured, clearly not buying it.

The door creaked open before she could press further, and you turned quickly, grateful for the interruption. Powder burst into the room, a notebook tucked under one arm and a precarious bundle of tools balanced in the other.

“There you are!” she chirped, her voice bubbling with excitement . “You’re not gonna believe this idea I had—”

Without waiting for a response, Powder grabbed your wrist, her grip surprisingly strong as she tugged you toward the door. She barely noticed Vi, too caught up in her excitement as she launched into an explanation of some wild project you only half-understood.

You stumbled after her, but as you reached the doorway, you couldn’t help but glance over your shoulder.

Vi was still watching you.

Her gaze was steady, her expression unreadable. It scared you. There was something in her eyes that made your stomach flip. Even as the door swung shut behind you, that look stayed with you, leaving a strange heat in its wake.

You’d always been a little jealous of how close Powder’s family was.

It wasn’t something you ever voiced aloud—it felt like a betrayal of your own family, even if there wasn’t much to betray. But the truth was that being around them, especially during the holidays, filled a space in you that you hadn’t even realized was empty.

Powder’s family had a way of making everyone feel like they belonged, whether it was Ekko or you slipping into the chaos of their home like you were meant to be there. Despite the worn walls, the mismatched furniture, and the chipped mugs of cocoa on the table, there was a warmth that couldn’t be shaken, a sense of togetherness that was tangible in the air.

They never made you feel like an intruder. In fact, you were certain you’d been assumed into the family years ago when Vander had hung up that photo of you winning your school’s spelling bee. It had a place of honour in the narrow hallway, wedged between photos of Powder’s first fight with Mylo (a blurry shot of fists mid-swing with Claggor and Vi trying to break them apart) and Ekko holding Isha as a baby.

Your photo was still there, a little faded from sunlight streaming through the windows, but it hadn’t budged. Vander’s way of saying you belonged.

The scent of cinnamon hung faintly in the air from Powder’s earlier attempt at baking cookies, but the chaos had only truly ignited when Vander, Silco, Claggor, and Isha returned from their last-minute grocery run.

The front door banged open, letting in a blast of cold December air, and the house erupted into chaos.

Isha launched herself off Claggor’s shoulders the second she spotted you and Ekko lounging on the couch with Powder. She gasped dramatically, her wide eyes shining as she yanked off her hat and darted forward, boots still tracking snow onto the worn rug.

“Shoes off at the door, Isha!” Vander called, his voice half-stern, half-amused as he stepped inside behind her, arms loaded with grocery bags.

Isha ignored him completely, stopping in front of you to tug insistently at your sleeve and point to the bag of snacks Vander had left on the counter. You raised an eyebrow and grinned. “You want first pick? Only if you let me braid your hair later.”

Isha exaggeratedly rolled her eyes but gave you an enthusiastic nod, darting toward the kitchen before Claggor could even put the bags down.

“Didn’t we just clean the floor this morning?” Claggor muttered, shaking his head but smiling. He followed Isha into the kitchen, helping Silco unpack the bags while Mylo hovered nearby, his arm already snagging the bag of candy canes.

“We’re redoing those cookies,” Silco said, his calm voice cutting through Mylo’s protests.

“That’s not on me! Powder was supposed to—”

“You were distracting me!” Powder called from the couch, not even bothering to look away from the movie she and Ekko were half-watching.

“Enough bickering. Let’s just get it done,” Silco said with finality, rolling up his sleeves.

Warm greetings and laughter followed, and eventually, everyone found their way to the living room. It felt like old times—loud, messy, and alive in a way that was uniquely theirs.

You sat cross-legged on the rug, carefully weaving a braid into Isha’s hair. She perched in front of you with exaggerated patience, her fingers tapping on her knees every time you paused to adjust a strand. Every so often, she tilted her head back to glance at the movie, nearly undoing your work.

“Stay still,” you murmured, gently guiding her head back into place.

She groaned dramatically, her hands moving in quick, sharp gestures towards the television.

“You’ll see when it’s done,” you promised, laughing softly. “Almost there.”

Across the room, Powder was curled up on the couch with Ekko behind her, the two of them bundled under a mismatched blanket. Powder sipped from a steaming mug, her eyes half-closed as she relaxed against Ekko’s chest.

“You missed a spot,” Ekko teased, gesturing vaguely toward the braid.

“Quiet, or you’re next,” you shot back with a grin, earning a soft laugh from Powder.

“Next? You think I’d let you near my hair?” Ekko countered, sitting up just enough to look mock-offended.

“Keep talking, and I’ll braid yours while you sleep,” you quipped, finishing Isha’s braid with a quick twist and securing it with a small elastic.

Isha beamed as you let her go, rushing to the mirror by the dining room to inspect your handiwork. She returned moments later with a bright smile and a thumbs-up of approval, spinning dramatically to show off to everyone before plopping back down beside you on the rug.

The room hummed with quiet chatter and the faint crackle of the old TV. Vander sat in the armchair, flipping through the pages of an old, dog-eared book, while Claggor and Mylo argued over whose turn it was to get the snacks from the kitchen. Silco leaned against the wall, a small smile tugging at his lips as he watched the scene unfold.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wondered when Vi would come back home. She always seemed to find her way back eventually, just like everyone else.

But for now, you let yourself sink into the warmth of the room, the sound of Isha’s soft humming beside you, and the way this mismatched family made you feel whole.

It was hours later until the house had finally quieted down.

By the time you got ready for bed, everyone else had already found their corners of the house to sleep in. Powder and Ekko had claimed the couch for a while, tangled up under the same blanket, their heads tilted toward one another before they went upstairs. Vander was stretched out in his recliner, his book slipping from his fingers as his snores rumbled softly through the room. Mylo and Claggor had retreated to their rooms. Even Silco, who always seemed to operate on less sleep than anyone else, had disappeared.

The last to go was Isha.

She hadn’t wanted to leave the warmth of the living room, her small hands clutching your sleeve as you led her down the hallway to her bedroom. She’d signed with exaggerated reluctance, dragging her feet just enough to make you laugh softly.

“Come on, you need your beauty sleep,” you had teased, tucking her into the small bed piled high with mismatched blankets. Isha grinned up at you, her eyes bright even in the low light, before closing them as if to humour you.

Once her breathing had evened out, you quietly slipped out of the room, shutting the door just enough to let a sliver of light from the hallway peek through.

And you? You lingered.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, you brushed your teeth slowly, watching your reflection in the dim light. The rhythmic swish of the toothbrush and the faint creak of the old floorboards were the only sounds in the stillness. You were taking your time, you realized.

It wasn’t that you weren’t tired. You were—your limbs heavy from the warmth of the house, your eyes drooping slightly. But you’d noticed the way Powder had curled closer to Ekko as the night went on, the soft, shy glances she’d thrown him. They’d barely had a moment alone all evening, and you didn’t want to intrude, not when she’d looked so happy.

So, you stalled.

After rinsing your mouth, you padded quietly into the kitchen, your socked feet barely making a sound on the worn floor. You poured yourself a glass of water, sipping slowly as you glanced out the window. The snow had stopped falling, leaving a soft blanket of white under the moonlight. It was the kind of quiet that made you feel like the whole world was holding its breath.

You set the glass down on the counter, letting your fingers trace the rim absentmindedly. The stillness felt comforting, though admittedly a little lonely.

The soft creak of the front door broke the silence.

You turned, your heart skipping just slightly at the unexpected sound. The door opened slowly, and a familiar figure stepped inside, brushing snow off her jacket.

Vi.

She quietly kicked the door closed behind her, her boots scuffing against the rug as she tugged her gloves off. Her hair was damp with melted snow, and her cheeks were flushed from the cold. She looked surprised to see you, her eyes narrowing slightly before recognition softened her expression.

“Oh, hey.”

“Hi.”

You watched as she shed her jacket, revealing the worn sweater she had underneath. She looked good, you realized, in that effortless way she always did. Like she didn’t have to try to draw attention—she just did. You hated that after all this time you still found her maddeningly attractive.

You cleared your throat. “Did you have fun?”

You were trying this new thing called: being mature.

Vi glanced at you, her brows knitting together as if puzzled by your question. It struck you that maybe she’d expected you to ignore her, to keep the peace by staying out of her way. “Oh, yeah. Jayce says hi.”

That tugged a faint smile from you despite yourself. It had been a while since you’d seen or even thought of Jayce, Mel, or the rest of the old crew. Memories stirred—ones you hadn’t decided whether to cherish or bury.

“I figured everyone would be asleep by now,” she said as she moved toward the kitchen, her voice casual but her movements careful, like she was testing the waters.

“They are,” you replied. “I was just… taking my time.”

Vi arched an eyebrow, leaning against the counter beside you, her frame close enough to feel the faint warmth radiating off her. “Taking your time? That’s a new one.”

You rolled your eyes, the teasing curve of her lips unsettling you more than you wanted to admit. “Powder and Ekko looked like they could use some space. I thought I’d give them a chance to… you know, not have me hovering.”

“How considerate of you.”

“I can be nice.”

“Sure you can.”

“Yeah, well, I try,” you said, shifting your weight and crossing your arms as you turned to face her.

The kitchen fell silent. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t easy, either. She met your gaze, her expression unreadable for a moment. Her gaze on your skin felt like a physical touch, and when it stopped at your lips, a shock of heat went through your body, from the crown of your head down to your toes. Her eyes moved over you like a caress of the summer breeze.

You watched her swallow. You saw her mouth part, her tongue emerging to wet her lips.

All of a sudden, the thought of being civil shattered, crumbling into a heap of raw, unfiltered anger. You were back in your bed that summer, the sunlight streaming through your curtains in lazy, mocking streaks. It was too bright, too cheerful, as if the world hadn’t just caved in on you.

Your eyes zeroed in on that damned note—the one she’d left on your bedside table, shoved beneath an old glass of water. Half-empty. The wet rim of the glass had left its mark, smudging the ink like it was trying to wipe her words away, but they were seared into your mind.

Sorry, can’t keep doing this. Take care.

Can’t keep doing what ? Can’t keep loving you? Can’t keep seeing the way your ribs were cracking? The skin breaking? The bone snapping? Splintering after each pound of your heart because she was close to you? Because she was kissing you? Because her lips left searing marks for you to remember the longing in her eyes, the blush on her cheeks?

Can’t keep doing what ?

Why couldn’t she take the heart you were giving her? Why couldn't she take it from your hands, blooded at the nails as you tore it from your own chest, strings and veins hoping to attach to hers if she lets you?

Huh.

Maybe you weren’t as over it as you thought.

Even now, the bitterness clawed its way back to the surface, sharp and unrelenting. You remembered the feeling—the quiet, creeping devastation of being blindsided. The hollow ache in your chest as you read her rushed words, so impersonal it felt like a stranger had written them. Not her.

The sharp edge of the memory made you flinch, thrusting you backward, too fast, your hip slamming into the counter. The pain was sharp, wrenching you back to the present. You winced, a pained groan caught in your throat.

“Hey—” Vi moved toward you instinctively, her arms half-raised.

“I should go to bed,” you managed, voice strained and uneven. You reached for your glass, fumbled it into the sink, and winced at the clatter. Frustration rose like a tide, threatening to pull you under.

Vi muttered your name, soft, almost tender. Her hand brushed against your forearm, the barest graze of her fingers sending a shock through you. You jerked back, raising a hand to keep her at a distance.

“You’re still angry,” she said, her voice even, like she was stating a fact.

A bitter laugh escaped you, sharp and cutting. “Shouldn’t I be?”

“Look—”

“What are we doing here, Vi?”

She tilted her head, trying for humour. “Standing in the kitchen?”

You didn’t smile. Couldn’t. “Vi.”

“What?”

“You left me.”

She went stock still. Rigid.

Finally, finally , there you were, hands balled into fists, turning in the middle of the room. Almost a decade’s worth of anger, disappointment, confusion, and, what the hell, maybe a little hatred boiled over, clawing its way out of you before you could stop it.

“ You left me,” you repeated, your voice rising despite yourself. “And I… I had no one to talk to about it. Do you have any idea what that was like?”

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“You told me not to tell Powder. You made me promise,” you continued, your voice cracking under the weight of it. “Do you know how fucked up it was to keep that kind of secret from her? From everyone?”

Vi’s jaw tightened, and her lips pressed into a thin, defensive line. “Obviously I know. She’s my sister. What the hell was I supposed to do? Just tell her I was hooking up with her best friend behind her back? How was that gonna go over?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Vi,” you hissed, trying to keep quiet. You threw your hands up, pacing a step away before turning back. “You really think Powder would’ve cared? She idolizes you. She’d have been thrilled if you had just—ugh—grown a pair and said something!”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Vi snapped, “you weren’t the one breaking every unspoken rule of friendship with her. I was. I was lying to her, betraying her—”

“Easy for me? What? And what ?” you shot back, cutting her off. “You think I was just fine with lying to my best friend, pretending nothing was going on? I thought we were doing this together, Vi. But no, you had to make it this big, guilty secret. Like... like I was some dirty fucking secret to you.”

“It wasn’t like that—you weren’t—”

“And then—then you didn’t even have the guts to tell me you were leaving. You just—” You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but the memory of that note resurfaced, slicing through your chest all over again. You threw your hands in the air, dropping them by your aside, “You left a fucking note and ran off like a fucking pussy.”

Vi flinched at that, but her defences were back up in an instant. “You don’t get it,” she said, her voice lower now, simmering with frustration. “I felt like I was losing myself. Like I was letting both of you down—Powder and you. I thought leaving was the only way to fix it.”

Her being vulnerable made you even angrier. You had thought you were prepared, that magically you’d be able to have a civil conversation that settled the matter in a way that left you with your pride intact and Vi still being the heartless bitch you remembered her as (which you knew was not true at all, but lately you only had that note to remember her by tied with whatever Powder would tell you).

Clearly, you’ve miscalculated.

“You were wrong.”

“I know.”

“And stupid.”

“I get it.”

You took a breath. “I just... I hope we can be civil. For Powder. I’m here because of her. For her. She’s the only reason I came back.”

Vi looked away.

“Goodnight, Violet,” you muttered, brushing past her before she could try to stop you again.

You didn’t think you could love anyone more than you loved Powder.

Powder wasn’t just your best friend; she was your gravity, the one who kept you tethered to the earth when everything else threatened to spin out of control. She was the ink blot in the centre of every map you’d ever drawn, the beginning and end of every plan. By the time you were fourteen, the bond between you felt indestructible, like it was woven from a thread that the universe had spun just for the two of you.

You were partners in crime, yes, but also in something deeper: a shared wonder at the world, a refusal to accept its boundaries. Together, you didn’t just dream—you built those dreams. With your hands, your voices, your endless supply of hope, you created things no one else dared to imagine. There were nights when you’d sit under the dim glow of a streetlamp, her head resting on your shoulder, as the two of you scribbled on scraps of stolen paper . Plans for impossible inventions, designs that were part genius, part disaster, but always wholly yours.

It wasn’t just that you loved Powder. It was that she was a part of you. Her laughter lived in your bones, her worries haunted your heart, and her victories felt like your own . She had a way of looking at you, wide-eyed and trusting, that made you believe you could do anything, so long as you did it together.

You both made a mess of things sometimes—scraped knees, singed eyebrows, stolen goods that were more trouble than they were worth. But those moments became stories to tell and retell, memories you carried like talismans against the dark. Because no matter how wild things got, no matter how many alleyways you ran through or rooftops you scrambled over, you always knew Powder would be there at the end of it , laughing, breathless, and shining like the only light you’d ever need.

If there were such a thing as soulmates, you were certain Powder was yours. Not in the way people whispered about under the glow of moonlight—not romantic, not fleeting. But something ancient, bone-deep, like the kind of love that could outlast wars, loss, even time itself. If the world ended, you were sure the two of you would still find a way to survive, together, cobbling something beautiful out of the ruins.

She was your compass, your north star, your reason for believing that things could get better. And you would have done anything for her.

Her room was your second home (much like your own was hers), a chaotic mess of everything that made Powder Powder . The walls were covered in scrawled blueprints pinned up with mismatched tacks, paper edges curling from the humidity of the Lanes.

Above her bed, a row of old family pictures was strung like fairy lights, clipped onto twine with tiny clothespins. The images were faded but warm—Powder as a baby, Powder with Mylo and Claggor, Violet grinning with her arm around a much smaller Powder, Vander and Silco somewhere in the background, a recent one with you and Ekko at each of her sides.

Her desk was a cluttered battleground of unfinished gadgets, scattered tools, and school assignments half-completed and half-forgotten. A worn, stuffed bunny sat propped against one of the desk legs, its button eyes long since replaced with mismatched screws.

On the floor next to the bed, your backpack sat half-open, spilling its contents onto a pile of Powder’s clothes that might as well have been yours by now. The two of you had shared so many hoodies and t-shirts that you barely knew whose was whose anymore.

You were perched on Powder’s bed, the mattress lumpy but familiar, as the sharp scent of nail polish filled the air. Powder’s fingers were smudged with blue from a bottle that had tipped over earlier, and she was trying to paint your nails without dripping polish all over the blanket between you.

“Hold still,” she muttered, her tongue poking out as she concentrated.

“You’re the one making a mess,” you shot back, laughing as you pulled your hand away to examine the streak of polish running down your finger. “This looks awful, Pow. You should’ve let me do this.”

She snatched your hand back with a huff, “Fuck off. It’s not my fault you have twitchy hands.”

With her exaggerated movement, she knocked over the bottle again. Blue polish spilled onto the blanket, spreading in a small puddle.

“Powder!” you exclaimed, though you couldn’t stop the laugh bubbling out of you.

“Oops,” she said with a shrug, clearly not sorry, as she grabbed a rag to clean it up.

The two of you burst into laughter, leaning against each other for balance, the kind that made your ribs ache and your cheeks hurt.

Scattered across the bed were the sketches for her latest invention—a spring-loaded trap designed to “keep Mylo out of my room.” You’d been helping her refine the design all evening, pointing out where the gears might jam or how to reinforce the springs so they wouldn’t snap.

“You think this will actually work?” you asked, picking up one of the schematics and holding it up to the light.

“It’ll work,” Powder said with complete confidence, leaning over to add a few more messy lines to the paper. “It has to... or, y’know, boom.” She grinned like that was the best possible outcome.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help grinning back.

You started to climb out of the bed, shifting carefully so you didn’t disturb the scattered nail polish bottles or the sketches on the blanket. Before you could get your balance, Powder jabbed a foot into your side with a mischievous grin, sending you sprawling onto the floor with a loud thud .

“Powder!” you groaned, rubbing your arm where you landed on the corner of a notebook.

Her response was to double over with laughter, the sound light and uncontrollable. “Sorry, sorry,” she wheezed, though the glint in her eye said otherwise. “You made it too easy!”

You grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at her, hitting her square in the face. Powder let out a dramatic gasp, clutching the pillow as it had wounded her. “Oh, you bitch!” she declared, launching herself off the bed and tackling you back onto the floor.

The two of you wrestled in a storm of laughter and flailing limbs, your voices loud enough to rattle the pictures on her wall. At some point, she managed to pin you down, her blue-stained fingers triumphantly waving the pillow above her head.

A sharp bang came from the wall, followed by Mylo’s muffled voice. “Shut the fuck up! Some of us are trying to sleep!”

You both froze for a moment before bursting into another fit of uncontrollable giggles, clutching your stomachs as you rolled away from each other.

“I can’t breathe,” you gasped, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye.

Powder flopped onto her back, still giggling. “Mylo’s such a loser.”

When the laughter finally began to subside, your stomach growled loud enough for her to hear. You groaned in embarrassment while Powder perked up, her expression instantly brightening.

“Thank god,” she said, leaping to her feet and tossing the pillow onto the bed. “I’m starving.”

She bounded toward the door, knocking over a sketchbook you were sure belonged to Ekko and a bottle of glitter glue on her way. You sat up, still catching your breath, and watched as she paused at the doorframe, turning back to wave you over.

“C’mon, slowpoke,” she teased. “Don’t make me eat by myself.”

The promise of food was enough to spur you into action. You scrambled to your feet, brushing off the stray bits of blanket fuzz clinging to your pyjamas, and followed her out.

The hallway was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the streetlights outside filtering through cracked blinds. The air smelled faintly of Vander’s cigars mixed with the tantalizing aroma of whatever takeout Claggor ordered was waiting downstairs. Powder’s footsteps were quick and uneven as she hopped down the stairs two at a time, her voice echoing back to you.

“What d’you think they got? Noodles? Oh, maybe dumplings! Or those buns—what’re they called? The ones with the pork inside?”

“Bao?” you offered, gripping the railing to keep from tripping over a stray shoe someone had left on the stairs.

“Yeah, those!” she called over her shoulder.

When you reached the bottom of the stairs, the smell of food was stronger, warm and savoury, wrapping around you like a hug. Powder darted into the living room ahead of you, but you stopped in your tracks as soon as you rounded the corner.

Violet was sprawled across the couch, her legs up on the armrest. Her boots were still on, the scuffed soles pressed into the worn cushions. Pink hair tumbled loosely around her face, half-obscuring her sharp features as she leaned back with a dumpling poised between her fingers. Her eyes flicked to yours mid-bite, and her smirk was immediate.

Beside her, Caitlyn sat upright, a contrast to Vi’s casual sprawl on her lap. Caitlyn’s dark hair was neatly tied back, and she rested one hand lightly on Vi’s hair. Together, they looked so at ease, so entwined in their quiet dynamic that it made your stomach twist in a way you didn’t quite understand—or didn’t want to.

“Well, well,” Vi drawled, her voice carrying that familiar teasing lilt. “Look who decided to join the party.” Her eyes roamed over you and Powder, and her grin widened, sharp and almost playful.

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. You had seen them together before, but there was something about seeing them like this—so comfortable, so casual—that left you rooted to the spot. You glanced at Powder, silently begging for an anchor, but she was already tearing into the takeout bags on the table.

“Finally!” Powder exclaimed, holding up a box of noodles like it was treasure. She dropped to the floor without hesitation, crossing her legs and pulling the box into her lap.

She glanced pointedly at Vi and Caitlyn, rolling her eyes. “Are you two gonna take that upstairs, or do we have to suffer through whatever this is during our dinner?” She gestured vaguely at the space (or lack of) between them, nose scrunching in disgust.

Vi scoffed, stuffing the rest of the dumpling into her mouth. “We were here first,” she said, words slightly muffled.

“I don’t care.”

Vi leaned back further into the couch, looking entirely unbothered. “We’re not moving, Pow.”

You tried to ignore the way your chest tightened as you shuffled closer to Powder, grabbing the first takeout box your hand landed on. Powder nudged you with her elbow, grinning conspiratorially. “Ignore them,” she whispered, her tone light and dismissive.

And you did.

You ignored them for months, maybe even years. You ignored the way your stomach twisted itself into knots every time Vi was near. You ignored the lingering glances, the lazy smirks, and the moments that felt too heavy for what they were.

You ignored her when she stopped calling you “Powder’s friend” and started using your name instead—when she started seeing you not as an extension of her sister, but as your own person.

Maybe it was better off when she never saw you as such.

You figured (because you didn’t know how to act around Violet without wanting to scream and tear your own hair out) that the best way to be civil was to fall back on old habits. Childish habits, sure, but perhaps the most mature option available—given that talking about feelings had not worked out the way you’d hoped. For now, ignoring Vi entirely seemed like the safest bet.

When she walked into a room, you made it a point to walk out into another. If leaving wasn’t an option, you buried your nose further into whatever book was in your hands. Maybe Vander needed help in the kitchen, or Powder needed a hand with one of her endless projects. Claggor’s choice of movie—one you’d initially deemed boring—suddenly became the most fascinating thing in the world.

It was a tactic you’d mastered as a kid. And if you were being honest, you blamed Powder for it. She’d started this habit of avoiding Vi, and it had rubbed off on you. Whenever a flash of pink hair crossed the corner of your vision, you’d instinctively turn the other way.

Back then, the reason was simple: Powder hated Caitlyn. Vi never seemed to go anywhere without her, so to show her disapproval, Powder avoided her sister like the plague and gave her the silent treatment for weeks—months, even. Naturally, being attached at the hip with Powder meant you also ignored Vi with just as much vigour. Though, of course, your reasons had always been different. They still were.

You were reminded of those days the next morning when you and Claggor exchanged knowing glances, your silent conversation punctuated by the sound of yelling from upstairs. Over the hum of the television, you could just barely make out Vi and Powder arguing about something as ridiculous as “ my jacket! ” and “ it’s not yours! ”

It is not exactly an uncommon occurrence in the household. Powder and Vi fought over stupid things all the time, and you inevitably got dragged into the middle of it.

Before long, Powder stomped down the stairs, rubbing at her eyes and grumbling under her breath. Spotting you on the couch, her expression brightened, a mischievous glint lighting up her tired face. “Wanna get out of here for a bit? See if any shops are still open? Or just... walk around?”

You opened your mouth, ready to point out that it was freezing outside, that the snow had to be inches high by now—but you caught the desperate edge in her tone, the almost pleading look in her eyes, and swallowed the protest.

“Sure,” you said instead, pushing yourself off the couch.

Getting ready was quick enough, though you couldn’t resist giving Ekko a side-eye as he sprawled across Powder’s bed, snoring lightly with one arm draped lazily over his face. You were lacing up your boots when the door swung open, and Vi appeared in the frame.

She froze for a moment when she saw you sitting at Powder’s desk instead of her sister. Her eyes flicked across the room, taking in the scene—the absence of Powder, the half-packed bag on the bed.

“Where’s—?”

“Bathroom,” you replied curtly, not bothering to turn fully around.

“Right.”

You expected her to leave after that. But as you turned back to the mirror over Powder’s vanity, adjusting your scarf, you caught Vi lingering in the doorway in your reflection.

It was so reminiscent of when you were kids that it made your chest ache. Back then, you ignored her when she barged into Powder’s room during your sleepovers, teasing her little sister with her typical swagger and throwing offhand comments that always seemed to be aimed at you.

Powder, immune to Vi’s antics, would roll her eyes and brush her off. You, on the other hand, weren’t so lucky. Heat would creep up your neck, and you’d stumble over your words when Vi’s gaze lingered on you for just a second too long.

Now, Vi’s presence was quieter, more uncertain. She didn’t tease like she used to, but her lingering still made your heart stutter.

“You guys going out?”

“Yeah.”

You fell back into the old routine more smoothly than you’d anticipated, and a small, self-satisfied part of you almost wanted to pat yourself on the back. It was easier this way—one-word answers, your refusal to meet her gaze, to acknowledge her properly.

For a moment, you wondered if she noticed.

“Where you going?”

“Dunno.”

“Not many places open. ’Cause of the snow.”

“Mm.”

“Yeah, might start snowing again tonight, too.”

“ Cool .”

It was a rhythm you knew well, a game of evasion and clipped responses that kept you safely guarded. But then she threw you off balance.

“Do you need a ride?”

That made you pause. The unexpected question broke the rhythm, and your routine faltered. Against your better judgment, you glanced at her—just briefly—from the mirror. A mistake. She was still in her pyjamas, red plaid pants slung low on her hips, and a worn tank that clung to her in a way that made your breath hitch. You stared longer than you should have, breaking one of your unspoken rules.

Her smirk, subtle but unmistakable, told you she noticed.

You scowled, turning your eyes back to the mirror. “Ask Powder,” you muttered. “I don’t know where we’re going.”

You hated how your voice betrayed you, a little too soft, a little too unsure.

“We’re taking Isha skating,” Powder chimed in as she walked into the room, her tone matter-of-fact.

Isha followed close behind, bundled in layers with a stride full of swagger and a bright scarf hanging loosely around her neck. She walked straight up to Vi, a grin lighting up her face, and promptly took off her own hat, stretching onto her toes to jump and plop it onto Vi’s head.

Vi froze for a moment, surprised, before reaching up to adjust the too-small hat, her fingers brushing against the wool. “Thanks, squirt,” she murmured, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips.

Isha just smirked, stepping back and crossing her arms with a triumphant air, clearly pleased with herself.

Powder barely spared her older sister another glance as she sauntered further in, kicking Ekko’s side as she passed. “Wake up, lazy,” she grumbled.

Ekko jolted awake with a groan, rubbing his face as Isha launched herself onto the bed. Her delighted squeal filled the room as she climbed over Ekko, her tiny hands tugging at his shirt to get his attention.

Meanwhile, Powder turned to Vi, hands on her hips, her expression unreadable. “You can come if you want,” she said with a shrug, her voice casual but edged with something more.

It was her way of forgiving her—or maybe apologizing. You could never quite tell. You hadn’t caught enough of their fight to figure out who’d been in the wrong this time.

Vi seemed to hesitate, her gaze flickering between you, Powder, and Isha, who was now giggling uncontrollably as Ekko tried to tickle her.

You sighed quietly to yourself. Skating sounded like a good escape. You loved it, always had, and the thought of gliding across the ice under the open sky was tempting. But the whole point of agreeing to Powder’s idea was to avoid Violet—not to end up skating in circles around her.

It was hard to ignore Vi the spring she got her first tattoo.

It was a simple design that spiralled around the back of her forearm. It was understated but bold, much like Vi herself. For weeks after, more tattoos appeared—on her shoulders, the side of her neck, her back. Piercings too. The ink seemed to mark milestones in her life that you weren’t a part of, reminders of how much she’d changed while you’d stayed tethered to the same place.

When your parents invited Powder’s family over for a barbecue and swim by the time summer came around, you tried your hardest to ignore her there too.

It wasn’t easy with the way the sunlight glinted off the ink on her shoulders, the intricate patterns shifting and coming alive whenever she moved. Her back muscles flexed when she leaned over to grab a drink from the cooler, her damp hair sticking to her neck in a way that made your stomach twist—a sleeveless shirt and boy shorts that showed off the tattoos snaking along her arms and neck.

And then there was Caitlyn.

She arrived with Vi, stepping out of the same car with a soft laugh that carried across the yard. Tall, composed, and impossibly pretty, Caitlyn’s presence lit up the space in a way that felt both magnetic and infuriating. Her fitted sundress swayed as she walked, fuck she was so perfect.

You liked Caitlyn.

She was kind, posh in that way that only people from richer side of the city seemed to be, and, sure, a little ignorant at times—but she had an earnestness about her that made it hard to hold it against her. She listened, really listened. She was understanding, and she was considerate.

She’d never given you a reason not to like her. Well, Powder might have a list if you asked her—snide little remarks about her polished accent or her insistence on “doing things properly.” But Powder’s grievances never carried any real weight, not to you. Caitlyn wasn’t perfect, but she wasn’t trying to be, and that made it easier to like her.

You liked the way she did her makeup. When you mentioned it once, offhandedly, she lit up like you’d given her the highest compliment. “I could teach you, if you’d like,” she’d offered, her voice soft and a little shy, as if she wasn’t sure you’d accept.

Whenever she slept over at Powder’s house, she’d take you by the hand, leading you to the cramped little bathroom with its flickering bulb and streaky mirror (which Silco had fixed now). Out came her makeup bag, an immaculate little case filled with powders and brushes that looked impossibly fancy.

“Close your eyes,” she’d say, her tone somewhere between playful and professional.

You already knew how to do your own makeup—of course you did—but there was something comforting in the way Caitlyn worked. The gentle pressure of her fingers tilting your chin, the soft brushes grazing your skin, the quiet hum of concentration she always had. Her style never quite suited your face the way it suited hers but you didn’t mind. You liked the ritual of it, the way it felt like a secret just for the two of you.

More than that, you liked the way she tried. She tried to know you , to understand the patchwork family Powder had built around herself. She made the effort in ways that felt deliberate, and thoughtful, and it was hard not to respect that.

You liked to think she was your friend.

Caitlyn looped her arm casually through Vi’s, leaning in to whisper something that made Vi chuckle—a rare, unguarded sound that carried over the backyard.

Powder, bobbing beside you in the pool, nudged your shoulder with an exaggerated roll of her eyes.

“Oh, there they go again,” she scoffed, her tone dripping with disdain.

You tried not to react, forcing your gaze away from Vi and Caitlyn. Instead, you focused on the sunlight dancing across the water’s surface, glinting like shards of glass as it clung to your skin. “What?” you muttered, keeping your tone as flat as possible .

Powder tilted her head toward the scene. “I wish they’d get a room or something. It’s fucking disgusting.”

“Come on, Pow, they’re just talking,” Ekko chimed in, sitting on the edge of the pool with his feet submerged in the water. He leaned back lazily, his sunglasses perched on his nose.

“Talking leads to cuddling,” Powder grumbled, crossing her arms as she floated beside you. “And cuddling leads to kissing. And we all know where that leads to.”

“Gross,” you muttered under your breath before splashing her, the water catching her square in the face.

“I’m just saying,” she shot back, blinking water from her lashes. “They’re gross.”

“You’re her sister, of course you’re gonna find it gross,” Ekko reminded her.

Powder huffed, her brow furrowing. “No, it’s gross because I don’t think Caitlyn’s good for her.”

“And you know who’s good for Vi?”

“Of course I do,” she said matter-of-factly, her tone so self-assured it nearly made you laugh. “Just like I know Gert’s good for Mylo if he’d stop being a little pussy about it.”

You followed her gaze to where Mylo stood by Claggor near the grill, the two of them peering into the barbecue. Mylo was trying (and failing) to sneak a piece of food before it was ready.

“I love your way with words,” you said sarcastically, rolling your eyes.

“Thank you,” Powder replied brightly, poking your side. Then her grin faltered, and she sighed. “But seriously. It’s like I have to wrestle her for Vi’s attention. And it’s annoying.”

You’d tied your skates too tight. Not intentionally—at least, that’s what you told yourself—but enough that your feet screamed. The blinding ache radiated up your calves, sharp and unrelenting, and you welcomed it. Maybe if you focused on the pain, it could drown out the storm brewing in your chest, the bitterness, the ache of everything else you didn’t want to feel. Maybe even how fucking cold it was outside.

Every step sent a throb through your legs, forcing you to clench your jaw until your teeth ground together. Ahead, Powder and Ekko laughed as they circled the rink, Isha wedged between them, tugging at their hands to keep herself upright. Her gleeful giggles floated back to you, light and carefree.

You stumbled again, catching your balance just in time to avoid another fall. That was the third time in the past ten minutes. The third damn time. You weren’t bad at skating—far from it, actually. Normally, you glide over the ice with ease, cutting through the rink like a blade. But today, the weight of your mood clung to you like lead, pulling you down, making you clumsier with every step.

You tried to focus on the cold air biting at your cheeks, on the blinding sunlight against the white snow, the rhythmic scrape of skates against the ice, but it did nothing to shake the sourness coiling tighter and tighter in your gut.

You were mid-stumble, arms flailing slightly as you tried to catch yourself again when the faintest whiff of something familiar hit you—cologne, earthy and faintly sweet. And then, beside you, came the sound of old, busted hockey skates carving through the ice.

Of all the bad luck…

“Hey,” came Vi’s voice, “you okay?”

You didn’t turn to look at her. Barely spared her a glance out of the corner of your eye.

“Fine.”

She didn’t leave. Of course, she didn’t. Instead, she lingered, her presence as irritating as the ache in your feet.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, skating closer, her voice quieter now but still persistent.

You sighed heavily, exasperated. “My feet hurt.”

“You wanna sit?”

“No.”

She let out a breath—sharp, annoyed, and entirely too familiar. “Fine.”

She didn’t skate away, though. She stayed right where she was, matching your pace despite the wobble in your steps. Her silence gnawed at you, scraping at the edges of your resolve like sandpaper.

You tightened your grip on the thought—the hope—that she’d eventually leave, that she’d get bored and skate off to join Powder or Isha. But she didn’t. Instead, she stayed, her presence an infuriating reminder of everything you were trying to forget.

You clenched your jaw and pushed forward, ignoring the sting in your feet, ignoring her, ignoring everything except the dull thud of your skates against the ice.

But then your skate caught on a groove in the ice, a small imperfection that sent you lurching forward. Your heart jumped into your throat as your arms flailed for balance.

Before you could hit the ice, a hand shot out, firm and steady, catching your elbow. Vi steadied you without a word, her grip warm and grounding even through the layers of your jacket.

“Thanks,” you muttered, pulling your arm away as if her touch burned.

She gave a faint nod, her expression unreadable, her eyes flickering to you before glancing ahead. You opened your mouth to speak, to say something—anything—but the words twisted up inside you, tangling with the bitterness that had settled in your chest.

You wanted to talk to her. You really did. But what would you even say? You’d already tried last night, hadn’t you? Tried to bridge the gap, to ask questions you weren’t ready to hear the answers to. And it had all fallen flat.

You wanted to hate her, too, to let the anger you’d buried beneath your sadness take root and keep you standing tall. But then she went and did this—acting all nice, like nothing had happened. Like you were still just Powder’s best friend, and by extension, her friend too. Like you hadn’t been broken by her absence, her coldness, her silence.

Your mind betrayed you, slipping back to the moments you wished you could share. You wanted to tell her about college. About the awkward first dates Powder still teased you about, the bad ones you couldn’t even laugh about yet. Maybe you even wanted her to tease you, to laugh along, like she used to.

But the thought of wanting that, of still wanting her, stung.

“You sure you’re fine?” she asked, her voice cutting through the haze in your head. It was softer this time, almost tender, and it sent a pang through your chest.

“Just thinking…” you replied, your words trailing off.

“About?”

You .

The thought alone made your jaw tighten and your scowl to deepen, the bitter ache winding tighter around your ribs. Why couldn’t you let it go? Why couldn’t you just move on? You’d told yourself you had. But now, here you were, on this damn rink, feeling every fracture of what had once been, with Vi skating beside you as if she had no idea. She must know.

She must know.

Why was she being so nice? Why was she looking at you like that? Like she cared? She didn’t, not really. If she did, why did she leave? Why did she care so much about what someone else had to say?

Maybe you shouldn’t have come back. Maybe you should’ve stayed with your parents for Christmas. Maybe you should’ve gone to some sunny, beach-side retreat and pretended to enjoy the holidays while being surrounded by strangers.

Shit, maybe you were the problem.

You blinked, startled back to reality by a kid skating too close and brushing against your arm. The rink was alive with motion—kids wobbling precariously as parents held their hands, teenagers zipping by in pairs, the sound of laughter mingling with the scrape of skates on ice. The faint, frosty smell of winter mingled with the warmth of spiced cocoa from the rink’s concession stand.

You took a sharp breath, your focus shifting to Vi, who was already watching you. Her brows were furrowed, a small line forming between them, her concern evident.

As if she cared.

Did she? Could she?

You clenched your fists, willing yourself not to scowl again, not to let her see the turmoil you were struggling to keep buried. You tried to be mature, to play it cool, to remind yourself you were over this. Over her.

“Nothin’,” you muttered, shaking your head.

Vi didn’t press. She just nodded slightly and kept skating beside you, her presence steady but silent.

Ahead, Powder waved with both hands, her grin stretching wide as Isha spun in a shaky circle beside her. Powder’s voice carried over the cold air, calling your names.

You didn’t wave back. You couldn’t. The weight in your chest held you down, rooted you to the ice even as your skates moved forward.

But Vi didn’t leave. She stayed right there, keeping pace with you, her quiet persistence chipping away at the edges of your resolve.

You wonder if you did the same for her.

The music was loud—too loud—but that was part of the charm. The thumping bass rattled through your ribcage, shaking you from the inside out, while the floor beneath you trembled with the rhythm of countless feet jumping in sync. You could feel the music in your blood, like a heartbeat that wasn’t your own, each beat pushing you higher, pulling you deeper into the chaos.

You loved to party with Powder.

Her hand was a lifeline, gripping yours tightly as the two of you wove through the throng of swaying bodies, your drinks sloshing in red solo cups that were more a suggestion of something to hold than something to drink. The cheap alcohol inside had long since gone warm, sticky trails of it slipping down your wrists every time you threw your hands up or spun around.

Your hair clung to your damp forehead, strands sticking to the sweat glistening on your skin. Powder looked no different—her eyeliner smeared into dark, uneven crescents beneath her eyes, like war paint after a battle. But she was radiant, her laughter sharp and wild, cutting through the pulsing music like a flash of neon.

“C’mon!” she yelled, tugging you toward the centre of the room where the crowd was thickest. Her grin was wide and manic, a spark of mischief in her eyes that made your chest ache with affection. You couldn’t say no to her, not when she looked like that—like the world couldn’t touch her.

The room itself was a haze of sweat, smoke, and bad decisions waiting to happen. The air was thick with the mingling scents of spilled beer, cheap cologne, and something acrid that burned your nose when you passed too close to certain groups. A strobe light pulsed erratically from one corner, painting everything in flashes of harsh white and deep shadow. It made the room feel surreal, like a dream you’d barely remember in the morning.

The house was somebody’s cousin’s or older sibling’s—or maybe it belonged to no one at all . You didn’t know, and you didn’t care. All that mattered was that you were here.

She bumped her shoulder into yours, almost sending you stumbling. “You’re not drinking!” she teased, her voice pitched just loud enough to carry over the music.

You raised your cup in mock defence. “You’re spilling half of mine!”

“Then drink faster!” she shot back, her grin turning sly.

You rolled your eyes but took a chug at it anyway, grimacing at the taste. Powder just laughed, tugging you further into the chaos, her energy infectious even as you tried to keep up.

There was a moment where you’d lost her—not that you minded much. You knew she’d find her way back to you eventually. She always did.

Besides, you’d gotten a little distracted under the gaze of someone across the room. You couldn’t even remember how it started—just a fleeting glance that turned into a shared smile, which turned into them crossing the room and you deciding, what the hell, sure.

They weren’t anyone special. Someone from another school, maybe, or a senior you’d seen hanging around but never talked to. The details didn’t matter. What mattered was that their attention was fixed on you, their grin lazy and inviting as they leaned in, a hand brushing against your arm.

It was messy and awkward in the way these things always are , their mouth too eager, your coordination not quite up to par. The taste of cheap beer and stale cigarettes lingered in the kiss, and you couldn’t decide if it was your inexperience or theirs that made it feel more like bumping noses than anything romantic.

Powder would tease you mercilessly—she always did—and you’d roll your eyes and swear her to secrecy after you told her. But in the moment, you let yourself get caught up in it. The noise of the party faded to a dull hum, the kind that thrummed in the back of your head, as their hands slid to your waist.

They leaned in close, the alcohol on their breath mingling with yours as they bridged the gap, their lips brushing against yours hesitantly at first. You weren’t sure who moved first, whether it was them pulling you closer or you tilting your head to meet them. Either way, the kiss deepened quickly—too quickly—teeth clinking awkwardly at one point before you adjusted.

Their mouth was warm but clumsy, lips pressing against yours with more enthusiasm than skill, and you could feel their inexperience mirrored in your own. Their hands fumbled a little at your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt like they weren’t quite sure what to do next. You tried to follow their lead, letting your hands rise to their shoulders, but your grip felt unsure, awkward.

When they tilted their head, the kiss became messier, more eager than graceful. Their lips parted against yours, warm and a little too wet, and you tried to keep up, to mimic the movements, but there was no rhythm to it—just the reckless energy of two people who didn’t know what they were doing but were too stubborn to stop.

“Really?”

The voice cut through the haze like a slap, sharp and incredulous. You broke apart immediately, turning to find Powder standing a few feet away, hands on her hips and an expression caught between disbelief and amusement.

“This is what you’re doing?” she asked, gesturing vaguely at the two of you. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

Your face flushed, embarrassment flaring hot under your skin as you stepped back, mumbling some excuse that you knew Powder wouldn’t buy. The person you’d been kissing looked equally mortified, scratching the back of their neck and mumbling a quick, “Uh, yeah, I’ll, um… see you around?” before disappearing into the crowd.

Powder’s grin widened, a strange gleam in her eyes as she sauntered up to you. “You’re so bad at that.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, pushing past her, but she caught your arm and spun you back around.

“I was serious ,” she said, her tone softening just a fraction . “Vi’s here.”

The words hit like a splash of cold water, dousing the buzz that had been warming your limbs. Your stomach dropped, and suddenly you were all too aware of the sticky heat lingering on your skin—the faint smudge of spit at the corners of your mouth, the raw sting of bites pressed too hard against your neck.

“She’s back?”

“Don’t sound too excited.”

You swiped at your lips with the back of your hand, a frantic, clumsy motion like you could erase the evidence before anyone else noticed.

Powder didn’t seem to catch you, or if she did, she didn’t comment. She just grabbed your hand and started dragging you toward the front of the house. “C’mon, we gotta go before she murders half the party looking for us.”

And murder she might. Maybe.

You could already picture her at the door, arms crossed, her expression equal parts exasperation and thinly veiled amusement. Vi had always been good at the whole “annoyed older sibling” act.

But when you saw her standing there, one shoulder propped against the doorframe, your breath caught anyway.

Vi had this way of looking like she didn’t belong anywhere but still owned the space around her. Even in the dim light of the doorway, she seemed to cut through the haze of the party with ease. The leather jacket in her hands hung loose and effortless, but it was her—bigger somehow, more solid—that made your pulse quicken. Her pink hair was shorter, darker, sharper, and something else about her seemed...different. More tattoos? A new piercing glinted on her nose, catching the light briefly before she turned her head, scanning the crowd.

She looked so good it hurt.

Or maybe you were still flustered from before. An ache was pounding deep in your stomach.

You tightened your grip on Powder’s hand, steadying yourself as you stumbled along, her swaying weight leaning into yours. The two of you were a mess—heels clicking unevenly on the tiled floor, shoulders bumping into strangers as you made your way to her. Powder looked ready to pass out, her pale green complexion doing nothing to hide the fact she’d be sick before the night was through.

Vi’s sharp gaze locked onto you both the second you came into view, her face twisting briefly in what could only be described as relief, followed quickly by annoyance. Of course, she was annoyed. She hadn’t come home from college to spend her nights wrangling her little sister and her drunk best friend from parties.

It wasn’t the first time Vi had been the one to pull you both out of the fire, though. Not even close. She had always been the responsible one—or, at least, more responsible than the rest of you. Vander’s wrath or your parents’ disappointment might’ve been enough to scare Powder and you straight for a few days, but Vi had a knack for showing up just in time to spare you from both.

Her boots crunched against the gravel outside as she walked you to the car, her jacket already draped over your shoulders by the time you made it to the front step. You always forgot yours, and she always remembered. The leather was heavy and warm, carrying the faint, clean scent of cologne mixed with something distinctly hers.

Powder, ever the louder of the two of you when drunk, sprawled across the back seat with an arm flung dramatically over her face, slurring about something neither of you could make out. Meanwhile, you sat quietly in the passenger seat, staring out the window as the blurred glow of streetlights streaked across the glass.

“Thanks for getting us,” you mumbled because Powder would never say it.

Vi glanced at you briefly, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Don’t mention it.”

And that was it. The way she said it—the casual ease, the softness that bled through despite herself— it left something twisting inside you.

The first time Vi had done this, you’d only felt gratitude. But as the late-night drives stacked up, the weight of her jacket around your shoulders or the faint, grounding pressure of her hand at your back as she helped you to the car had begun to feel...different.

Powder had caught on quicker than you had. One night, lying sprawled in the back seat as she giggled into the darkness, she slurred, “You know, she only comes to get us so she can see you.”

Vi scoffed, her knuckles tightening on the steering wheel. “Yeah, because I’m the only one responsible enough to drive your drunk asses home.”

But Powder’s teasing tone, the slight hitch in Vi’s voice, the way her hands flexed against the leather—it all stuck with you. You weren’t sure if it had been real or just the alcohol messing with your head.

Still, every time she came for you, it left another mark—a small, invisible stain that you couldn’t quite scrub clean.

You jumped a little when the basement door swung open, hitting the wall with a sharp thud. The footsteps that followed were loud, purposeful, and unmistakable.

Claggor sighed and paused his game, tugging his headphones down around his neck as he turned in his seat. You let your phone fall to your chest, craning your neck to glance over the back of the couch.

“Asshole,” Mylo muttered under his breath, not even bothering to look up. That was all the confirmation you needed to know who had just come downstairs.

Sure enough, Vi appeared, rounding the corner with a smirk that screamed trouble. On her way to the couch, she casually tugged at Mylo’s hair, earning a sharp “Hey!” as she passed. She didn’t even glance back, instead zeroing in on you and Claggor.

She stood in front of you both, her hair a bit of a mess, likely from the hat she’d been wearing earlier. You could still see the faint pink in her cheeks from the cold.

“Be honest,” she said abruptly, scissors in one hand and the other running through her tangled strands. “Should I cut my hair short again?”

You blinked, thrown off. “What?”

Her eyes stayed on you, wide and expectant, and for a moment, you felt like a deer caught in headlights.

You glanced at Claggor for backup, but he was already turning back to his game. “She’s been going on about this for weeks,” he muttered.

“Why cut it?” you asked, your brow furrowing as you looked back at her.

“It’s getting too long. Too much work,” she said, almost defensively, her fingers combing through her hair as if to prove her point.

“More like half the work,” Mylo quipped from his corner, barely hiding his smirk. “Get it? Because half your head is shaved?”

Vi shot him a glare. “Hilarious.”

You could tell she was trying not to let him derail the conversation, her attention snapping back to you. “What do you think?”

You hesitated, unsure how to answer. The scissors in her hand didn’t help; it made the question feel oddly burdened, like your opinion actually mattered more than it should.

Your mind briefly wandered to earlier that afternoon, in the front seat of Vi’s car after Powder claimed the back with her usual cheeky grin. You’d avoided looking directly at Vi, whose raised eyebrows had been impossible to ignore as she glanced at you, then at Powder. Even in that moment, you couldn’t shake the strange awareness of how close you were when she turned the heat up too high.

It was strange, wasn’t it? How she could act so normal, so at ease, while you felt like you were constantly trying to tread water, pretending not to notice the things that lingered between you. Or the things that didn’t.

“I mean… if you want it shorter, just cut it,” you said.

Her lips twitched, not quite a smirk, not quite a frown. “But will I still look good?”

“Since when do you care about that?” Claggor snorted, shaking his head.

“I’ve always cared,” Vi shot back, a hint of indignation in her voice.

“Sure,” Mylo said, not looking up from his snack. “And that whole ‘I just rolled out of bed’ look? Totally intentional, right?”

“ Mylo ,” Vi said sharply, her tone cutting through the banter.

The way she turned back to you felt purposeful, like she was waiting for your response specifically. You felt the weight of her stare, the way her gaze seemed to linger just a second too long.

“I mean…” You shrugged, hoping to brush off the tension. “You’d probably still look good with a buzzcut.”

Vi snorted, finally cracking a grin. “Now that’s an idea.”

“You’re joking, right?” Claggor said, casting a side-eye glance her way.

“Maybe.” She twirled the scissors once before dropping them onto the coffee table with a clatter. Then, to your surprise, she plopped down next to you, stretching her legs out and leaning back against the couch.

Her knee bumped yours lightly, whether by accident or on purpose, you couldn’t tell.

“You’re so weird,” you muttered under your breath, trying to refocus on your phone. But there was a lump in your throat, and the videos on your screen blurred in your mind.

Even as you kept your eyes down, the heat of her presence next to you was impossible to ignore. It felt too close. Too casual. Like none of it ever mattered to her at all.

You tried to ignore the way your stomach twisted—half guilt, half elation—when you heard the news. It was petty, and you hated yourself for it. The announcement had come casually, as most bombshells from Powder did, dropped without ceremony in the middle of an otherwise uneventful afternoon.

“Yeah, Vi and Caitlyn called it quits,” Powder said, her voice muffled as she rummaged through your bag in search of snacks.

You froze mid-sentence, your pencil hovering above the textbook you were pretending to study. The words didn’t register at first, too surreal to process. “What? Why?”

Powder shrugged, unbothered. “Something about Vi not being ‘present.’ Caitlyn said they’re too different.”

She popped a piece of candy into her mouth and moved on, oblivious to the way her words had ignited a storm inside you. Your heart raced, an uncontrollable, traitorous thing, and hope flickered somewhere deep in your chest.

It burned too bright and too fast, like a spark catching dry kindling. You tried to snuff it out before it could grow. It wasn’t fair—least of all to Vi.

But it was hard. Harder still when you saw Vi after you heard the news. She was different then. Softer in some ways, quieter. The razor-sharp edge you remembered had dulled, replaced by a weight she carried in her eyes and the tension she held in her shoulders.

She’d laugh and talk with Vander, Mylo, and Claggor, her walls momentarily lowered in the safety of family. You’d catch glimpses of the old Vi then, the one who teased Powder mercilessly and made terrible puns at the dinner table.

On rare occasions, she’d join you, Ekko and Powder in the living room. Powder had a knack for pulling everyone together, dragging you into the fray whether you wanted to be there or not . The four of you would sprawl across the faded, mismatched couches, watching movies or swapping stories like you used to.

Vi usually lingered on the edges, her presence quiet but unmistakable. She didn’t say much, but her gaze would wander, drifting to you when she thought you weren’t paying attention. It was subtle at first —a flicker of her eyes when you laughed too loudly or wrinkled your nose at one of Ekko’s awful jokes. But once you noticed, you couldn’t unsee it.

Sometimes, during movie nights, the couch would become too crowded, and her leg would press against yours. The warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of your jeans would send your mind spiralling, no matter how hard you tried to tell yourself it meant nothing. She was just sitting there, just existing beside you.

But you knew better. You knew because her faint smile when she caught you snorting at something ridiculous lingered too long. Because the way her eyes softened when Powder teased you felt too deliberate. Because no matter how much you tried to convince yourself that she didn’t mean anything, it was a lie you could never fully believe.

And you hated yourself for it.

But more than that, you hated the way you couldn’t stop hoping.

You liked to think you were a handy person—decent with a wrench, quick to come up with ideas—but in comparison to Powder, you didn’t stand much of a chance. She wasn’t just handy; she was an artist with gears and circuits. You’d sketch out a vague plan, and she’d take it, run with it, and create something brilliant. That was why the two of you worked so well together: you dreamed, and she built.

The garage smelled like metal and grease, the air cold enough to make your breath fog. You tugged your sleeves down over your hands, shivering slightly as you handed Powder the screwdriver she’d been reaching for.

“Thanks,” she said without looking up, her blue hair glowing faintly under the harsh light of the overhead lamp. She was hunched over her latest college project—a tangle of wires and gears that looked more like a puzzle than a machine.

You scribbled something in your notebook, half notes and half doodles, glancing up every so often to watch her work. This was how most of your “girls’ nights” went: sitting in the garage, Powder building something while you brainstormed or provided moral support. It was the most comfortable kind of silence.

“What is this thing supposed to do again?” you asked, leaning closer to inspect her progress.

“It’s, uh... complicated,” Powder replied, biting her lip as she fiddled with a circuit board. “Basically, it’s gonna make stuff explode, but, like, in a controlled way.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Controlled explosions. Totally safe.”

She laughed, “Don’t worry, I’m a professional. Sort of.”

The two of you fell into an easy rhythm—her working, you passing tools or holding pieces in place when she needed an extra set of hands. It felt good to have something to focus on, something to do with your hands to keep them from trembling.

But as the minutes ticked by, the silence started to stretch, your thoughts creeping in to fill the gaps. You glanced at Powder, her face scrunched in concentration and felt the words bubbling up before you could stop them.

“Powder,” you said hesitantly.

“Mm?” She didn’t look up, her hands steady as she twisted a screw into place.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something...”

She finally glanced at you, her wide eyes curious. “Yeah? What’s up?”

You hesitated, your heart pounding. “It’s about Vi.”

“Oh.” Powder’s expression shifted into something wary, but she still looked amused. “I think I might know where this is going.”

“You do?”

“You’ve noticed she’s been a real dick lately, yeah?”

You want to nod but Vi has always been a real pain in the ass.

“It’s because she’s been hanging out with Caitlyn again.”

That was nowhere near what you were expecting to hear.

“What?”

“Yeah, something about Caitlyn helping her find a new job or something.”

“Oh,” you said, your throat tightening. “That’s... nice of her.”

“I guess. But you know I’ve never liked her much. She makes Vi act out all the time. It’s weird. You know what she said to me the other day? She said I should focus on stuff that matters, like my ‘actual life,’ whatever that means.” Powder rolled her eyes, her voice taking on a mocking tone. “‘Stop blowing things up, Powder. Stop wasting your time, Powder.’ Something about me being worth more than that or whatever. Like she’s one to talk.”

You forced a laugh, though it sounded hollow even to your own ears. “She’s just worried about you.”

“Yeah, well, she’s got a crappy way of showing it.” Powder’s hands stilled for a moment, her expression clouding over. “She doesn’t even tell me what’s going on with her anymore. She just... disappears, and when she does show up, she acts like she’s got everything figured out. It’s so annoying. I mean, yeah, they ended on good terms or whatever, but she’s just... spreading a bad vibe around.”

You smiled weakly. “Bad vibe?”

“You know the vibe. It’s obviously bothering you since you brought it up.”

You didn’t stop to tell her that wasn’t what you’d meant.

“Oh, my god,” she added, setting down her tools. “And did you know Caitlyn’s with Maddie now?”

“Maddie? From fucking high school?”

“Yeah, isn’t that crazy?”

“What the hell?”

“Right? That’s what I said! And Vi’s been all moody about it too. See what I mean? Caitlyn brings nothing but trouble.”

You couldn’t help but wonder how much Powder knew about what was going on with Vi. There had been so many blanks in the last few months that you were struggling to put everything together.

“I think Vi’s just mad that her sorry ass got dumped,” Powder added, shrugging.

“What?”

“You never heard this from me though. Vi would kill me if she found out I kill you of all people but... she was seeing someone last summer—she didn’t tell me who—and then it just stopped. She’s been an asshole since. A bigger asshole than she used to be. Serves her right.” Powder grinned, her tone light despite the sting of her words. “And yeah, it’s harsh, but I can say it because she’s my sister.”

You looked away, guilt clawing at your insides. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Powder glanced back at you. “Anyway, did you want to tell me something?”

Your heart stuttered, the weight of your unspoken thoughts pressing down on you like a heavy hand. You opened your mouth, the words trembling on the tip of your tongue, a silent dare you couldn’t quite take. What if this moment shattered, splintered into something jagged and irreparable?

“Uh, yeah,” you said finally, your voice more breathless than you intended. “Just wanted to say thanks for inviting me for the holidays.”

Powder frowned, turning to you fully, “What are you talking about? You always spend Christmas with us.”

You forced a laugh, scratching the back of your neck. “I know. I know, it’s just...” The words tangle themselves in your throat. You screw your eyes shut for a moment, decided to be honest at least. She deserved at least that. “Ever since college started, I feel like I haven’t been the greatest friend in the world.”

“What are y—”

“You know it’s true,” you interrupted, the words rushing out in a jumble as if you might lose the courage to say them if you hesitated. “I haven’t called half as much, and I keep making excuses. It’s not that I don’t want to see you, it’s just... I don’t know.”

Powder set the screwdriver down, her blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your chest tighten. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not ,” you insisted, the crack in your voice betraying the guilt you’d carried for so long.

“It is ,” she said firmly, her voice taking on the same determined edge she used when defending her inventions from criticism. “Don’t you remember how I used to lash out when high school started? You put up with so much shit from me back then.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the turn in the conversation. “Yeah.”

“Man, I was fucking psycho,” she continued with a wry grin, leaning back on her hands.

“I wouldn’t say that,” you replied, the ghost of a smile tugging at your lips.

“I would,” she said, laughing softly. “I’m surprised you’re still friends with me after all that. I would’ve dumped me in a heartbeat.”

“Of course I’m still friends with you,” you said. “I love you, Pow.”

She tilted her head, her expression softening into something warm and familiar. “Love you too.”

For a moment, the weight in your chest eased, the tension unravelling as her laughter echoed through the garage. Maybe someday, you’d find the right moment to tell her the rest of it—the things you couldn’t bring yourself to say now. Maybe after a drink or two for courage, when the words wouldn’t stick so hard in your throat, you’d tell her everything. And maybe she’d laugh, the same bright, fearless laugh that always pulled you back from the edge.

But not now. Not yet.

part two

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elliespassagerprincess · 1 month ago

Note

I keep thinking about reader and ellie having so much sexual tension because reader never been with a girl before but is feeling so much for ellie and ellie is just obsessed with what she thins is a "straight" girl.

So all of that just reaches its peak and they just lezz it out 😭

Jessie and dina just find them being all lovey dovey kissing and holding hands

I LOVE GIRLS MAN

Not so straight - ellie williams x reader

hi anon!! this is some of the gayest shit i've ever written. Women are so hot. I hope you enjoy!!

pairing: ellie williams x fem!reader

requests are open, send me your thoughts and ideas!!

warnings: MDNI 18+ Explicit sexual content (reader has never been with a girl before, oral sex), sexual tension, reader is "straight", ellie being a pussy

summary: You arrive in Jackson unsure of yourself and your place, while Ellie Williams—quiet, sarcastic, and secretly obsessed—tries to hide her growing feelings. Convinced you are straight, Ellie buries her longing until a slow-burn tension ignites between them.

masterlist

This story contains sexual content—please read with care. You are responsible for what you consume online.

Ellie watches you like you’re a solar flare in a snowstorm.

You’re new. You showed up to Jackson in the dead of winter, cheeks red from cold, carrying nothing but a chipped mug and the kind of smile that makes people slow down when they walk past. She doesn’t talk to you at first. Not directly.

Not until Joel pushes her toward you during patrol pairings, muttering something about “being friendly.”

You stand there in your coat, boots muddy, hand half-raised as if uncertain whether to wave or run.

“Ellie,” she says, dryly. “I guess we’re stuck together.”

You smile. “I’m good at being stuck.”

She doesn’t ask what that means.

You are sunshine in a town of shadows. That’s what Ellie thinks. You help in the greenhouses, hands always smelling like basil and soil, smile always crooked. You hum when you walk, badly off-key, and it drives her insane.

Insane because she thinks you don’t notice how close she stands when she’s near you. How your scent—warm and herbal—makes her jaw lock. How every time you look at her, she forgets what she was supposed to say.

“Wanna share a joint?” she offers one afternoon after patrol.

You tilt your head. “You share with everyone or am I special?”

Ellie’s throat goes dry. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

But you’re already smiling, cheeks glowing with something she doesn’t understand.

Not yet.

You call her “Williams” when you’re teasing. Which is always. She likes it too much.

“Williams,” you say, voice muffled by your scarf. “You always this grumpy or just when you’re with me?”

“Just you,” she mutters.

You grin like you won something. Maybe you did. Dina notices it first.

“Ellie,” she hisses one night while the two of you play cards. “You’re pining.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re obsessed.”

“I’m—”

“I mean, I get it. She’s gorgeous. But you really think she’s into girls?”

That stops her. Because no—she doesn’t. Not really. You dated a guy when you first got here. A quiet one. He left after three weeks. Ellie pretended not to care.

But you never talked about it again. And now—now you blush when she stares too long. Now your eyes linger on her lips. Now she can’t stop imagining what your mouth tastes like.

Even though she shouldn’t. Even though she won’t.

You're not dumb. Something's off between you and Ellie. It's electric. Tangled. Quietly loud.

She looks at you like she hates you. But she’s always helping. Always near. Always touching the small of your back, brushing dirt off your shoulder, muttering dry little insults that somehow sound like praise.

And you—you don’t know what to do with the heat curling low in your stomach when she laughs.

You’ve never felt this before. Not with anyone. Not like this.

You're not sure if you're straight. You thought you were. You still think you might be. But when Ellie’s in the room, your thoughts derail.

And when she's not, you look for her.

You almost kiss her by accident.

It’s a rainy afternoon. You’re both stuck in the library, waiting out a patrol delay. She’s showing you sketches in her notebook—little scribbles of dinosaurs and space shuttles and, weirdly, you.

You laugh when you see it. “That supposed to be me?”

Ellie snatches the book away. “Shut up.”

You grab it back. She lunges. Your heads knock, and suddenly her lips are a breath from yours.

You freeze. Ellie does too.

Your hand is still on hers. Your heartbeat is thunder. Her eyes flick to your mouth.

Then—

“Sorry,” she mutters. She pulls away. “Didn’t mean to—yeah.”

She’s gone before you can say her name. You sit alone, heart in pieces, wondering what the hell is happening to you.

You try to avoid her. It doesn’t work.

She’s always around. Always half-glaring, half-hoping. She looks at you like she’s memorizing your face. Like she’s sure she’ll have to let it go. You want to tell her she doesn’t.

You want to ask her why it feels like your skin burns when she touches your wrist.

But you're scared. So you say nothing. And she says less.

Dina corners you one night during a movie night in the rec center.

“You like her,” she whispers.

You blink. “What?”

“Ellie. You like her.”

You hesitate. “I don’t—”

“Yes, you do.”

You lower your voice. “I’ve never liked a girl before.”

“So?” Dina shrugs. “She’s not any girl.”

You stare at the screen, heart pounding. No. She isn’t.

She’s Ellie. And you’re falling.

You find her on the roof.

She’s sitting cross-legged, hoodie up, sketchbook balanced on her knee. She doesn’t hear you until you sit beside her.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” you say.

Ellie’s head jerks up.

“What?”

“I’m confused. I’ve never—liked a girl. Not like this.”

She’s quiet.

Then: “You don’t have to say that to be nice.”

“I’m not being nice. I’m being honest.”

Her hands shake. “You’re straight.”

“I thought I was.”

She looks at you. Really looks. You lean in. It’s awkward, soft, perfect.

Your lips meet like you’ve been waiting years.

When you break apart, breathless, Ellie’s voice is a whisper.

“Still confused?”

You grin. “Less.”

You’re in Ellie’s bed again, but this time it’s different. It’s not about sleep. Not about hiding from the cold or curling up after a long patrol.

It’s about the look she gives you when your fingertips trace the lines of her collarbone. It’s about how you lean in, lips trembling, whispering:

“I want to… I want you.”

Ellie stiffens. “You sure?”

You nod, but she holds your face in her hands, searching. “Hey. We don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“But—” her voice cracks, “—you’ve never done this.”

You lean in, kiss her softly. “Then show me.”

She exhales shakily. “Fuck, okay. Come here.”

She kisses you like she’s memorizing it.

Like you’re the only thing she’ll ever study again. Her mouth is warm, slow, exploring yours as her hands stay feather-light on your waist. No pressure—just patience. Her fingers toy with the hem of your shirt.

“Okay?” she asks between kisses.

“Yes,” you breathe.

She pulls it off gently. You shiver, not from cold—but nerves.

“You’re beautiful,” she says.

You blush. “You’ve barely seen anything.”

“I see you. That’s enough.”

Her calloused hands explore carefully—over your stomach, your ribs, the curve of your breast. Every touch is tender, like she’s afraid to break you. And maybe you are breakable. But only in the best way.

When she lays you back, you swear you could cry from how gentle she is. She kisses down your chest, murmuring soft things you can’t even make out over the pounding of your heart.

“Still good?” she asks, lips brushing the underside of your breast.

You nod. “Please don’t stop.”

Ellie hums. “I won’t. I’ve got you.”

Her fingers slip into your underwear slowly. She’s warm, steady, curling them just enough to make your back arch. You moan—soft and startled. She watches your face like it’s sacred.

“Feels good?” she whispers.

You nod again, biting your lip.

“God, you’re wet,” she mutters, more to herself. “You’re doing so good.”

You cling to her wrist, breath catching as she works you open, curling and pressing just right. Her mouth finds your thigh, then lower.

And then—

“Ellie—”

She answers with her tongue.

You didn’t think you could fall apart so fast. But with her, it’s like being known. Like your body was made to be read by her. She doesn’t stop until your thighs are shaking, your hand tangled in her hair, your voice cracked from saying her name too many times.

Later, she holds you close, lips on your temple.

“You okay?” she asks softly.

You nod, still catching your breath. “You?”

She laughs. “I’m great.”

You giggle, burying your face into her neck. And for the first time, you don’t feel confused.

You feel found.

The morning sun spills across Ellie’s bed in quiet gold.

She’s still asleep, sprawled beside you, freckled cheek pressed to the pillow, one arm possessively wrapped around your waist like she’s afraid you’ll disappear. You’re not going anywhere.

You stare at her, your heart soft. Her lips are slightly parted. Her lashes flicker from some dream. She looks young like this. Peaceful.

You reach up, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. She stirs.

“Mornin’,” she mumbles.

You smile. “Hi.”

Her eyes blink open. Green and dazed. “You okay?”

You nod. “Better than okay.”

Ellie exhales. “Good.”

You bite your lip. “Can I… touch you?”

That wakes her up fully. She props herself on an elbow, eyes wide. “You want to?”

You nod. “Last night… you took such good care of me. I want to make you feel good, too.”

Her breath hitches.

“Fuck,” she whispers. “Yeah. Yeah, baby. Please.”

You kiss her first, softly, until she melts beneath you. Your hands move carefully—over her ribs, her stomach, her hips. Her skin is warm, muscles twitching under your touch.

“You’re shaking,” you murmur.

Ellie groans. “I’ve been dreaming about this for months. Letting you touch me? That’s—fuck. It’s everything.”

You swallow your nerves and slide lower. Her thighs part automatically. She’s already wet, and you whimper softly at the heat between her legs.

“Just like that,” Ellie whispers. “You’re doing so good.”

You press gentle kisses along her inner thighs, and her breath stutters.

“Is this okay?”

She nods frantically. “Please. Please, baby.”

Your mouth meets her, shy and slow at first. But the way she gasps—hands gripping the sheets—makes you bolder. You lick, suck, explore her with growing confidence. Her taste is addicting, and the way she moans your name makes your stomach flutter.

When you slide two fingers inside her, she arches up off the bed.

“Fuck, yes—don’t stop—”

You don’t. You hold her down, mouth still on her, fingers working steadily, watching her unravel completely. When she comes, it’s with your name broken on her lips and a desperation that makes you fall in love all over again.

Later, she’s breathless, clinging to you. “You’re dangerous,” she murmurs, still dazed. “You’re so good at that.”

You laugh. “I had a good teacher.”

She pulls you closer, kissing your forehead.

“I’m yours,” she whispers. “You know that, right?”

You press your lips to hers. “I do now.”

You’re inseparable after that. Ellie walks with a little more swagger. You smile more. Dina catches you kissing behind the horse stables and nearly screams.

“I KNEW IT!”

Jesse owes her twenty bucks. Ellie scowls, but you’re laughing too hard to care.

At night, you lie in her bed. Her arm is slung across your waist. You trace the freckles on her shoulder.

“I feel like I’ve been waiting for you,” you whisper.

Ellie smiles. “I think I’ve been writing about you since I was twelve.”

You kiss her again. Because you’re not so straight.

And she’s not so alone.

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isabelckl · 20 days ago

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meeting ellie in detention

nerdy ellie williams x popular fem!reader

detention has always been boring—until the last person you expected walks in. now you’re stuck in the same room, and it’s a lot harder to ignore her.

Detention. Again. Second time this month.

You’re slouched low in the hard plastic chair, spine curved in a way that probably screams "I give up," the edge of the desk digging uncomfortably into your ribs. One leg bounces under the table, the sole of your shoe scuffing softly against the floor with every twitch. The room smells faintly like Expo markers and teenage boredom, warm dust floating in streaks of light pouring through slatted blinds. The air conditioner hums in the ceiling like it’s trying too hard and still failing to cool anything down.

Your head hangs forward, a lazy weight, chin nearly touching your chest as you idly flick at the fake nail on your middle finger — the one that went flying across the cafeteria when you slapped the ever-loving shit out of Victoria during lunch. It clicks against your nailbed with each flick, a tiny, hollow sound that breaks the silence like a metronome for your regret.

You exhale sharply through your nose, lips twitching into a sour twist.

“I should’ve just let that bitch go,” you think to yourself, dragging your head back until it flops against the top of your seat with a dramatic, whispered groan.

The oversized clock on the wall ticks with cruel precision, every second dragging its heels like it's stuck in glue. The teacher — some substitute whose name you didn’t bother to catch — is half-asleep at their desk, hunched over a crossword puzzle or a book with the spine cracked flat. They're not even pretending to watch you. It's one of those afternoons where the heat makes everything slow, where even trouble feels sluggish and tired.

You’re just about to give in to the heaviness tugging at your eyelids, your cheek halfway to the cool surface of the desk, when the door creaks open with an uncertain squeal.

Your eyebrows lift.

Huh?

“You’re here,” you blurt out before you can catch the words, your voice cutting through the haze like a pebble tossed into still water. You sit up straighter, something in you crackling awake with sharp interest.

Ellie Williams steps into the room like she’s not sure if she belongs — the usual quiet type, always either with headphones on, a guitar slung across her back, or buried somewhere in the library behind a stack of sci-fi novels and sketchpads. Her eyes flit up and meet yours for a moment before darting away. Then she scans the room like she’s searching for the least cursed seat available.

“You can sit here,” you offer, nodding at the empty chair beside you. Your voice is casual, but there’s a flicker of curiosity you don’t bother hiding.

“I guess...” she mutters, rubbing the back of her neck with the palm of her hand. She moves like she’s being dragged by invisible strings — hesitant, stiff — and drops into the seat beside you like she’s expecting it to collapse underneath her.

You tilt your head, crossing your arms and letting your eyes roam, not subtle about it. Her flannel sleeves are rolled up, revealing a faint ink smudge near her wrist. There’s a nervous energy buzzing off her in low frequency, barely noticeable unless you’re this close.

“What?” you ask, a spark of challenge in your tone.

Ellie glances at you, brows drawing inward. “What?”

You squint like you’re staring at a half-finished painting, trying to figure out what’s missing. “Nothing. Just… Ellie Williams, in detention, here with me? You’re like the last person I expected to see.”

She stares at you for a second, then looks away, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I didn’t know you knew my name,” she says, soft and matter-of-fact, like that’s what surprised her the most.

You let out a small, amused laugh. “Of course I know your name. We’re classmates in like… two subjects. You sit three rows over in Calc, always solving problems before the teacher even finishes writing them on the board.”

Ellie shrugs, clearly uncomfortable with the attention, her fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on her jeans. She looks like you’ve just peeled back something she’s spent years sewing shut.

“So what did you do?” you ask, leaning in just slightly, eyes gleaming with interest. “Come on, I need something to keep me entertained.”

She gives you a look, equal parts wary and annoyed. “No.”

“Oh, come on. I just wanna know what got you here. I mean, I’m here because I bitch-slapped Victoria for spreading a fake rumor about me.” You say it like a badge of honor, chin lifted slightly. “Your turn.”

Ellie lets out a breath, glancing down at her hands again. Her nails are short, bitten at the edges. She chuckles quietly, a low, sheepish sound. “It’s lame.”

“Come on,” you nudge her with your elbow, grinning now.

She doesn’t respond, just offers the ghost of a smile and goes back to staring at the graffiti scratched into the desk.

You sigh and flop back into your seat again. “Fine. I get it. First time in detention. Gotta preserve your image.”

She side-eyes you, and this time, there’s a smirk pulling at her mouth like she’s trying to suppress it. “Why would you think I’m the last person you’d see here?” she asks, her voice lower, curious.

You scoff under your breath and rest your arm on the back of her chair like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Because you’re just... good.”

Her brow arches.

“I mean, a great example of a model student,” you continue, motioning vaguely in her direction. “You’re, like, top of our calculus class, probably gonna graduate with honors or whatever. And you draw, right? I saw some of your stuff in art class. The charcoal sketches.”

She stares at you now, like she’s hearing you through a tunnel. “You knew that?” she says, voice soft with disbelief.

“Yeah.” You roll your eyes a little, but there’s no bite in it. “I pay attention.”

Ellie smiles — not fully, just a quiet, private curve of her lips — and bites the inside of her cheek like she’s trying to hide it.

“No talking,” the teacher calls out without lifting their eyes.

You roll your eyes again and settle into silence, the kind that’s thick but not uncomfortable. The ticking clock sounds louder now, each second ricocheting off the pale classroom walls. Somewhere outside, a locker slams shut, followed by faint, echoing laughter. But your focus is stuck on the girl next to you — the way her fingers drum softly against the desk, the quiet way she breathes, how her knee is still barely an inch from yours.

You rest your chin in your hand, elbow propped on the desk, still watching her. Ellie stares straight ahead like she’s forcing herself not to glance your way. Like she can feel you looking and isn’t sure what to do about it.

“So...” you murmur, voice low and casual, “are you doing anything later?”

Ellie turns her head a fraction. “Uh, nothing... I think. Why?”

“Wanna go to a party with me? Just a house thing at Kendra’s.”

She blinks, clearly caught off guard, and gives you a look like you just asked her to go skydiving. “Why would I go to a party with you?”

You shrug, leaning back. “Nothing serious. Just wondered. Have you ever been to one?”

“Well... yeah. But not the kind of party you’re talking about.”

You squint, amused now. “And what kind is that?”

She shrugs, but there’s a glint in her eyes. “The ‘your kind’ kind. You know... boys and stuff.”

You snort. “Boys and stuff? Seriously?”

Ellie shrugs again, her smirk widening just enough to make your stomach flip.

“No one’s gonna make you do anything, y’know,” you add, raising an eyebrow at her, voice softer now, like an unspoken promise.

She hesitates, her eyes flicking to yours, then down to her lap. The pause stretches — not uncomfortable, just thoughtful — and then she nods slowly.

“I guess so. I could come.”

“Great. It'll be fun,” you say, a grin tugging at your lips as you lean back, arms crossing. There’s a fizz of electricity in your chest now, subtle but undeniable.

There’s a pause again — not awkward, just… still. The kind that stretches long enough for you to start wondering what’s going on in her head. You glance over, your voice a little softer now, curious instead of teasing.

“So... do you, like, have a boyfriend? Or girlfriend?”

Ellie lets out a low laugh — short and breathy, like you caught her off guard. “Nah. Why?”

You lean your shoulder against the back of your chair, studying her expression as if it might give something away. “What’s your type, then?” you ask, tossing it out like it’s no big deal, like it’s just a casual, meaningless question — even though it kind of isn’t.

She glances at you sideways, her brow arching. “Why are you asking me that?”

You smirk, shrugging lazily. “So I can set you up with someone later. Maybe.”

Ellie scoffs, rolling her eyes — but there’s no real bite to it. “Didn’t you just say no one’s gonna make me do anything? And now you’re trying to play matchmaker?”

“I just wanna try,” you say, nudging her foot lightly under the desk. “C’mon, it'd be cute.”

She shakes her head slowly, but there’s a smile creeping onto her lips — small, like she’s trying to hold it back but failing. For a moment, she doesn’t say anything. Then, quieter this time, eyes fixed on the grain of the wooden desk, she says, “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

You nod, and it’s not teasing now — there’s something softer in the way you do it, something that says you’re listening. That maybe you understand more than you’re letting on.

She glances up, eyes flicking toward you, just a little narrower now. Like she’s testing the waters. “How about you? Nathan?”

You blink, caught off guard, then immediately grimace. “Nathan? Nathan fucking Walsh? No way. Do people seriously think we hooked up?”

Ellie doesn’t answer — just lifts her eyebrows like, You tell me.

You groan, scrubbing a hand over your face. “Ugh, that’s a no. Like, a no-in-hell situation. I’d rather set myself on fire.”

Ellie actually laughs — a real one this time. It spills out of her unfiltered, her head tilting back just slightly. It’s soft, a little scratchy, and it warms something in your chest.

You can’t help but grin, cheeks already aching. “So… you’re coming with me later?”

She looks at you, really looks this time — like she’s trying to figure out what the hell she just got herself into. Her eyes flick between yours and the floor before she finally nods once.

“Yeah. Okay.”

The music is already pulsing through the house by the time you catch sight of her. It spills out the front door in a steady, throbbing rhythm, matched only by the flicker of string lights and silhouettes moving behind fogged-up windows. Ellie steps in with a slight hesitation, like the air is thicker here — like she’s walking into somewhere she’s not sure she belongs, but she's here anyway. A red solo cup is cradled loosely in her hand. Her shoulders are squared, jaw set, but her eyes move like she’s absorbing everything, scanning for a place to land.

Then they find you.

You spot her from across the room and light up, warmth blooming across your face, already flushed from the shots you took earlier. You break away from your group mid-sentence, weaving through a haze of cologne, sweat, and perfume until you reach her. Your grin is crooked, wide. “Heyyy,” you say, dragging the word out with a giddy lilt as you throw your arms around her.

Your balance tips a little on your heels — you’re slightly tipsy, full of heat and laughter — and Ellie catches you with a hand at your waist. Her grip is hesitant but steady. You’re aware of how solid she feels, how warm, how she doesn’t pull away even though she totally could.

“You really came,” you say against her ear, breath brushing the shell of it.

“I said I would,” she replies, voice quiet, like the volume of the house makes her want to retreat into herself. She looks down at you, eyes soft. The button-up she’s wearing is wrinkled at the edges, sleeves rolled to her elbows, and she smells faintly like clean laundry — sharp and comforting — mixed with the burn of something stronger. Whiskey, maybe.

You take her cup without asking, taking a sip and wrinkling your nose playfully before handing it back. “You’re late,” you say, tugging her by the wrist, your fingers lacing lightly around hers as you pull her toward the kitchen.

Ellie doesn’t resist. She follows you into the warmth and chaos of the party, and you hand her a shot before raising your own. She downs it without a grimace — like it’s nothing — then does the second one just the same.

You blink, impressed. “I thought you were all straight-edge,” you tease, nudging her elbow with yours.

She shrugs, lips curling at the edge. “Never said that.”

You laugh, leaning a little too close as your balance shifts again. “You’re full of surprises, Ellie Williams.”

The two of you end up at the edge of the kitchen, leaning against the counter while people move around you in waves. The music swells and falls, conversations weaving together in fragments. You’re mostly talking — telling stories, rambling through your buzz — while Ellie listens, her body angled just enough toward you to show she’s paying attention. Her green eyes flick over your face like she’s memorizing something, and every now and then, her lips twitch like she’s holding back a smile.

Your fingers brush her forearm more than once. She doesn’t pull away.

At some point — you’re not sure when — someone drags you onto the dance floor. It’s hot and crowded, all limbs and flickering light, and you don’t remember if it was your idea or hers, but suddenly you’re dancing. Ellie’s hand is at your waist, grounding you in the motion, keeping you upright as you spin and stumble and laugh into her shoulder.

“Okay, okay, I’m done, I’m too drunk,” you wheeze out, laughter bubbling up. Your feet trip over each other, and you lean heavily into her as she catches you, both hands sliding to your hips, steady and firm.

You look up, breath warm against her neck, your heart hammering somewhere near your throat. Your cheeks are flushed — from the alcohol, the heat, her. “What if,” you say slowly, words slurring just a little, “what if the person I wanted to set you up with… is me?”

Ellie goes still.

She’s staring at you, eyes wide, mouth parted like she wasn’t expecting that. Her breath catches — just barely — but she doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t laugh it off or deflect. Instead, she leans in close, her lips brushing your ear.

“Let’s get out of here,” she murmurs.

You nod, barely thinking.

Everything becomes a blur of color and heat and motion. Upstairs, the bass from the music fades into a dull thump beneath your feet. You barely make it through the threshold of some stranger’s bedroom before Ellie’s lips are on yours, and your back hits the wall with a soft thud. Her hands are everywhere — in your hair, along your jaw, gripping your thighs as she lifts you up slightly, your legs tightening instinctively around her waist.

You’re breathless. Dizzy. Drunk off her mouth, her warmth, the way she kisses like she’s wanted to for a while and finally stopped holding back. Your hands are under her shirt, fingers skimming hot skin, tugging her closer, closer, until there’s nothing between you but heat and want and the sound of your own gasping breaths.

It’s messy. A little desperate. But god — you've never wanted anything more.

#ellie williams fanfiction #ellie x y/n #ellie x reader #ellie williams x you #ellie williams x reader #ellie fanfic #ellie tlou #ellie the last of us #nerd ellie #ellie williams fanfic #ellie williams #ellie williams x fem reader #ellie williams x female reader #the last of us #isabelckl #ellie oneshot

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secretl1fe0fm3 · 4 months ago

Text

guess ~ billie eilish x fem!reader

summary: you’re an extra on stage during charli’s grammy performance. billie can’t seem to keep her eyes off of you, and her hands at the after party.

warnings: smut, dom!billie, teasing, grinding, fingering(r!receiving), dirty talk, slight exhibitionism(not really though)

an: this is loosely based off a request <3 (anon if you’re reading this im not sure if its exactly what you wanted but i hope you enjoy!) also im so sorry this took so long to finish work has been insane :/ ((decided to finish editing this tonight cause guess remix just won soty at the brits lets go sapphic girlies!!!!))

18+ minors dni!!!

1.9k words

The heavy bass of "Guess" pulses through your body. Flashing lights strobe across the crowd, illuminating a sea of famous faces, but you’re too caught up in the music to care. You’re an extra on stage, one of the many moving bodies. But you’re making damn sure you stand out.

Your movements are fluid and sensual as you move your hips to the rhythm, fingers trailing over your skin before snapping back into place with the beat. It’s not too much, but just enough to make anyone watching take notice.

And someone is watching. You feel it before you see it, a magnetic pull from the audience. When you finally glance towards the crowd, your breath catches in your throat.

Your eyes meet piercing blue almost instantly; Billie.

Her body sways along with the beat of the song, long dark brown hair spilling out from underneath her snapback. The bright yellow jersey she’s wearing hangs loose over her frame as she lip syncs along to the song, the camera panning over to her.

For a second, you wonder if you’re imagining it- if she’s looking past you, watching Charli or someone else. You watch the corner of her mouth quirk up into a smirk, like she’s amused at your realization that her gaze is on you. Your heart slams in your chest, but you don’t miss a beat.

Before you can even process much else, the song comes to an end, and the final note rings out into the arena. Deafening cheers and screams fill your ears as the award show comes to a close for the evening.

As everyone starts to move off stage, your eyes scan the crowd one last time and meet with Billie's, the smirk still apparent on her face as her eyes scan up and down your barely covered body. You pretend to ignore her stare, and walk off the stage with one of your friends, giggling from the adrenaline rush.

---

The music is loud, the bass shaking the floor as you dance with your friends, your body still buzzing from the performance earlier. The adrenaline is still in your veins, mixing with the heat of the crowded afterparty.

The two-piece set you’re wearing clings to you like second skin, tiny, yet sparkling under the dim lights.

You feel a presence come up behind you, and a hand skims along your waist. You turn quickly, eyes glancing up at the familiar blue from earlier.

Billie doesn’t say anything at first. She just looks at you, gaze dragging slow over the shimmering fabric clinging to your skin.

A smirk tugs at her lips as she leans in, voice low enough that it barely cuts through the music.

“Dance with me?”

Your eyes widen slightly at her forwardness, and she doesn’t wait for a response. She takes your wrist gently into her hand, fingers warm against your skin, and pulls you closer into her. Your back comes into contact with her front, your ass pushed up against her baggy jeans.

She moves slow, her hands sliding down to rest at your hips. Her grip is firm, teasing, like she knows exactly what she’s doing. Her jersey brushes against your bare lower back with every shift of movement, the cool fabric against your heated skin. She keeps you close, her breath grazing your ear as she leans forward again.

“You looked good up there,” she murmurs, fingers gripping your hips, pushing you back against her more firmly.

You swallow hard, your own hands reaching back and finding the hem of her jersey, tugging just slightly. “You were watching me?”

Billie lets out quiet chuckle, almost a hum. “Hard not to.”

The heat between you is suffocating, your pulse picking up as you grind your hips back against her. Billie tilts her head, placing a soft kiss against the side of your neck, right below your ear.

“Come with me,” she murmurs, her voice low and rough.

Your stomach flips, heat pooling low, but you don’t hesitate. You let her lead you through the crowded party, weaving through bodies quickly.

She pulls you down a dimly lit hallway, secluded and quiet, far enough from the party that the music is nothing more than a distant sound. Your back barely meets the wall before Billie is on you, hands gripping your waist, lips crashing onto yours eagerly.

Her lips are firm and desperate, her body pressing flush against yours, pinning you there. You gasp into her mouth, and she takes advantage, her tongue sliding against yours, sending a shiver down your spine.

Her hands wander, slipping under the hem of your top, fingers tracing across your bare skin. She groans against your lips.

“Fuck,” she breathes, pulling back just enough to drag her eyes over you, like she wants to devour you. “You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me all night.”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly, your head spinning, lips swollen from the way she kissed you. You smirk, dragging your hands up the front of her oversized jersey, feeling the heat of her body through the fabric.

“Yeah?” You tease, breathless. “What have I been doing to you?”

Billie exhales and laughs softly, pressing her thigh between your legs, making you gasp quietly.

“Dancing like you wanted me to come over and take what’s mine.” she whispers, her lips trailing down to your jaw and then your neck, sucking and biting at your pulse point. Her words send a rush of heat straight to your core

“Maybe I did,” you admit, your nails scratching lightly against her stomach under her top.

Billie groans at your words, her nails digging into your waist, leaving crescent shaped indents. Her fingers trail down and slip under the fabric of your skirt, dragging up the inside of your thigh. She moves slow, her teasing touch making you squirm. Billie taps her fingers against your cunt, rubbing you through your lace panties.

“Fuck,” you whisper, gripping onto her shoulders.

Billie’s smirk deepens as she watches you squirm, her fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles. “Look at you,” she murmurs, her voice thick with amusement and hunger. “So desperate for me already.”

Her fingers slide lower, pushing your lace black thong to the side, teasing your slick entrance before pushing in, stretching you. She watches your face closely as her two fingers push fully in, creating a steady rhythm as she begins to thrust them in and out.

“You love this, don’t you?” she taunts, curling her fingers just right. “So wet and dripping for me.”

You nod quickly, biting your lip hard, trying to stifle your moans. Her free hand trails up your body, slipping beneath your top, her nails dragging lightly against your skin. She cups your breast, rolling your nipple between her fingers, her grin widening when you arch into her touch.

“That’s it,” she purrs. “Be a good girl and let me hear you.”

Her pace quickens as you let a small moan escape past your lips, her fingers thrusting deep as her thumb circles your clit. “You’re so fucking tight,” she groans, her breath hot against your neck. “Squeezing me so well, baby. You gonna come for me? Gonna make a mess all over my fingers?”

She presses a kiss to your neck as you throw your head back against the wall, eyes squeezing shut. “Say it,” she demands, her voice dripping with authority. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

Her fingers begin to slow down, waiting for your response, teasing you cruelly. Instead of forming a coherent response, a whimper escapes your lips as her fingers fully still inside you, the sudden loss of movement making your body ache with frustration.

“Come on, sweetheart,” she murmurs, her voice dripping with amusement as she presses a featherlight kiss to your jaw. “I know you can do better than that.”

Your hips shift involuntarily against her fingers as you stay silent, seeking friction, but she merely smirks at your silent plead.

“Oh, you’re fucking desperate, aren’t you?” Her breath is hot against your ear, her teeth grazing your skin as she speaks. “I want to hear you beg for it.”

“Please,” you finally breathe out, voice trembling.

Billie hums, amused, but unimpressed. “That’s cute,” she muses, slightly shifting her fingers inside you, making you shudder. “But not nearly enough.”

A frustrated high pitch whine leaves your lips, and she chuckles. “Come on, sweetheart. You can do it. Tell me exactly what you want.” Her other hand pinches at your nipple, rubbing the sensitive nub between her fingers.

Your body is trembling beneath her, burning with need. Your eyes lock with hers, voice breaking as you plead, “Please, Billie… I need you. I need more. I-fuck-I can’t take it. Please let me come.”

Her fingers resume their movement again at your begging, a satisfied hum slipping past her lips. “Thats more like it, baby. See what happens when you’re a good girl for me?”

Her pace quickens, her fingers curling just right, pressing into your sweet spot. The pressure builds, heat coiling tight in your lower belly. You whimper her name repeatedly, spilling from your lips like a desperate prayer.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” she taunts, her voice low and dripping with satisfaction. The sight of you falling apart being enough to bring her close to her own climax.

Your body tenses, as the pleasure turns into something overwhelming. Your hands grasp at her shoulders, at anything to ground yourself, but Billie doesn’t stop, her fingers fucking into you even quicker. She leans in, lips brushing against your ear, voice dropping even lower.

“Come for me,” she whispers.

Your orgasm washes over you instantly at her command. A sharp and loud gasp escapes you as the white hot pleasure crashes over you. Billie’s fingers start to slow as you clench down on them, dragging out every last tremor and desperate whimper until you’re left breathless and shaking in her grip.

She grins and withdraws her fingers gently, pressing a soothing kiss to your tense jaw. “Beautiful,” she murmurs, trailing your wetness down and over your exposed thighs, letting your underwear slip back into place.

“But guess what? I’m not done with you yet, pretty girl.”

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requests are open!!! <3

#billie eilish #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish smut #billie eilish imagine #billie x reader #wlw smut #smut #ahem

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landologged · 2 months ago

Text

Out Lapped | Part One

pairing: lando x reader

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

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

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

WC: 19k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He grins. “You mean perfect?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t get excited,” you tell him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His phone.

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

brrzt. brrzt.

“Your phone,” you pant.

“Fuck it,” he mutters. “Ignore it.”

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

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

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

brrzt. brrzt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He watches you, eyes dark, unreadable.

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

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

“You don’t get to decide that.”

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

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

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

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

“Don’t,” he says.

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

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

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

He comes toward you and you stumble back.

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

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

“Look at me,” he says.

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

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

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

Your knees almost give out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do.”

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

You moan into it. God help you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lando—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up,” you whisper against his mouth.

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

Then he pulls back.

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

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

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

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

“Seriously?” you spit in utter disbelief.

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

“Careful?”

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

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

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

He doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t flinch.

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

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

“You’re disgusting.”

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you snap. “I fucking would.”

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

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

And then—

He shoves into you.

Raw. Bare. Deep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You jolt. “Are you serious—”

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

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

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

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

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

You can’t even form words.

“You’re mine,” he snarls. “Say it.”

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

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

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

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

You don’t say no. You can’t.

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. Still half-naked. Still leaking.

Still there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You clear your throat.

“I… guess that’s it, then?”

His eyes flick up. Casual. No longer interested.

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

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

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

He goes back to his phone.

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

“Now nothing.”

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

Your stomach tightens.

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re kidding, right?”

Your jaw tenses. “No. I’m not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” he says, soft.

So. Fucking. Soft.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lando.

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

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

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

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

Lando does.

Lando always did.

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

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

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

And still—wanting.

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

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

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

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

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

Delete.

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

Delete.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

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

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

You almost don’t go.

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

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

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

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

You glance down.

Lando.

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

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

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

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

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

Your phone lights up again.

Lando.

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

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

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

Lando.

And again.

Lando.

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

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

Lando.

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

You look over your shoulder.

Not because you want to.

Because you have to.

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

And then—

There he is.

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

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

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

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

Lando [9:37 PM]

nice dress

Lando [9:39 PM]

trying to impress him or just make me crazy?

Lando [9:40 PM]

it’s working

Lando [9:41 PM]

you think I won’t walk over there?

Lando [9:41 PM]

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

Lando [9:42 PM]

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

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

go fuck yourself

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

Lando [9:43 PM]

already did. thinking of you the whole time

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

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

Instead—you grab your wine and down it.

Pick up your phone and you type.

what do you want from me, Lando?

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

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

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

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

“Miss me?” you murmur, voice syrupy.

He laughs. “Was only gone a minute.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lando [9:51 PM]

what the fuck do you think you’re doing

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

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

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

His breath catches.

“Yeah. Definitely.”

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

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

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

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

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

You stop and pull your hand back.

“I can’t,” you say, voice too small.

He looks over. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The phone rings just past two a.m.

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

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

You press accept on the third buzz.

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

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

Just that. Just hey.

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

“You alone?”

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

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

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

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

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

You pause. Too long. “Fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t respond.

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

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

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

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

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

And he hears all of it.

“You touching yourself right now?”

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

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

“Slide your hand down. Just one finger.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No?” he repeats, slower now.

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

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

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

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

You blink.

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

Your breath catches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow hard. Hard enough that it hurts.

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

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

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

Your hips jerk.

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

You moan, involuntary, soft and choked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You moan. Soft. Broken.

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

Your back arches off the sheets.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And your orgasm hits like a crash.

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

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

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

The line is quiet.

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

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

He should say something.

You should say something. But neither of you do.

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

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

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

“You still there?”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

You wait.

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

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

“You gonna be at qualifying?”

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” he says, finally.

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

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

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

And that was it. You felt it again.

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

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

The race blurred by.

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

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

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

“Fuck, man! We did it!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course it is.

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

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

But it fades the second he sees your face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why wasn’t I ever good enough?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hands shake, but you keep going.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not that simple,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

And somewhere behind you, the elevator dings.

#f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #lando #lando fluff #lando norris #lando norris fic #lando smut #Lando X reader #Lando Norris x reader

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bluebellhairpin · 11 months ago

Text

Cregan Stark X Wife!Reader

Summary: Preparation to leave to Castle Black for the winter months is well under way, and you're reluctant to be left alone in Winterfell. Cregan, having had the same worry, provides what could be a solution. A solution with a name. And fur. (wc. 2.3k>)

Warnings: Reader has she/her pronouns + fem bodied. Pregnancy. Assassination attempt. Unnamed character death. Blood + gore. Cregan wants to be a girl dad. Unedited (lol).

Listening to: 'Wolf at Your Door' by Chole x Halle - "When you're laying in your bed at night, when the air's just a little too quiet, better hope that you're saying your prayers."

Series Masterlist || Masterlist || Ko-Fi || AO3 link

Winterfell was a somber place when the cold rolled down from the north.

Although only ten men were sent to the wall every winter, everyone left behind knew someone who was sent away. No matter how short of a life you lived, you also always knew someone who died there. Indeed, life on the wall was as harsh as the force it existence kept at bay.

For you though, the man you lost always returned. The last three winters had you spend upwards of three months without your husband - and in turn rising to take his place as custodian of Winterfell. No matter how busy the role kept you, it never helped you miss Cregan Stark any less.

With winter approaching once more, each moment with him seemed to not be enough. Yes, the Wall was dangerous, and even Cregan was never guaranteed to return, but this year there was something else that willed you to want him to stay. Something else that made him want to stay too.

“Each day my resolve seems to crack,” he told you one night, fire cracked in its hearth as you both lay under blankets of fur. His hand rested protectively over your belly. “Already now I can see our babe grow, and I know I’ll not only be missing you but her too.”

“‘Her’?” you hummed, head turning to nose his cheek. “Such a confident tone, my lord.”

“I am confident.” he replied, turning to press a soft kiss to your lips as his hand idlily rubbed along your stomach.

“And if you needed an heir at the end of this cold winter, what then?”

“If my lady wife deems me worthy, we might try for one again.” he said, sedating what could’ve been the start of your mood change with words almost too sweet to be coming from the frosty king in the north. “But that is something we can decide once all three of us are safe together when summer rises.”

Cregan’s soft words and warm breath on your cheeks made your mind wandered to a time not so far away where you wouldn’t have his heat so close. A time when his comfort was going to be gone.

“I’m going to miss you.” you said, turning into his hold more, and he let you snuggle into his chest. “This time will feel longer than all the others.”

“I doubt that will be the case for you.” he said, lips moving from their place pressed into your hair. “Winterfell will keep you busy, between that and resting for the babe’s sake, you won’t have time on your hands for much else.”

“I may not want to rest.”

“You will. The Lord of Winterfell commands it.”

“The Lord of Winterfell won’t be here, he cannot have a for sure say in what I do or do not do.” You felt him smile into your hair, and you pulled away with a twitch of your own mouth. “What?”

He pulled away a little too, shyly smiling down at where you still laid. He was acting far too coy to be considered normal.

“I might not be leaving you completely alone.”

“... Cregan.” you started, sitting up on our elbow.

“I was going to show you on the morrow, but since you’ve forced my hand -”

“-I? Forcing your hand?”

“- Since you forced my hand,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he slipped out from the bedcovers, “I will be right back.”

“What…” You tried, but your voice tempered out as he swiftly made his way from your bedchambers.

Sighing, you sat back in your pillows, arms folded, and refraining from pouting. It wasn’t long into your settled position of guessing what in the seven kingdoms your husband was doing before he was back.

Cregan had clearly gone outside, snow settled on the top of his hair and along the shoulders of the fur cloak he snatched before leaving. In his arms was something squirming. You frowned, eyeing the movement under the cloak as he strode over.

“What is that?” you asked.

“A protector for the Lady of Winterfell, as per the orders of her lord husband.” Cregan said, and let the squirming mass break free from his hold onto the bed.

It was a… pup? No not possible, it was too big. From how it acted it was a few months surely, but it was just so big. Then you thought some more. Could it really be?

“A direwolf?”

“Not any direwolf. Yours.” Cregan said, rounding the bed and settling back at your side. “A protector to be at your side when I cannot. I’ve been training him and he follows commands well already. By the time I leave he should be grown to the size of any regular dog - then at least twice that when I return.”

While he spoke, the pup sniffed around your bed covers, curiously wandering on unsteady feet. You had to admit, he looked gorgeous, all black fur, with green eyes, and you didn’t doubt he would grow to be a fierce thing. But sometimes that wasn’t always good.

“Cregan, are you sure about this?” you asked. “It’s… he’s a direwolf, not a dog.”

“I’m sure,” he said, lending his arm out. The pup stepped closer, licking Cregan’s fingers and settling on its belly with its nose on Cregan’s knee. “They’re our house symbol. The direwolf are as Stark as I am, they know who we are, and they can be as loyal as they are fierce. That’s why I wanted to introduce you before I left. He’s going to be yours, loyal to you.”

His arm wrapped around your shoulder, and like second nature you made yourself comfortable by his side. The pup shifted too, now his nose was itching closer to you, wanting to know who this new person was.

“I supposed you ought to tell me what I'm going to be calling him then.”

“You can call him anything you like,” Cregan said, “But I’ve been calling him Striker.”

Five months passed, and Cregan was right. You were never without anything to do.

The babe growing inside you made mornings rough, and you often weren’t seen before noon, especially in the earlier months. The rest of your day was spent catching up on what you’d missed while resting, and then catching up on what you missed while catching up. Then the evenings were spent with Striker.

He had grown on you, just as he had grown physically. Cregan was still able to lift the wolf when he left, but now you doubted it. He was already well on his way to rivalling a regular wolf in size. Despite how intimidating that might’ve been, you couldn’t be more fond of Striker even if you tried.

Your belly swelled, and with it so did the direwolf’s protectiveness. Your handmaids were tolerated, your guards struggled to be in the same room, and when the maesters dared tough you Striker had to be sent out of the room. Walks around Winterfell were soon out of the question, at least if you were to bring the direwolf along, since he took to growling at everyone who stood too close.

Cregan really picked well, Striker surely was serving his purpose, and soon he earned his namesake.

Word came from Castle Black that Cregan was going to return, that the Winter had been fended off once more. That brought joy foremost to you, but really all in Winterfell knew what that meant, even if Westeros didn’t. It was cause for celebration when they returned.

It also gave a false sense of security. Winter was gone, and so was the evil - but evil didn’t just come from the north. It could come from anywhere.

You’d settled into bed for the night, Striker laid beside you, head facing towards the door, and your hand rested on his flank as you looked over one last paper. He growled, and you petted his fur, silently reassuring him that it was just a guard passing outside - but then his head lifted, and turned toward your window. His sudden, still alertness put you on edge.

He’d been hostile before, but this was aggressive.

Candle flames flickered, Striker’s fur stood on end beneath your palm, the latch on your window clicked open, creaked open, and you could hear your heartbeat in your ears. A cloaked figure slipped into your room, and you couldn’t even bring yourself to cry for help - nor to remember anything Cregan had taught you. But you didn’t have to.

The figure, a man, unsheathed a knife, and with the glint of steel in the candlelight Striker struck. He surged off the bed with a vicious bark and bit into the man’s arm, snarling all the while and all but went to tearing the man to shreds.

The commotion had people coming in through the door, and the sight had you still rendered motionless and speechless.

The man’s cloak was torn away, and by now he was pinned to the floor, blood pooling on the stone as he fruitlessly tried to get Striker off him. You barely registered your guard, Gunther, asking you what was happening.

“He came in the window. He had a knife.” was all you could say. You could guess he was saying things to calm you down as he pried your fingers off your bedsheets that covered your swollen belly - he was probably trying to get you out of the room so you didn’t see the mess. It was too late for that. The man was a whimpering, bloodied mess on the floor by now, and no one had yet been brave enough to pry Striker’s jaw off his shoulder.

Gunther had an arm around you with your hand in his, guiding you away. Others attempted to move closer, either to help the man or take him away - but Striker was still growling.

“Striker, here.” you called, just finding your voice enough for it to carry over the commotion. The direwolf looked up, and seeing you being led away, he relented, fitting into your side with ease.

The three of you walked away. Now you were away from the scene you could think again and guess you were going down the hall to another room, one you decided you’d stay in until Cregan returned.

You looked down at Striker, threading your fingers though the fur at his neck.

“Good boy.” you said, stroking between his ears.

“He sure is, my lady.” Gunther said, “Who knows what could’ve happened if he didn’t act so fast.”

You smiled a little at that, at how right Cregan was in leaving the direwolf for you. He was meant to be company, a protector second - but tonight he proved to be as good, as loyal as any of your guards. He proved to be the real sigil of House Stark - just as Cregan told you he was.

You reached the door of your new room, and as your hand lifted off Striker’s back you noticed it chill with the cold night air. Turning your palm over, you saw red - and Striker’s nose made home in your fingers, licking away every drop as if it wasn’t ever there to begin with.

A week later, Cregan returned.

You had been in a foul mood for the past three days, since the maester had put you on strict bed rest because of the babe. Therefore you had been deemed unfit to greet your husband at the gate as he finally came home. In your defense, it definitely seemed like a good reason to be sour.

So you waited, sat on a chaise, with Striker’s head in your lap pressed to your stomach.

You could hear a commotion outsider, which only made your face scrunch in annoyance - not just at missing out but also at the pity looked you knew your handmaiden would be giving you. She offered to go fetch Cregan, and you nodded her leave with a wave of your hand.

“He will be here soon.” you said, cradling Striker’s muzzle in your palms.

“Indeed he will.” Cregan said.

“Oh, Lord Stark!” your handmaid said, startled. Your head turned, and you saw him standing in the doorway.

“Cregan!” you said, grin covering your face - and even after such a long time away, Striker seemed to recognize him, for he didn’t growl, and his tail started thumping against the rug.

“My love,” he said, shedding his great sword carelessly, and sunk to the floor beside where you sat. You heard your handmaid mumble a goodbye before stepping out and closing the door behind you. “Are you alright?”

“I couldn’t be better now.” you replied, feeling tears welling in your eyes as you took in your husband's face for the first time in months. He looked tired, older, but as you took his face in your hands his cheeks felt exactly the same as they were when he left. “I missed you so much.”

“I heard about what happened the other night. I -” he said, mouth hanging open in what could’ve been shock, in his eyes there could’ve been anger. Vengeance would do nothing now, the man was dead, he bled out before anyone could decide to give him mercy - undeserved or otherwise. But as Cregan leant forward to hold you into his arms, his warmth felt like nothing else except fear. “I can’t believe I could’ve lost you.”

“You didn’t.” you said, taking an arm away from being wrapped around his shoulders to pull his face away from your chest. “You provided the means for me to stay safe long before you left. Striker was better than any guard. He was fearless when I was frozen. I owe him my life, all because of you.”

Cregan’s face turned soft, and he smiled at you. He leant forward and kissed you. For the first time in too long, his lips move against yours. You felt his jaw move beneath your palm as his fingers grazed your neck and held onto your hip. When he pulled away, he kept your head cradled close to his.

“I love you.” he said.

“I love you too.” you replied, and he smiled, pressing another kiss to your lips, then your cheek.

“Now tell me all about how my little girl is growing.”

#cregan stark x female reader #cregan stark x reader #cregan x reader #hotd x reader #hotd x you

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crazziforazzi · 3 days ago

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can you write a oneshot about that munch - wordle interview answer?

Love that idea! It's not a long one shot, but I hope you like it:

MUNCH

The door clicked shut behind her with a dull thud, and Paige didn’t even bother locking it right away. She kicked off her sneakers in two lazy thumps, one bouncing off the wall, the other landing god knows where. Her t-shirt was already halfway off as she made her way toward the couch, peeled the rest off with a lazy tug, and let it land somewhere behind her. She really didn’t care where. She flopped face-first onto the cushions in nothing but her shorts and sports bra, the sticky late-June Dallas heat making everything feel like it took ten times more effort than it should have.

She groaned dramatically, then fished her phone out from under her and immediately pulled up Azzi’s contact.

Paige: Facetime dinner in 1 hour ?

She wanted to play it cool, play it casual, but the truth was, Paige needed her tonight. Nothing dramatic had happened. Training was fine. But the whole day felt heavy in that quiet, annoying way where everything just felt off. She had been dragging herself through it, but deep down, she knew the only thing that might refill her tank was seeing Azzi’s face while they both shoveled reheated leftovers into their mouths in front of their camera.

The reply came just a couple minutes later. Azzi: I’m home in 30, call you right away?

Paige exhaled, long and soft. Azzi got it.

Paige: Please.

There was a beat. Then:

Azzi: Are you ok?

Paige: Just tired and want to see my girl.

Azzi: I’ll try to hurry, okay babe? In the meantime, play Wordle. It’ll cheer you up. No cheating!

That made Paige squint at the screen. Wordle?

She rolled onto her back with a low groan, forehead scrunched. Why the hell was Azzi sending her to play Wordle right now? Sure, they used to get a kick out of solving them together back when it was viral, but that had been years ago. Paige hadn’t even thought about it since.

Still… she reached blindly for the iPad wedged somewhere between the couch cushions. Grumbling under her breath, she pulled up Safari and typed in "wordle." The site loaded with its usual grey-white grid.

With zero energy and even less brain power left after that intense training, Paige decided to go the basketball route. Azzi must’ve suggested Wordle for a reason. There had to be a connection. She was too tired to overthink it, so she just trusted the process and started typing.

First guess: SCORE.

Seemed right and on-brand. Only one yellow: C.

Paige frowned slightly. That wasn’t nothing, but it also wasn’t helpful.

Second guess: COACH.

Another basketball word. Subconscious doing all the work now. This time, second C went green, and H did too.

She blinked. Okay, okay. That was something. But… still felt like guessing in the dark. She tapped the back of the iPad rhythmically with her knuckles. She was hungry. Which, somehow, led her to…

Third guess: LUNCH.

Immediately, U, N, C, and H all turned green. Only the L was wrong.

Paige stared at the screen. She tilted her head, letting her tired brain catch up. Four letters in place. Just one left. She could feel it, the answer was right there. And then it hit her.

Azzi told me to play this.

And if it wasn’t basketball-related, then it had to be the other thing Azzi always swore could "relax her." Her eyes widened. She blinked once.

"Oh my god," she muttered, already typing.

Fourth guess: MUNCH.

The green squares lit up in a row, and Paige grinned for the first time since she walked in the door. Of course that was the word. She shook her head, biting her lip as her smile widened.

"You’re such a dumbass," she mumbled to herself, the grin never disappearing. She snapped a pic of the finished Wordle and sent it off with a message:

Paige: You tryna tell me something or…?

Three dots appeared immediately.

Azzi: Just making sure you are warmed up for dinner 😏

Paige groaned again, but this time it was way more flustered than fatigued. Her eyes fluttered shut as she dropped her head back into the couch, laughing softly to herself.

Already, she felt better. She was still tired, but the good kind now. The kind that settled in her chest instead of dragging her down. The kind that felt like being home.

And somehow, impossibly, Azzi had found a way to give her that from miles away.

#pazzi fics #paige x azzi #pazzi

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mariasont · 1 year ago

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you should do more aaron hotchner x reader but they get drunk together and they just have a make out session or something 🤫🤫

Strawberry Wine - A.H

a/n: i took this the bimbo reader route because i'm slightly obsessed with them lately so i hope you don't mind <3

thank you so much for requesting xoxo

masterlist

₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

summary: hotch is a lot more flirty when he's got some alcohol in him

warnings: kind of suggestive?, flirty hotch, making out, mutual pining

wc: 0.9k

You were vaguely aware of the dizzy sensation taking hold, your steps a little unsteady, cheeks a little more flushed. Penelope's voice, usually so clear, now sound like she was yelling from afar, her excitement over a new cooking show barely registering with you. It all faded into the background as your focus narrowed on one person alone--your boss.

Concentrating on something else was the logical choice, but logic seemed to falter in the face of such distraction. I mean, you had eyes after all.

He looked exceptionally good tonight. Jeans. He was wearing jeans and a zip up. His casual look held an irresistibility about it that you rarely got to appreciate, and now it's all you can dwell on. You could easily blame your preoccupation on a few drinks, but in all honesty, you'd be just as enthralled sober.

Your name was floating through the air, and as you turned, you saw Morgan. His grin was wide, the kind that told you he'd been trying to catch your attention for longer than you'd realized.

His eyebrows lifted, bumping against you with a shoulder as he waggled those same eyebrows. So childish. You knew what he was referring to. He was the first one to catch on to your little crush, but despite his behavior you knew he'd never divulge your secret.

You nudged him back, not realizing your own strength until you were almost toppling over. You only found your footing when you felt hands on your waist. You leaned back, assuming it was Morgan. You were wrong.

"You okay?" His voice was soft and low, a soothing sound that tempted you to both lean into him and step back in a fluster.

You glanced around, only to realize that Morgan had disappeared, leaving you with Hotch. You clamped your lips together, fighting the urge to let a stupid smile spread across your face, but the wine's influence made it challenging.

"Yes."

The room spun just a tad more as you tried to focus on Hotch, his usually sharp gaze softened just a bit more tonight.

He chuckled--a rare, perfect sound that made you tingly all over--and leaned closer. "The wine seems to be doing its job. How many glasses in are we?"

You giggled, but the sound was more like a hiccup. "I should be asking you that," you said with a lopsided smile. "But then again, I guess I mean glasses of scotch, right? You seem like a scotch over wine kind of guy."

"Do I?" His voice was rich and warm. He stepped forward, his eyes briefly flickering to where the rest of the team congregated in Rossi's kitchen. However, they seemed miles away. "You smell good."

His compliment threw you off guard, you blinked, cheeks heating up as you swayed slightly towards him, voice a bubbly stream of words you couldn't control. "You think so? It's actually this new perfume--I got it on sale, can you believe it? And the bottle is just the cutest thing, all pink and pretty."

"I bet." He was smirking. Smirking. You were pretty sure you had stumbled into an alternate reality where Hotch was not just your boss, but someone who was relaxed, almost flirtatious?

"Here," you said, pointing to the middle of your chest. You were a little breathless, "this is where I spray it."

He gave a low hum, almost inaudible, stepping in until you were toe to toe. You caught the hint of scotch on his breath--just as you had suspected--and it made the room spin a little more.

His face moved down toward your chest, and you couldn't hardly believe that he couldn't hear your heart pounding against your ribs.

You inhaled sharply, the valley of your breasts rising to graze against his nose, so lightly that it might have gone unnoticed if not for your intense focus on him.

"What do you think--?" you started to ask, but as he raised his head, your noses were nearly touching, and the rest of your sentence dissolved.

The realization of how easy it would be to kiss him struck you, tempting and terrifying all at one, and you hesitated, knowing that was one line you shouldn't cross.

But you didn't need to cross it because he obliterated the line with a kiss that thundered against your lips before you could even blink. A smile bloomed against his mouth, and you returned it full force.

It was as if you were tingly from head to toe, like fireworks were exploding all around you, like you were floating on a cloud.

You looped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, as if the space between you could vanish entirely. You felt his broad hands sweep and down your spine, your tongues vying for dominance, the rich, smoky taste of that scotch lingering in your mouth, as if you were absorbing its essence through every five senses.

It was as if you were back in high school, making out under the bleachers, hiding from the rest of your classmates. You didn't want it to end, but reality intruded like a dream dispelled.

The click of a camera snapped you back to the present, his arms still wrapped around you protectively, hands on the damning evidence.

Gathered at the window there the team was, Garcia's fingers curled around her phone, its lens aimed squarely at you. Your surprised came out as a high-pitched squeal mingled with their distance laughter and cheers. You pressed your face into the fabric of Hotch's zip up, silently pleading for the earth to open up and swallow you whole.

"Next time, we'll opt for the bathroom. Less room for an audience."

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x bimbo reader #aaron hotchner x fem reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x bimbo!reader #aaron hotchner fluff #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds fic #criminal minds

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ha-rinrin · 8 months ago

Text

The Metal Touch

summary: What begins as intrigue and banter with Jinx quickly turns into something deeper—a mix of fire and vulnerability as her metal touch becomes both comfort and thrill.

Pairing: Jinx x Fem!reader

Wordcount: 6.5k

Authors note: I don't I really feel like I gave her finger justice but oh well, I tried. more fics are on the way guys I just cant stop writing with the new amazing content of season two 😭 also I didn't proof read 3 times, thats what I usually do, so if its bad thats why.

masterlist

The dimly lit workshop buzzed quietly with the sound of metal grinding against metal. Jinx tinkered with her mechanical finger, her expression an intense blend of fascination and frustration. Every so often, she muttered something under her breath, adjusting a bolt or tightening a screw, her usual bravado toned down by the meticulousness of her task.

“Almost got it,” she mumbled, her fingers moving with surprising finesse over the intricate mechanisms. Sparks flickered, and you instinctively reached out to brush them away from her, grinning when she looked up with a smirk.

“Afraid I’ll break, toots?” she teased, her eyes glinting with that familiar, playful gleam.

“Not afraid—just making sure my girlfriend stays in one piece,” you reply, nudging her shoulder. “Besides, not everyone has a cybernetic finger to work with.”

Jinx rolled her eyes, though a smile tugged at her lips. “Come on, where’s your faith?” she quipped, giving her finger one last twist and holding it up for a test. She flexed it, and to your relief, it worked without a hitch. “See? Perfectly fine.”

“Yeah, for now,” you teased, reaching out to take her hand in yours, feeling the cool metal of her finger against your skin. She didn’t pull away, her gaze softening as you laced your fingers together, careful of the mechanics but not the least bit shy.

She grinned, standing up from her chair and tugging you closer by the hand until your faces were inches apart. “Guess I should thank my pretty assistant, then,” she murmured, her voice low, as her free hand reached up to cup your face.

Your cheeks warmed under her touch, and before you could come up with a clever reply, she closed the gap, kissing you softly yet confidently, Her lips curled into a smile against yours. Your hands found their way to her waist, holding her close

“You make this stuff look easy, you know?” you whispered when you pulled back, catching your breath.

Jinx shrugged, as if it was nothing, but the way she held onto you said otherwise. "I don’t know, you make it easier.”

She kissed you again, and as the machines hummed around you, it felt like, for a moment, the whole world was just the two of you, tucked away in the quiet workshop, right where you belonged.

The workshop seemed to shrink, leaving just the two of you in the dim light and soft whirring of machines. Jinx’s lips brushed yours again, but this time, there was a fierceness that hadn’t been there before—a sense of urgency you felt all the way down to your toes. Her hand, warm and steady, slid to the small of your back, drawing you in closer as the kiss deepened. It was full of all the unsaid words she rarely let show.

You felt her smirk against your lips, her metal finger tracing along your jawline as her other hand tugged you even closer, leaving no space between you. Your heart pounded, and every nerve seemed to come alive under her touch. She broke the kiss only long enough to catch her breath, her gaze dark and heated as she looked at you, her purple eyes blazing in the dim light.

“See? I’m not all that dangerous,” she murmured, her voice low and breathy as her lips found your neck, leaving a trail of heat with every kiss. Her mechanical finger traced up your side, leaving goosebumps in their wake, and you couldn’t help but tilt your head, giving her more access as her lips and teeth made quick work of your senses.

You tightened your grip around her, pulling her impossibly closer, losing yourself in the warmth and intensity of her embrace. Her breath was warm against your skin as her hands roamed with an expertise that had you forgetting everything else, her laughter soft and thrilling as she felt your heart racing against hers.

Jinx’s kisses intensified, her lips pressing hungrily against your skin, making your pulse skyrocket. Her metal finger traced down your spine, the coolness a sharp contrast to her warmth, igniting shivers along your skin. Every graze of her mechanic middle finger was electrifying, a reminder of both her strength and the tenderness she only shared with you.

She pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, her breathing heavy, her gaze intense. “You don’t mind a little metal, do you?” she teased, a wicked grin flashing across her lips as she lifted her metal finger to gently hold your chin, her thumb brushing over your lips.

You barely had a moment to shake your head before she kissed you again, deeper this time, her mechanical finger trailing up and down your side, their cool touch making you tremble.

It was as if she knew exactly how much pressure to apply, a calculated intensity that left you breathless. Her hand moved from your chin to your shoulder, holding you firmly in place as her other hand slipped beneath the fabric of your shirt, exploring with a confidence that made your knees weak.

“Feels different, doesn’t it?” she murmured against your lips, her metal finger pressing into your skin, creating a contrast that drove you wild. She leaned in, her mouth brushing your ear as she whispered, “Bet no one else could make you feel like this.”

You couldn’t form a coherent response, too caught up in the heat of her touch and the rhythm of her breathing. She chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your skin as she pressed you back against the workbench, her metal hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, keeping you firmly in place as she kissed you again, her lips urgent and unapologetic.

“See?” she whispered, her voice a low growl. “Told you I wasn’t dangerous… unless you like it that way.”

Her words sent a thrill down your spine, and you gripped her tighter, pulling her close as your lips met hers again in a kiss that was as wild and intense, just as she was, both of you losing yourselves to the heady mix of passion and abandon in the quiet of the workshop, with only the flicker of lights and hum of machinery as witness to the fire between you.

The intensity between you built, filling the workshop with a charged silence that only quickened breaths and the hum of machinery could break. Jinx’s fingers slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, her touch both familiar and thrilling, and she paused, her eyes meeting yours with a spark of mischief.

“Mind if I make things a little… warmer?” she asked, her lips curving into that wicked smile she wore so well. Her hands, both warm flesh and cool metal, gripped the fabric and, without waiting for your answer, began lifting it. You raised your arms as a sign of permission, letting her pull it off in one smooth motion, and she tossed it aside, her gaze sweeping over you with an unmistakable glint of admiration.

She bit her lip as her fingers trailed over your bare skin, her metal fingertip cold but thrilling as it traced along your collarbone. “Didn’t think I’d get this lucky in the middle of a tune-up,” she murmured, her eyes never leaving you as her other hand went to her own shirt, tugging it over her head with practiced ease. You felt your cheeks heat up, unable to hide your appreciation as her shirt joined yours in a messy pile on the floor.

Before you could catch your breath, she pressed against you, her bare skin warm and firm against yours, her lips finding yours again with a hunger that made your pulse race. Her metal finger found your waist, the sensation sharp and grounding, while her other hand cupped your face, guiding you deeper into the kiss, her mouth capturing yours with a fierceness that felt like it was made for you alone.

You slipped your arms along her sides, savoring her closeness as her breaths mingled with yours, her laughter soft and thrilling. Jinx’s lips moved to your neck, pressing heated kisses along your skin as her fingers traced patterns down your back, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“Still sure you’re up for this?” she teased against your ear, her voice barely more than a whisper, filled with both daring and tenderness, her hands roaming, claiming every inch of skin as if she could never get enough.

“Absolutely,” you whispered back, pulling her in closer as the world outside faded to nothing but the heat between you. And in that moment, there was only the two of you, tangled together in the dim light, lost in each other’s touch and the thrill of being exactly where you wanted to be—right there, in her arms.

Jinx’s fingers explored every inch of your skin with a blend of precision and intensity that sent a shiver through you. Her metal hand rested at your waist, the coolness making each touch more vivid, a thrilling contrast against her warmth. Her other hand traced a line up your spine, pulling you closer until you could feel her heartbeat, fast and strong, mirroring your own.

She leaned in, her breath hot against your ear as she whispered, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to fuck you with my new upgrade.” Her lips trailed down your neck, leaving a path of soft, heated kisses that made you melt under her touch. Her metal hand tightened on your waist, steadying you as your knees went weak, her gaze holding you captive as she grinned, clearly enjoying the effect she had on you.

You slipped your arms around her, fingers tracing the lines of her back, her muscles tensing under your touch. Her mouth returned to yours, this time fiercer, more urgent, as if she was pouring everything she felt into that one kiss. You matched her intensity, letting her press you back against the workbench, your bodies moving together in a perfect rhythm.

Jinx’s metal hand slid up to your side, the cold touch sending a thrill through you, grounding you in the moment even as her other hand moved with care and confidence exploring your breasts. She deepened the kiss, her lips hot against yours, her fingers now tangling in your hair as she held you close. Every touch, every brush of her skin with yours left you breathless and wanting more.

“Guess you’re not so afraid of a little metal after all,” she murmured with a grin, her eyes dark with something deeper, her voice thick with desire.

“Not when it’s you,” you replied, barely able to keep your voice steady, drawing her back to you as the two of you lost yourselves in the electric pull between you.

Jinx’s hands, both flesh and metal, continued their exploration, her fingers tracing patterns that left your skin tingling. Her smile held a daring glint as her hands dipped to your hips, fingers hooking onto the waistband of your jeans. She met your gaze, a mischievous question in her eyes, and when you nodded, she didn’t hesitate.

Slowly, she slid your jeans down, her hands gliding over your thighs as she dropped the fabric to the floor, leaving you exposed to her smoldering gaze. The intensity in her eyes made your pulse race, your breath hitching as she took in every inch of you with a quiet reverence that sent a thrill through you. She stepped back only long enough to tug off her own pants, and when she pressed close again, the feel of her bare skin against yours was intoxicating.

You couldn’t help but pull her closer, wrapping your arms around her as her hands settled on your waist, her metal fingers cool against the heat of your skin, grounding you in the moment. She grinned, her usual playful confidence softened by something deeper as she leaned in, capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss that left you breathless. Her hands roamed with practiced ease, each touch sending a shiver through you as her mouth moved from your lips to your neck, then lower, to your collarbone, pressing heated kisses along your skin.

The moment you pulled her even closer, the air between you thickened with anticipation. You could feel the heat of her body pressing against yours, the thrum of her heartbeat matching the pulse in your veins.

Her fingers skimmed your waist, sending sparks of sensation wherever they touched. She didn’t rush, taking her time, savoring every second as if she were memorizing the way you felt. Her breath was warm on your neck, sending a delicious tremor through your body.

“God, you’re perfect,” she murmured, voice low and rough, sending an ache through you as her lips found yours again, soft but charged. When you kissed her back, there was a hunger in it—a craving for something deeper. Her tongue met yours, slowly at first, tasting, exploring, before it deepened, pulling you closer as if she couldn’t get enough.

Jinx’s hands glided down your body, her fingertips tracing the curves of your hips before slipping lower to your thighs, igniting a thrill that left you breathless. She paused, her lips hovering as she looked at you, her eyes dark with need, but there was something else there too—something tender, something dangerous in the way she gazed at you.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” she whispered, her voice a heady mix of lust and something raw that made your heart race even faster.

You swallowed, your breath coming faster as she leaned in, her lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “I think I’m starting to get it,” you replied, your voice trembling just slightly, betraying the heat building between you two.

Jinx chuckled, a soft, sultry sound that made you shiver. Her hands moved lower in her gaze that was soft, almost vulnerable, like she was savoring this moment as much as you were. The mix of tenderness and hunger in her eyes made your heart race even more than before, if that’s even possible. She leaned in, her breath warm against your ear as she whispered, "You sure you're ready for this?"

You nodded, your voice barely a whisper as you replied, "More than ever." The words hung in the air between you, a promise you were both eager to fulfill.

Without another word, Jinx’s hands slid lower, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, sending a wave of heat through your body. She paused again, looking up at you, her gaze seeking permission. You met her eyes, steady and sure, and without hesitation, she leaned in to kiss you again, her lips pressing against yours with a desperation that spoke louder than words.

Her fingers, both warm and cool, massaged your bundle of nerves, her touch a perfect blend of confidence and care, even when she pushed them in you, allowing a loud moan to escape your mouth. As she explored you, your senses heightened, each soft caress sending ripples of pleasure through you. You gripped her waist, pulling her closer as the world around you faded, leaving only the two of you locked in this moment of raw, unfiltered connection.

Every movement, every touch, felt like a dance, a rhythm you both knew instinctively. Jinx’s lips trailed down your neck, her kisses slow and deliberate, each one sending a wave of heat straight to your core, your hips bucking and sweet nosies leaving your mouth.

She smiled against your skin, a wicked grin that made your pulse spike with anticipation. "I love it when you lose control," she murmured, her lips brushing your ear. "Makes me want to take it even further."

You gasped, your body instinctively arching toward hers, urging her on. Her name slipped from your lips in a breathless moan, and that was all the encouragement she needed. her fingers exploring deeper, hitting all the right spots, the mix of warm and cold from her metallic finger inside you made your legs feel like jelly.

Her fingers pushed deeper, and a soft gasp escaped your lips. The combination of her warmth and the sensation of her touch sent a wave of pleasure coursing through you, making your pulse race. Jinx didn’t stop, her movements steady and confident as she sought to draw you even closer to the edge. Her lips parted from your neck, her breath warm and uneven against your skin as she whispered, “You feel incredible.”

The connection between you both electric. She took her time, making sure every moment was felt, every touch adding to the growing intensity between you. Her name escaped your lips once more, barely a breath, and it seemed to spur her on.

Jinx’s eyes met yours, a dark spark of something mischievous in them. “You’re mine,” she murmured, her voice low, sending another shiver down your spine. Her fingers moved with purpose, hitting places you hadn’t even known you craved.

You couldn’t help but let out a breathy laugh, caught somewhere between pleasure and disbelief. “Always,” you managed, your voice thick with need.

The world outside the bubble you shared faded completely, leaving only the two of you, entwined in each other’s presence, moving together in perfect synchrony.

Jinx paused for a moment, her breath ragged as she took in the intensity of the moment, her gaze never leaving yours. Without a word, she lifted you up, her hands gently helping you to sit on top of the workbench.

You felt the cold metal against your ass as she sat you on it, pushing your legs apart so you were perfectly positioned, one of her hands steady as she helped you get comfortable while the other one continues its thrusting, sending a shiver through your body.

Jinx bent a little so that her mouth was right besides your ear, her breath fanning over your skin as she leaned in, her lips brushing your earlobe. "This feels like the perfect spot," she whispered, her voice low and teasing as she pressed herself against you. Her tits meeting yours, the heat of her body undeniable as she took her place between your legs.

"Perfect," she repeated, her lips brushing against your ear as she nipped at the lobe, her fingers working at your hole, sending jolts of electricity through you. "I’ve got you exactly where I want you," she murmured, the palm of her hand massaging your clit.

You could barely catch your breath, every movement of hers driving you crazy with desire. You wanted more—wanted all of her. And Jinx was more than ready to give it to you.

Her lips twitched into a grin as she saw the look on your face, her fingers still dancing against you, pressing you deeper into the moment. “Can’t get enough, huh?” she teased, her voice a low murmur, full of playful arrogance. She shifted her weight slightly, the motion making your body heat up in ways you didn’t know were possible.

The air between you thickened with anticipation, each passing second feeling like an eternity. Jinx’s mechanical hand moved with a fluidity you couldn’t ignore. She paused, giving you a look that was equal parts teasing and uncertain, before slowly pressing her palm against your clit with her fingers still deep inside you.

Everything went still, a moment suspended in silence. Then you felt it—a faint hum, a vibration that seemed to travel from her finger, right into your core. It wasn't just a mechanical shift; it felt like the world’s pulse, steady, and in sync with the beat of your own racing heart.

She smirked, watching your reaction. “How’s that feel?” Her voice was low, filled with something dangerous and playful as her gaze flicked from your face to where her hand lingered.

the vibration echoed through your body, intensifying with each slight movement of her hand, a sensation so intense it sent shivers down your spine. You couldn’t hold back a soft gasp, your breath hitching as the sensation became more than just a touch—it felt almost electric, like it was pulling at every nerve in your body.

Jinx’s smirk deepened at your reaction, her eyes glinting with satisfaction. “Like it?” she asked, her voice dropping lower, almost a growl as she leaned closer, her lips brushing against your ear once again.

You nodded, your body trembling as it arched toward her, a silent plea for more. The vibrations surged again, sending a wave of heat coursing through you, pooling in your lower stomach, igniting something wild inside you. Your fingers curled into the edge of the workbench, your knuckles white as you gripped it, trying to steady yourself.

“It’s... it’s amazing,” you breathed out, your voice trembling with the intensity of it. You met her gaze, eyes wide with desire, your lips parted, whimpers coming out of your throat as the hum of her hand against your skin grew more pronounced, each pulse pressing deeper into you.

Jinx’s grin deepened, her eyes glinting as she reveled in the effect her touch had on you. “I thought you'd like that,” she murmured, her breath hot against your skin. She moved her palm slightly, adjusting her touch, allowing the vibrations to increase in speed, pushing you further into the moment.

The feeling was like nothing you’d ever experienced before. It wasn’t just physical—it was sensory, every inch of your skin acutely aware of the vibrations, the heat of her body pressed against yours. You were lost in it, every pulse, every movement of her mechanical finger drawing you closer to the edge, both mentally and physically.

Her lips were close now, just a whisper away from your neck as she whispered, “Tell me what you want, and I’ll make it happen.”

“Please,I want the more- FUCK!” you couldn't even finish your sentence before her ministrations became more frantic, the vibration growing harder and faster.

You couldn’t help the way your body reacted as the vibrations became more intense, the hum of her mechanical hand resonating deep within you. It was as if she’d tuned into something inside you, something raw and primal that made it hard to think, let alone speak. Your breath hitched again as the sensation surged, sending a rush of heat coursing through you, you let out laud moans to escape your throat.

Jinx’s eyes never left yours, her smirk widening with satisfaction. She could feel your body respond, could see the way you shifted beneath her, wanting more, needing more.

"Is that what you wanted?" she whispered, her voice low, teasing, yet filled with that dangerous edge. "Tell me, what exactly do you need?" Her mechanical fingers tightened slightly, pressing deeper, as if testing your limits.

At first, you couldn’t speak—your chest heaving with every shaky moan, your body caught between pleasure and need. But eventually, you managed to get the words out, your voice trembling, raw with desire.

"More," you gasped, barely able to keep your voice steady. "Please, Jinx... more."

Her eyes flickered with something mischievous, a spark of delight that only made the tension in the room thicker. With a swift, fluid motion, she leaned in closer, whispered again, her breath hot on your skin.

“Desperate, huh? I like that,” she murmured, voice low and playful, words sending a shiver down your spine. She paused, letting the moment hang in the air, her hand still pressing against you, the vibrations now steady but undeniable.

She could tell you were on the edge, and she reveled in it, enjoying the control she had over the situation, over you. But, with a shift in her posture, she moved slightly away from you, breaking the connection just enough to allow you to catch your breath.

"Now," Jinx purred, her eyes glinting with mischief as she leaned back, giving you that signature, dangerous grin. "Tell me again. What do you want?"

You struggled to steady your breathing, her words lingering in the air, making your heart race even faster. The weight of her gaze felt like it was pulling you in, making your skin burn, every nerve alive with anticipation. She was waiting, holding you at the edge, giving you no choice but to beg for more.

"I... I need you," you whispered, your voice barely audible, shaky with the intensity of it all. "Please, Jinx, I can’t take it anymore. I need you... every part of you,” you breathed, the words barely leaving your lips, heavy with desire

Her eyes glinted, a predatory smile creeping onto her lips as she leaned in again, close enough that you could feel the heat of her breath against your face. “That’s what I like to hear,” she murmured, her voice low and silky, the words wrapped in the promise of something dangerous.

Her mechanical hand shifted again, pressing deeper, the hum intensifying as it surged through you, each pulse igniting every nerve in your body, like it was seeping into your very bones. The pressure of her hand against your skin felt almost unbearable, but you didn’t want her to stop. You needed more.

"You’re mine now, you’ve always been mine" Jinx whispered in your ear, her voice thick with both satisfaction and something darker, something that made your pulse quicken even further. She pulled back just slightly, enough to watch you, her eyes dark and full of mischief. “Tell me what you want me to do next,” she purred, her fingers still sending jolts of electricity through your body.

Your body was already aching, the need for her so overwhelming that it was all you could think about. Every part of you screamed for release, for connection. But Jinx wasn’t giving you any space to breathe, and you didn’t want it any other way.

“More,” you gasped again, your voice thick with need. “I need you... right now.”

A low, throaty laugh escaped her lips, and she leaned back in with a smile that made your heart race. "You’ll get what you need... but on my terms."

Jinx’s smirk widened, her eyes sparkling with something dangerously playful as she hovered above you. She could feel the way your body trembled beneath her touch, the way your breath quickened with each passing second. It was as if she had you exactly where she wanted—teetering on the edge, desperate for more.

“You’re so eager,” she murmured, her lips brushing lightly against yours before pulling away just enough to look into your eyes. Her thumb grazed over you clit, sending another rush of heat coursing through every nerve. “I like it.”

Her fingers shifted, the vibrations quickening, more insistent, yet her thumb stayed still. You gasped, your back arching involuntarily, as the heat inside you grew even more unbearable.

“Jinx, please,” you breathed, your voice a mixture of frustration and need. You couldn’t think of anything else anymore, the world reduced to the feeling of her hand, the pulse of her touch, and the hunger for more of her.

She leaned in closer, her lips brushing the shell of your ear as she whispered, “Patience, toots. You’ll get it... but first, I want to hear you beg for it.”

A shiver ran through you at the sound of her voice, dark and velvety, as though each word she spoke sent a spark straight to your core. You were trembling now, every muscle tight with anticipation.

“Please,” you repeated, your voice shaking, unable to form anything coherent beyond that desperate plea. You didn’t care anymore—this was all you wanted, and you’d do anything to make her give it to you.

Jinx’s breath hitched at your surrender, and she pulled back just enough to get a good look at you—face flushed, eyes wide with desire, lips parted in need. “You’re so beautiful when you’re like this,” she purred, her voice dripping with both affection and something much darker. “But you still haven’t told me exactly what you want.”

There was a brief, agonizing moment of stillness as her hand paused, the hum dying down just slightly, making you ache for more.

“I want you, Jinx,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I need you to make me feel... everything.”

Jinx’s eyes flashed with triumph, and she leaned down to kiss you deeply, her lips demanding, as if she was finally giving what you both needed. As she deepened the kiss, her thumb started to move slowly, moving your clitoris in circles, sending waves of electricity through your body once again.

The moment Jinx’s lips met yours, the world outside seemed to fade away. Everything was consumed by the intensity of her touch, the warmth of her body pressing against you. It was like a spark igniting a wildfire, every nerve in your body lighting up with the need for more.

Her lips were fierce and demanding, claiming you with a hunger that matched your own. The kiss was messy, full of urgency—her teeth grazing your lower lip as she pulled you closer, her body flush against yours.

But even as she deepened the kiss, she kept her hand where it was, the hum of the vibration slowly building, and her thumb brushing over your clit sending ripples of heat throughout your entire body. It was maddening how much you wanted her, how she had you wound so tight, barely holding it together.

Her breath came in quick, uneven gasps as she pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. She studied you with that dangerous, teasing grin, her lips swollen from the kiss, her chest rising and falling with every breath.

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her gaze on you, the heat from her touch radiating through your body. But you needed more.

“Don’t tease me, Jinx,” you managed to whisper, your voice trembling with the intensity of it all. “I want you... now.”

Her smirk only grew wider at your words, and she leaned in again, her lips brushing your lips as she whispered, “You’ve got me. Just remember, you asked for this.”

And with that, she moved her hand again, the vibrations increasing, sending an intense pulse through you that made your breath catch, her thumb moving faster and harder. You gasped, your hands finding purchase on her hips, gripping her desperately as your body arched towards her.

“You’re so responsive,” she murmured, her voice teasing as her lips traced down your neck, leaving a trail of heat. “I could make you beg for more, but I think you’re ready, aren’t you?”

Your fingers gripped her tightly, the vibrations becoming nearly unbearable, tightening the anticipation in your chest. Every nerve in your body was alive, begging for release. The desire in your eyes mirrored the hunger in hers as you nodded, breathless, unable to form anything else.

“I’m ready,” you whispered.

And just like that, Jinx moved again, every single movement intensified, pushing you toward the edge, both of you lost in the moment, in the desire that was palpable between you.

Her rhythm quickened, every movement sending you spiraling closer until, with a shuddering breath, the pleasure crested, overwhelming you. A cry escaped as your body tightened, lost in wave after wave, pulse racing as Jinx’s touch lingered, grounding you even as the world blurred around.

Your body trembled, small aftershocks rippling through you as you struggled to catch your breath. Jinx’s hand remained steady, grounding you in the haze, her thumb tracing gentle circles that sent tiny jolts of lingering pleasure through you. She watched you, a satisfied grin on her lips, clearly enjoying the way your body reacted to every subtle touch. Even as the intensity faded, your skin remained sensitive, every brush of her fingers drawing out little shivers, keeping you tethered to the sensation long after the peak had passed.

The world slowly came back into focus as Jinx pulled away slowly, her eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. Her touch lingered, leaving a hum in your body, each breath feeling heavier. Her fingers stayed still, a faint, steady pulse mirroring the beat of your heart.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence hanging thick and warm between you. Jinx’s breath was slow, almost unsteady, and you could feel the faint tremble in her fingertips as she picked them out, leaving you breathless and still wanting more. She slipped her fingers into her mouth, slowly drawing them out to trace light patterns across your skin. It was as if she was waiting for you to catch your breath, or perhaps for the moment to settle—either way, you could feel the weight of everything unspoken, the lingering heat of the connection you’d shared.

Her eyes softened, the usual mischief replaced with something quieter, more vulnerable. “You okay?” she asked, her voice quieter now, softer than before. It was a rare moment of care from someone who often lived in the chaos.

You nodded, the intensity of the moment still settling in your chest, and you took a slow, deep breath. The touch of her hand felt grounding, like an anchor that kept you from floating too far away. “Yeah, just... catching up,” you whispered, unable to fully explain the whirlwind of emotions swirling in your chest.

Jinx gave you a small, almost imperceptible smile, the kind that only she could pull off—teasing, but also a little fond, a little more tender. She didn’t move away, her body still close to yours, her fingers lingering on your skin as if she wasn’t ready to break the connection entirely.

She leaned in, her forehead resting against yours for a brief moment, just enough for you to feel the warmth of her skin, the steady rise and fall of her chest against yours. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of seeing you like this,” she murmured, her lips grazing your ear. There was no arrogance in her tone, only a quiet truth.

You smiled softly, your fingers lightly brushing the edge of her jaw. “I think I could say the same.”

And for a while, there was nothing else but the quiet, the two of you wrapped up in each other’s presence. No rush, no urgency—just the softness of the aftermath. The kind of peace that only followed something that felt as real and raw as what you’d just shared.

The air between you both was thick with a new kind of tension, one that felt softer but still undeniably electric. Jinx’s fingers lazily traced patterns on your skin, her touch light but knowing. She could sense the undercurrent of desire that still simmered beneath the calm. The intensity had faded, but that connection was still there, like an unspoken promise.

Her lips brushed against your ear again, this time with a lightness that made your skin tingle. "You sure you’re okay?" she asked, her voice low, almost playful, but there was something deeper in her gaze. “I mean... I’m pretty good at this.”

You could hear the teasing note in her voice, but there was something more to it—a quiet challenge in her words that made your heart race, just like it had when this whole thing started. She shifted slightly, her body pressing closer to yours again, her breath warm against your skin.

“I’m more than okay,” you whispered back, your lips curling into a smile as you met her gaze, knowing exactly where this was heading. “But... I think I’m ready for round two, if you are.”

Jinx’s eyes darkened slightly, that familiar glint returning with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. Her lips parted in a grin, the mischievous spark reigniting, but it was softer now, more controlled. “Round two, huh?” she murmured, her fingers tracing a line down your arm before resting at your waist. “You’re sure you’re not just saying that because I know exactly what you want?”

You bit your lip, feeling the heat rise in your chest, your body reacting to her presence, her words, the closeness. “I want you,” you said, your voice low and steady, a hint of challenge in it now too.

Her grin widened, her eyes tracing your face with a predatory curiosity, as if studying every part of you. "Well then..." She leaned in closer, her lips brushing against yours, her hand sliding down to your waist, pulling you in as she deepened the kiss, slow and deliberate this time. The warmth of her body pressed against yours once more, the vibrations from her hand a steady hum beneath your skin, just enough to tease and tempt.

But this time, it wasn’t just about urgency. There was something more in her touch—a slow burn, a promise of more to come. She pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, her expression both confident and a little softer than usual. “You’ve got me. And if you think you’re ready for more... I’m more than happy to oblige.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication, as her hand rested lightly on your hip, her thumb gently stroking the sensitive skin there. The fire was reigniting, but now it was a steady, controlled burn that left you wanting more.

“Let’s see how much you can handle,” she whispered, her voice a hushed promise, as she pressed her lips to your neck, and you both dove right back into it—closer, deeper, with that undeniable chemistry still crackling between you

The room was quiet now, save for the sound of your breathing, slow and steady. Jinx’s fingers trailed over your skin, her touch almost reverent, as if savoring the moment. Her lips brushed the edge of your ear, soft but with an underlying tension that you could feel deep in your chest.

"Didn't think you'd be this responsive," she murmured, voice low, a touch of surprise in her tone.

You turned your head, meeting her gaze, your fingers lightly grazing her wrist, urging her to stay close. "I told you," you whispered, "I want more."

Her smile was small but knowing, a glint of mischief dancing in her eyes. She leaned down to kiss you again, not as frantic as before, but deeper, lingering. Her hand moved from your side, slowly threading into your hair, holding you gently as she deepened the kiss, as if testing the waters for what came next.

When she pulled back, just enough to look at you, the look in her eyes was different. There was no teasing now, just something raw, almost protective. "You’re not gonna get away so easily," she said softly, her voice carrying that same dangerous edge, but there was a tenderness to it now.

You felt the heat rise between you both again, and even though you both needed a breath, you could sense that the hunger wasn’t quite finished—it was only changing shape. Her fingers traced the curve of your jaw, her lips pressing against your forehead in a sweet, gentle kiss.

For a moment, it felt like everything had calmed, but it wasn’t over. The space between you still buzzed with energy, something unspoken lingering there.

"I’m not going anywhere," you said, your voice steady but thick with desire. "And I don’t think you are, either."

Jinx gave a soft laugh, but it was full of promise. "You know me too well," she replied, her smile now a slow, deliberate curve. “Get comfortable, toots... this isn’t over.”

#jinx arcane #jinx x reader #jinx x y/n #arcane jinx #jinx/you #jinx x fem!reader #jinx posting #jinx league of legends

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rafayelxsylusho · 7 days ago

Text

🌟 His POV 🐡

I've been working on these for sooooo long and I'm still not sure they are good enough.

Rafayel/Xavier

Sylus/Zayne/Caleb next...Maybe...

There is a line on Rafayel's story based on a poem I read a while ago. (Arabic poem by Ihsan Quddous)

Art: omi-resources

TW: Smut

I was used to the stares and whispers, the murmurs about my skill and the vibrant colors I brought to life on canvas. My paintings always left a profound impression, especially those centered around the ancient civilization of Lemuria, my ancestral home.

But tonight, there was only one pair of eyes I craved, one gaze that set my skin ablaze and made my heart race. She moved through the crowd, her hair cascading down her back, her small mouth curved in a soft smile as she took in my work.

I felt the heat of her stare before I even turned to face her. When I finally met her eyes she tore her gaze away, leaving me yearning for more. It drove me crazy, the way she turned away, breaking our silent connection. I craved her attention, her focus, her very essence. I would move mountains, traverse oceans, just to have her eyes on me. Always.

She doesn't realize I know everything about her, her quirks, her deepest fears, her wildest dreams. I've watched her grow, change, forget. I wanted to give her space, time to rediscover me on her own terms. So we started anew, like strangers, when in truth, I've loved her for lifetimes.

Hundreds of years, searching, waiting until our paths crossed again.

It's amusing how curious she is about me, asking questions, trying to unravel the puzzle pieces of my life. I let her explore, enjoying her enthusiasm and wonder. Starting from the beginning was a small price to pay to see that sparkle of interest in her eyes. She may have forgotten our past, but I'll never forget a single moment we've shared, a single breath we've breathed in sync.

She guessed my favorite color right off the bat, shouting out "blue" with a big, bright smile. Funny thing was, I didn't even know I had a favorite color until she said it aloud. I guess a part of me was waiting for her to define it for me, to give me a piece of myself that I never knew was missing.

When our lips met for the first time in this lifetime, it felt so incredibly right. It was like a missing puzzle piece finally clicking into place, a long forgotten memory resurfacing. I've kissed those lips before, in other lives, other times. The feeling of our mouths moving together was as natural and familiar as breathing. It was a homecoming, a reminder of the love that has always bound our souls together, even across time. That single kiss held the promise of a thousand more, each one rekindling the flame that had never truly been extinguished.

Throughout the evening, our eyes kept finding each other across the crowded room, again and again. There was a new spark in her gaze tonight, a different kind of longing that mirrored my own. I could feel the shift, the charge building between us like a storm on the horizon.

Last night, when she rubbed her soft curves against me, I nearly lost control. The feeling of her body, warm and eager, ignited a hunger deep within me. It was exquisite torture, delicious in its intensity. But I held back, determined to make this moment perfect for her, to let her set the pace.

Finally, as the night grew late and the moon hung high in the sky, we made our way to my house, her small body curled up in the passenger seat beside me.

She dozed off as I drove, her head lolling slightly to the side, dark lashes fluttering against the soft curve of her cheek.

I carried her inside, her giggles and protests falling on deaf ears as I held her close, savoring the feel of her soft body pressed against mine. Once in my bedroom, I set her gently on her feet, steadying her as she found her balance.

We chatted about trivial things, the conversation drifting between us like a lazy river as I rummaged through drawers, searching for something suitable for her to wear to bed.

Suddenly, I heard my name called out. With a pajama set clutched in my hand, I turned to face her, only to find my breath catching in my throat, my words failing me utterly.

She stood there, naked, the dress she had worn tonight lying forgotten on the floor. My mouth went dry as I stared, transfixed by the beauty of her body. The moonlight streaming through my floor to ceiling windows casting a soft glow over her curves.

I must have stared for minutes, my eyes drinking in every inch of her skin, committing it to memory. From the column of her neck, to the soft swells of her breasts, the narrow waist and the flare of her hips, she was a vision of perfection.

When I saw her hands start to move, as if to cover herself, I found my voice. In a whisper, I commanded her, "Don't."

My feet carried me closer to her, unable to resist the pull of her allure. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin, to smell the sweet scent of her perfume mixed with the unique aroma of her natural fragrance. I couldn't look away, couldn't tear my gaze from the beauty before me, a goddess made flesh.

"Don't you dare be shy now, cutie. A body like yours could bring any man to his knees, begging for a taste of paradise. It's a body crafted by the hand of god, yet made for the most sinful of delights."

"Then...why aren't you on your knees, Raf?

I dropped to my knees before her in an instant. She flinched slightly, concern flashing in her eyes as if worried about me hurting myself. If only she knew the truth, the only part of me aching was the hard length of my cock straining against my pants.

"One taste, I just need one taste of your sweetness." I sounded pathetic, I knew, but I couldn't help myself. The need was too great, too overwhelming.

My fingers began their journey, trailing lightly from the smooth skin of her calf, feeling her shiver at my touch. I let them dance higher, caressing the flesh of her inner thigh, pausing when my fingers reached the unique birth mark gracing the middle of her thigh.

I traced the shape of it, committing it to memory with the pad of my finger, a intimate exploration. She was so responsive, so sensitive to my touch.

I gazed up at her, my eyes pleading and silently begging. As if reading my mind, she gave a small step forward, closing the scant distance between us until her sweet, dripping cunt was an inch away from my face. The scent of her arousal filled my nostrils, making my head spin with want.

Unable to resist any longer, I grabbed her soft ass with both hands, pulling her flush against my mouth. At the same time, I draped one of her legs over my shoulder, opening her fully to me.

Without hesitation, I dove in, my tongue delving between her folds. I lapped up her sweet arousal like a man starved, relishing the taste of her on my tongue.

Soft moans and whimpers filled the air as I pleasured her, the sounds spurring me on, urging me to take her higher. I could feel her trembling against me, her fingers tangling in my hair as she held on for dear life. In that moment, there was no other place I wanted to be. I was home, lost in the sweet embrace of her body, worshipping the altar of her pussy.

For years, decades even, I had dreamed of this moment, countless nights spent imagining her taste, her touch, her scent. But reality far surpassed any fantasy. Her soft moans, breathless and wanting, filled my ears, her whispered pleas of my name making my head spin and my cock throb.

The way she held onto me, her fingers twisting in my hair, was a sign of her desperation, her need. I knew she was close, I could feel it in the way her hips rocked against my face, in the needy sounds spilling from her lips.

"Come for me, cutie," I urged, my words muffled against her slick folds. "Let me feel you come undone." I wanted nothing more than to taste her release, to feel her coat my tongue as she screamed her pleasure.

As she clung to my hair and whimpered with pleasure, I discovered something new about my sweet girl. She loved being talked through it, her body responding with a sharp clench at my words of encouragement.

I focused all my attention on her pretty clit. I flicked and circled the sensitive nub with the tip of my tongue, feeling it throb against my lips, and then I slipped two of my fingers inside her tight pussy.

Her tiny scream of pleasure spurred me on to work her harder, faster. I urged, my fingers pumping steadily as my tongue flicked mercilessly over her clit.

As she came, her orgasm crashed over her in a silent scream, her body convulsing with the force of it. Her nails dug into my scalp, anchoring herself to me as wave after wave of pleasure consumed her. I felt her breasts push up, straining towards the ceiling as she arched her back

Once she came down from her high, I licked her arousal from her trembling thighs, savoring the taste of her pleasure. Then, I scooped her body into my arms and carried her towards the bed. Her cheeks and chest were flushed a pretty red.

As I laid her down gently on the soft mattress, her elbows supported her weight, her chest heaving as she caught her breath.

I started to undress, peeling off my shirt and tossing it aside carelessly. Her eyes followed my every move, I kept my eyes on her, watching the way her breath hitched, her lips parting slightly as she took in the sight of my hard cock springing free from the confines of my underwear.

"Do you want to do this? Are you sure?"

She nodded, a grin spreading across her face, eager and ready.

There was no hesitation when she boldly spread her thighs for me, inviting me in, welcoming me into the warm space between her legs.

As I positioned myself between her soft thighs, she whispered "Your cock is just as pretty as you." I had to bite back a moan at her words.

"Thank you," I managed to rasp out, a blush creeping up my neck. No one had ever called me pretty before, not in that way. "You're the first one to call me pretty"

"I don't know why," she murmured, reaching out to trail a finger along the length of my shaft, making me shudder. "The first thing I wanted to do when I met you was sit on your pretty face." Her bold words sent a surge of lust straight to my groin, and I knew then and there that this woman would be my undoing.

"Are your pick-up lines always this bad, cutie?" I asked, chuckling softly.

She laughed in response, a melodic sound that made my heart skip a beat. "No," she admitted with a grin. "But I figure I'd start slow. Give you time to fall in love with me first, before I break out the real cheesy ones."

I captured her lips with mine, kissing her deeply and slowly. Our mouths moved together in a sensual dance, her smile curving against my lips.

As we kissed, I felt her small hand wrap around my cock, guiding it to her entrance. The head slipped inside her with a soft, slick sound, and I groaned into her mouth, feeling her heat enveloping me.

In a fast move, she sank down on my cock, taking me to the hilt in one smooth motion. Her teeth sank into my lower lip as she pushed forward, a gasp escaping her throat.

"Goddammit, Y/N," I groaned, my voice strained with pleasure and disbelief at the exquisite feeling of her, so tight and perfect around me. She had me wrapped around her finger, and she knew it.

Her smile faded, replaced by a slight frown as neither of us moved, paused in the moment.

"Too big...Raf"

I remained still, not wanting to hurt her, waiting for a sign that she was ready. Her nails sank into the muscles of my shoulders as she clung to me, her body trembling slightly. I could feel her starting to clench around me.

"Please, Raf, move. I could spend the rest of the night just like this, but I need...I need you to move."

Her plea was all the encouragement I needed. I always did what she wanted, what she needed. So I began to move slowly, not yet thrusting deep, testing her limits, gauging how much she could take. She was dripping wet, her arousal coating my cock from tip to base, making each movement slick and easy. Yet, despite her excitement, I could feel a hint of discomfort in the way she tensed around me.

Leaning down, I trailed kisses along her neck, feeling her pulse jump beneath my lips. As I lavished attention on her sensitive skin, I couldn't resist her pert nipples, just begging to be tasted. I drew one into my mouth, suckling gently before grazing it lightly with my teeth, giving her a teasing bite.

My other hand came up to play with her neglected breast, rolling and pinching the stiff peak, coaxing more of those delicious sounds from her lips. I wanted to make her relax, to let go and surrender to the pleasure.

I felt my own release building, the heat of her tight, wet pussy threatening to undo me. I thought of everything and anything to keep myself from spilling inside her too soon, the weather, the latest book I had read, the color of the walls in my studio. Anything to prolong this moment, to make it last for her.

I started to thrust deeper, pulling her leg over my hip to open her up to me fully. With each push of my hips, I sank further into her, stretching her, filling her completely.

Suddenly, her discomfort shifted, morphing into pleasure. I could feel her body responding, her walls starting to ripple around my driving cock.

"Oh god, Raf!"

She was screaming with each thrust, unable to contain the ecstasy that consumed her. In a moment of self consciousness, she brought her hand up to cover her mouth, trying to muffle her cries.

"Take your hand away"

"Bu...but I'm too loud"

"I don't give a fuck," I growled. "This is my house, and we aren't hiding anything here. I want to hear what I'm doing to you."

She didn't hesitate, immediately removing her hand from her mouth.

"Good girl"

At the praise, she let out a long, drawn out moan, her back arching off the bed as she pressed herself closer to me. Suddenly, she grabbed my hand and guided it to her clit, placing my fingers exactly where she needed them most.

Together, our fingers circled the sensitive bundle of nerves, rubbing and stroking in a way that made her toes curl and her thighs tremble.

This time, when she came, it was with a scream. I could barely keep moving inside her, my hips stuttering and pausing as she squeezed and fluttered around me.

But the sound of her scream, the way it filled the room with the raw sound of her pleasure, was enough to push me over the edge. With a low groan of her name, I spilled inside her, my hot seed spurting deep into her core as I found my own release.

I collapsed against her soft, warm body as we both caught our breath, my weight resting gently on top of her. She wrapped her arms around me, hugging me close to her chest as I listened to her heartbeat slowly return to a steady rhythm.

Inside her, I could feel my cock softening, the once hard shaft now a satiated part of me. I nuzzled into the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin as I basked in the afterglow of our lovemaking.

"You don't need to try to make me fall in love with you, I'm already head over heels for you, cutie." I wanted her to know, to understand the depth of my feelings for her.

"You stole the words right out of my mouth," she said softly, a smile playing on her lips. That was the moment I knew she felt the same way, that my heart's desire was reciprocated in full.

I drifted in and out of sleep, my arm lay draped lazily across the gentle curve of her waist, our bodies pressed close in the warm embrace of sleep. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of the digital clock casting a soft green light across the ceiling.

Suddenly, the silence was pierced by a soft, breathy sound. Barely more than a whisper, it was enough to pull me back from sleep. I felt my brow furrow slightly as I strained to listen, unsure if I was still lost in some half formed dream.

Then, as if spoken directly into my ear, I heard her murmur my name. The sound was so clear and unmistakable that my eyes flew open.

I turned my head slowly towards her, her face was flushed, as if she were experiencing some intense sensation. Her full, soft lips were parted slightly, and I could hear the sound of her breath coming in uneven, desperate little gasps.

I saw her shift her body beneath the sheets. A shiver ran down my spine when she pressed her thighs together and then she whispered my name again, more urgently this time. It was a needy sound that sent all my blood rushing southwards, my body responding to her unspoken plea with a will of its own.

The way her fingers curled and clutched at the sheets, twisting the fabric into tight little knots made my stomach clench. Was she dreaming about me? Were images of us, of my hands on her skin and my lips on her body, dancing behind those fluttering eyelids?

A breathy, needy moan spilled from her parted lips, the sound echoing in the stillness of the night.

I dragged a trembling hand down my face in an attempt to steady myself. But it was no use. The subtle little rolls of her hips, the way her body moved beneath the thin sheets, was enough to undo me completely.

And then, as if to drive me mad, I heard the hitch in her breathing, the way her breath caught in her throat on a sharp, keening sound.

The way my name tumbled from her lips, a breathy, needy whisper in the darkness, sounded like the sweetest sin imaginable.

I couldn't tear my gaze away, My eyes lingered on the curve of her throat, watching as it bobbed with each rapid rise and fall of her chest. Lower still, I could see the unmistakable peak of her nipples straining against the thin fabric of her shirt. They were hard, achingly so, my cock throbbed in response to the unspoken invitation.

I wanted to touch her. God, I wanted to touch her so badly it hurt. I wanted to run my fingertips along the soft skin of her throat, feel the racing pulse beneath my touch. To cup her breasts in my hands, thumbing the stiff peaks of her nipples through the thin cloth until I heard that sweet sound spill from her lips again and again.

But I held myself back, my hands clenching into fists at my sides as I fought the overwhelming urge to pounce on her.

I ached to slip beneath the sheets, to slide my hands along the smooth expanse of her thighs, her hips, her waist. To feel for myself just how deep this dream had taken her, how wet and ready she was.

As if sensing my desperate desire, she moved again. Her body shifted beneath the sheets, a sinful little roll of her hips that spoke volumes of the building heat between her legs.

My self control hung by a fraying thread, my heart slamming against my ribs like a wild beast trying to break free of its cage.

"Fuck" I whispered, the word falling from my lips like a prayer or maybe a plea. It was in that moment that her eyelashes fluttered and slowly, torturously so, her eyes opened. They met mine, locking onto my gaze with a force that stole the breath from my lungs.

As she took me in, I saw the exact moment she registered my expression. Her breath stuttered, a sharp inhale that caught on a gasp as she drank in the heat that burned in my eyes. The tension in my body was palpable, every muscle coiled and pulled taut as I fought to maintain my precarious hold on control.

I couldn't resist the urge any longer. With a trembling hand, I reached out and dragged a single finger down the smooth skin of her arm. I watched as goosebumps blossomed in the wake of my touch. Her skin was so soft, so sensitive, that even the lightest caress from my finger left an imprint.

As I pulled my hand away, I leaned in closer, my breath ghosting over the shell of her ear as I asked the question that had been burning in my mind. "Were you dreaming about me?"

She swallowed hard, the action visible in the delicate column of her throat. Her lips parted, a tiny gasp escaping her as she tried to answer.

"I was..." she stuttered "I was dreaming about you."

A slow smile curved my lips at her words. "Was it a good dream, bunny?"

I wanted to reach out and touch her, to map the contours of her body with my hands, but I held myself back. I had no right to touch her like I wanted to, not without her consent.

For decades, I had longed for her. Countless nights spent dreaming of her touch, her smile, the sound of her laughter. The pleasure of her lips had already been mine to savor, but her body remained a territory yet to be explored. I yearned to sink into her, to lose myself in the heat of her embrace until we were both lost to everything but the feeling of our bodies joined as one.

"Please Xavier..."

My heart stopped at her pleading words, only to kickstart again with a force that left me breathless. I could see the desperation etched into every line of her face, hear it in the way her voice trembled with need. She was asking for me, begging for my touch, and I knew I could no longer deny her.

"I need you,I need your fingers. Your mouth...please, I need you inside of me."

With a guttural groan, I surged forward, capturing her lips in a kiss that stole the breath from her lungs. My hands, no longer able to keep their distance, roamed over her soft skin, mapping the curves with a hunger that bordered on reverent.

When she took off her shirt, baring the hardened peaks of her breasts, I trailed open mouthed kisses along her throat before giving the same attention on the sensitive flesh of her breasts. I swirled my tongue around one stiff nipple, teasing and tormenting her until she was writhing beneath me, her fingers tangling in my hair.

My hands slid down the smooth skin of her stomach, coming to rest on the waistband of her pajamas and underwear. With a quick tug, I peeled them down her legs, tossing them carelessly to the floor. My fingers delved between her thighs, finding the slick heat of her arousal.

"God," I groaned against her skin, feeling her wetness coat my fingers as I teased her sensitive flesh. "You're so ready for me..."

I circled her clit slowly with the pad of my thumb, applying just the right amount of pressure to make her hips buck up off the bed.

"Do you feel that? That's what your body has been begging for. It's been craving my touch"

As I spoke, I could feel her thighs trembling, the muscles quivering with anticipation and need. Slowly, I settled myself between her legs, pushing the sheets away to bare the full glory of her body to my eyes.

The moonlight painted a silver glow over her skin, a mesmerizing picture of curves and hollows that I yearned to explore with every sense I possessed. I could see the way her chest heaved with each shallow breath, her nipples begging for my mouth.

But it was the sight of her glistening folds, flushed and swollen that made my cock throb with desperate need.

My hand trailed slowly up her inner thigh, teasing and caressing the sensitive skin until she was squirming beneath my touch. I could feel her hips starting to move upwards, seeking more friction, and I knew that I had her exactly where I wanted her, desperate, wanting, and completely at my mercy.

I inhaled deeply, allowing her scent to fill my lungs and cloud my mind. Then I leaned in and dragged the flat of my tongue along her outer lips. The first swipe was a revelation, a glorious epiphany that sent electric pleasure racing through my body. Her taste was ambrosia, an exquisite nectar that burst on my tongue and set my senses alight with a hunger I had never known before.

Drunk on her I delved deeper, and there, at the very heart of her being, I found the sweet arousal that had been waiting impatiently for my touch.

But as I lost myself in her, so too did she lose herself in me. A cry tore from her throat as my tongue made contact with her puffy clit. Each slow swipe of my tongue sent a fresh gush of arousal out of her, mixing with the saliva that already coated her sweet flesh. The result was a slick, slippery mess that allowed my tongue to glide effortlessly over her most sensitive spots, teasing and tormenting her until she was reduced to a wanton, mewling creature, begging for more.

And the sounds she made...fuck, the sounds she made were music to my ears. I was sure she was going to cum, and she was going to cum fast.

I wanted to give her that release, to grant her the ecstasy she so desperately craved. Her thighs, so incredibly soft clenched around my head as her grip on my hair tightened.

The way she tugged at my hair, urging me on, was driving me wild. I could feel my own release building, my cock throbbing and leaking precum, aching for its own finish.

My tongue continued to circle her clit until I found that perfect spot that made her moan. I focused my attention there, licking up and down, faster and harder, determined to push her over the edge.

When I felt her hurtling towards her climax, I sucked her tiny, throbbing clit into my mouth. I suckled gently, then harder, my tongue flicking rapidly over it.

"XAVIER!"

The sound was everything I had ever wanted to hear, everything I had dreamed of in the long, lonely nights spent yearning for her touch.

As her body shook, I drank in every last drop of her pleasure, savoring the way her essence flooded my mouth and dripped down my chin.

When she started to push me away, I knew she needed a moment. I kissed my way up her quivering body, trailing soft kisses along her smooth skin until I reached her lips.

Once there, I captured her mouth kiss. It was filthy and full of desire, my tongue delving past her lips to let her taste her own arousal that still coated my mouth.I kissed her like I was starving for it, like she was the air I needed to breathe.

Her fingers trailed over my chest, down my stomach, leaving a trail of tingling heat in their wake. When she reached the bulge straining against my pajamas, I couldn't help but thrust my hips forward, seeking more of her touch.

She was fast, almost frantic in her movements. With a low moan, she grabbed the waistband of both my pajamas and underwear, yanking them down. The cool air hit my cock for a brief moment before the heat of her palm enveloped me.

"Oh god, Xav," she gasped, her fingers wrapping around my shaft and giving me a firm squeeze. "I need to feel you, all of you." Her thumb swiped over the leaking tip, smearing the bead of precum that had gathered there. The sensation made me groan, my hips bucking into her hand eagerly.

"Are you sure?"

She bit her lower lip, a gesture that made my painfully hard cock throb.

"Please, I'm sure"

I saw the confirmation in the depths of her beautiful eyes, a reflection of her desire that mirrored my own. Those eyes, the one thing I would crave for the rest of my days. I was already addicted to the way she looked at me, to the power she held over me.

I took my time spreading her legs, revealing her glistening folds, she was ready for me, her body singing with a hunger that matched my own.

I grasped myself firmly, positioning the swollen head of my cock at her entrance. The first touch of her flesh against the sensitive tip made us both gasp, a hiss escaping her lips as I started to push forward.

She was impossibly tight, her walls gripping me like a vice as I slowly sank into her. The stretch was exquisite, a mix of pleasure and the slightest bite of pain as her body accommodated my girth. I couldn't help but groan, my eyes fluttering shut at the incredible sensation.

Inch by inch, I pushed deeper, feeling her arousal coating my shaft, easing the way in. She was so soft and so wet, a heaven that I never wanted to leave. When I finally bottomed out, when I was fully sheathed inside her, I paused, savoring the feeling of her pulse fluttering around my cock.

As I began to pull out, a thin line of red stained my cock, her innocence, her gift to me. I saw her brows furrow together, a slight discomfort flickering across her beautiful face. Concerned, I paused, my body poised above her. "Do you want me to pull out?". The last thing I wanted was to hurt her.

But before I could act on my words, she stopped me with a shake of her head. "No, don't pull out, I need to feel you inside me."

I couldn't deny her, so I stayed still, allowing her body to adjust to the stretch.

Then she started to move. Slowly at first, a gentle roll of her hips, but soon, she grew bolder, her hips began to roll with increasing confidence, her walls clenching and fluttering around me.

I had to drop my head to her forehead, our brows touching as I struggled to maintain my composure. I breathed in the scent of her skin, let it fill my lungs as I fought to hold back the impending rush of my release. I wanted to last longer, to make this moment stretch on for eternity, but the feeling of her moving beneath me was driving me wild.

My fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips as I gritted my teeth, trying to rein in the urge to let go. But fuck, she felt incredible, I was at her mercy, lost in the bliss, drowning in the feeling of her tight, wet pussy enveloping me completely.

I had always been a jealous man, and right now the mere thought of another man touching her, of feeling what I now felt, made my stomach churn with a sickening knot of dread. I wanted to be the only one, the sole owner of her body's responses, the only one to ever bring her such exquisite pleasure. And it was the other way around as well, the thought of me touching someone else that wasn't her made my stomach turn. If they didn't look like her, smelled like her, moaned like her...I didn't fucking want them.

When she whimpered out a plea for me to move I complied without hesitation. I began to rock my hips, slowly, letting her feel every inch of my hard cock as I slid in and out of her. I felt the uncomfortable tightness begin to change into something else entirely. Her body responded to my touch, to the deep, strokes of my cock hitting a spot deep inside her.

The look on her face, the way her eyes fluttered shut and her mouth fell open in bliss, made me lose all semblance of control. Not able to resist the temptation, I brought my fingers to her lips, pressing them past her soft, plump flesh. I groaned as she immediately began to suckle on them, her tongue swirling and dancing around the digits..

The feeling was incredible, but it was the mental image I conjured that nearly sent me over the edge. I could picture her, lips wrapped around my cock, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked me deep. The thought alone was enough to make my hips stutter, I had to grit my teeth and dig my fingers into the sheets beneath us, anchoring myself as I fought to hold back.

I could feel her walls starting to clench around me, her body tensing as her climax rapidly approached. It was too much, too intense, and I knew I couldn't hold back any longer. I began to thrust into her harder, faster, chasing our mutual release with a single minded determination.

Her back arched off the bed as her orgasm crashed over her, a gush of liquid heat flooding around my shaft as she came undone. The feeling of her spasming around me, milking my cock, was my undoing.

With a hoarse cry of her name, I pulled out, my cock pulsing as I found my own release. Thick ropes of my hot, sticky cum painted her stomach as I pumped myself dry, my hips jerking with each spurt until I had nothing left to give.

Throughout it all, she watched me with hooded eyes, a satisfied smile playing on her kiss swollen lips. We were both left panting and shaking in the aftermath, our bodies glistening with sweat and other more intimate fluids.

I leaned in close, pressing my forehead gently against hers "Was this what you were dreaming about, my star?"

She let out a breathless little laugh, her own smile widening with satisfaction. "This was so much better, much better than anything I could have ever imagined." Her fingers traced idle patterns on my chest, a contented sigh escaping her lips as she snuggled closer.

I couldn't help but grin back at her, my heart swelling with pride and adoration for this incredible woman who had captured me so completely. In that moment, I knew that I would spend the rest of my life trying to make every one of her dreams a reality, to give her a lifetime of moments that were even better than the ones she had imagined.

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