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drabblesandsnippets · 3 days ago

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Making Waves

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Plus-size/curvy female reader (no use of Y/N)

Summary: (3.8k) During a heat wave, you take advantage of one of your favorite perks of working for the Avengers - access to their private pool - and spend some quality time with Bucky.

Background: I haven't been able to see Thunderbolts* yet (it's been torture!), so not necessarily a tower fic, but this could become part of a series! I had a lot of fun writing these two. 🩶

Warnings: Established relationship (acquaintances). Confident reader. A little awkward/charming Bucky. Vague/brief alluding to Bucky's past. Fluff. Flirting. Sexual thoughts. Kissing/making out. Implied smut.

The heat dome suffocating the city has everyone on edge, tempers flaring over the slightest inconvenience.

Even with the high-tech building's fancy cooling system, the strain is palpable, portable fans handed out right along with the company's time-off policy.

Several people took the week off in advance, others called out sick, but you? You decided to suck it up and power through, saving your PTO for that long-awaited vacation you'll probably never take.

At least you have enough sense to make use one of your favorite perks of working for the Avengers - free access to their private, indoor, temperature-controlled pool.

You're one of the limited non-Avenger employees who have the privilege, and one of the few who actually take advantage of it.

Half-expecting to find the place occupied due to the lingering heat, you're pleasantly surprised to find the luxurious natatorium empty - the cool, placid saltwater inviting you in like always.

While most people are already well into their commutes home - no doubt on their way to fight with their a/c in a futile attempt to stave off the inevitable sweatiness - you get to blissfully float for the foreseeable future.

---

Bucky's restless. Has been for days.

He blames the relentless heat. The endless patrols. The incessant 'check-ins.'

Some days it feels like he's still following the same old song and dance. Minus the obvious mind control and innocent bloodshed.

And, at least now, he can live with himself in between the chaos.

Plus, there's better scenery.

The pool was supposed to be empty, according to his precursory check fifteen minutes ago, yet here you are, currently unaware of your newly rapt audience of one.

Hidden in the shadows like some creep, unable to tear his gaze away from your swimsuit digging into your soft, plush hips, Bucky watches you for longer than he'll ever admit.

It's far from the first time you've caught his attention. Even recently, he's managed to carry on a few more conversations with you, your infectious laughter haunting him for days after.

This, by far, has to be of his favorite moments though - right after that office party they held in celebration of your promotion. The confidence you radiated that day had the most filthiest thoughts swimming through his head.

Some of which are currently taking laps behind his eyes, even as he tracks a tiny droplet slipping over the swell of your belly before it's absorbed by the gentle waves lapping at your skin.

Bucky imagines tracing the path with his tongue and thanks the gods for his enhanced senses, blood rushing south when your tiny sighs of contentment reach his ears.

A new forbidden soundtrack to go along with the fantasy reels aching to come to life.

He should probably walk away.

Leave you in peace.

Allow you the privacy you're clearly seeking. You might even take one look at him and come up with an excuse to be elsewhere anyway.

Not that you ever have, it's just a lot people still do, even after all this time.

Except.

Except, he's supposed to be trying. Trying to exist like an actual human being, instead of a relic that no one knows quite how to handle.

Before Bucky can overthink it, his weirdly unsteady feet are carrying him forward, soles scuffing on the tiled limestone as he makes his way to you.

Your ever-vigilant mind clocks him before he even has a chance to interrupt the comfortable silence, your heart fluttering like it always does in his vicinity.

Ignoring your initial assumption that you're not supposed to be here right now - or that he came to swim strictly in solitude - you settle for treading water and offer a simple, smiling, "Hi."

One side of Bucky's mouth ticks upward, eyes crinkling with silent appreciation. "Hi." You're not retreating.

"Hi," you repeat with an undignified laugh, attempting to ground yourself in the cool water flowing around your fingers. And forcing your eyes to remain on his handsome features, instead of lingering on the tantalizing display of taut skin and defined muscle.

It should be a crime how delicious he looks in such simple attire - white tank top and black swim trunks. Almost as good as he looked in his latest uniform the other day. The unexpected sight when he passed you in the hall nearly had you choking on your own saliva.

And now you're wondering if Bucky's into choking-

Your possibly-most-definitely-inappropriate thoughts are interrupted by his deliberate repetition of, "Hi." And that butterfly-inducing smirk that should definitely be classified as a lethal weapon. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Yeah?" Your raised eyebrow has his grin widening and you dare to swim a little closer, using the opportunity to take another appreciative look at his previously unseen muscular legs, which you don't even try to hide this time.

"Mmm," Bucky acknowledges with a tilt of his head, his own fleeting glance at the teasing glimpse of your cleavage raising your temperature by at least ten degrees. So much for cooling off.

"Expected the place to be deserted," he continues. "Gotta say, this is much better."

Your responding laugh relieves the hint of tension trying to creep up his neck.

Apparently, flirting is like riding a bike.

"You waitin' for an invitation?" you tease after a moment of extended silence, another laugh bubbling up at the color blooming across his cheeks.

An ancient, rusty bike.

But, if there's one thing Bucky's excelled at, it's taking back control, no matter how daunting the challenge initially seems.

In one smooth motion, he's pulling the tank up and off his body with a suggestive move that'd have you dunking yourself if you weren't afraid of missing the rest of the show.

As it is, you let the heat creep up and unabashedly take him in.

The confidence. The blatant rippling of muscle. The obvious performance of stretching limbs in preparation for his swim. The metal whirring as he rotates his left arm once.

Twice.

Then a wink for good measure that finally sends you underwater before you can start giggling. There's no hiding his affect on you - and you don't really want to - you just can't give him the satisfaction of hearing that sound from you yet.

When you resurface, hands swiping away the drops clinging to your face, a knowing smirk greets you, Bucky exactly where you left him. Waiting for your attention to fully commit to the final act.

A perfect dive into the pool, your breath stalling as he effortlessly slices through the clear water towards your treading form. He emerges seconds later, almost within reach, his wet hair slicked back after barely lifting a hand to tame it.

"So much for challenging you to a swimming contest," you deadpan, feigning a sigh of disappointment. "Shoulda known you'd be good at that too."

The grin Bucky gives you is downright sinful.

And the way he breathes your name almost makes you forget that it belongs to you. "I'm sure there are plenty o' things you're better at."

Hands almost brush as he mimics your movements to keep himself afloat, the combined effort surrounding you both in a cocoon of small waves.

Playing along, you ask, "Oh yeah, like what?"

That familiar thrill rushes through Bucky, one he hadn't felt in so long before you - one he wasn't even sure he'd recognize if it happened again. Yet, here you are, your mischievous grin doing wonders for his ego.

"Bet you'd win at a staring contest." His answer is immediate. As is the flirtatious follow up, "I already seem to be having a hard time concentrating."

His lingering once over leaves nothing open for interpretation.

"Considering you just made an entire production of stripping and diving in, my eyes are definitely drifting too," you're quick to retort, much to Bucky's delight.

"Fair enough."

Wetting his lips, he takes a moment to respond, darting off to start swimming lazy circles around you, all in hopes of catching a glimpse of that coy smile you throw over your shoulder.

Basking in his own sudden burst of confidence, Bucky keeps the game going, enjoying the way you're unintentionally encouraging him to come out of his shell.

"How about this?" he asks, slowing to a stop to angle you between him and the nearby pool ladder, "The first one to touch that ladder gets to choose the restaurant."

He breathlessly counts the seconds between the 'o' shape of surprise and when understanding dawns, the excited smile gracing your gorgeous face making his heart skip several beats at once.

Then you shoot off like a light, Bucky effortlessly chasing after you as your sputtering laughter warms places he once thought would never thaw.

All goes according to plan - your fingers curling around the metal pole a split second before he's sliding in next to you, his steady hand brushing along your arm, leaving goose bumps in its wake.

It takes him a ridiculous amount of effort to resist the urge to lean in to see how you'd react to his lips on your skin instead.

Especially when you lean into his touch, your exhilarated laugh of triumph not even dampened by the obviously rigged game.

Bucky letting you win only makes it that much sweeter, your mind already conjuring up several options of where your first date could take place. And where you might end up.

"Does it have to be a restaurant?" you're asking, ignoring the clinging droplets of water on your lashes.

Having a front row seat to the mesmerizing vision leaves Bucky speechless, his vast vocabulary and the numerous languages embedded in his brain suddenly alluding him. All because you're looking at him like he's worth something.

Maybe he is.

"It can be wherever you want, sweetheart." There's no hint of jest or teasing in his tone this time, only the undeniable need to see where this could go. "I'll call in favors if I have to."

"Well that opens up all sorts of possibilities." Your impish reply comes with an exaggerated innocent smile and you push off the wall, leisure backstrokes coaxing him to come along.

"Like I said, absolutely anywhere you wanna go," he jovially promises, dutifully following in your wake, fingers itching to wrap around your ankle to pull you closer.

Bucky settles for increasing his speed, decades of honed skills now locked on every single microexpression as the distance shrinks. The twinkle in your eye, the deliberate slowing down to let him overtake you, the way your gaze keeps drifting to his mouth.

"I'll definitely take that into consideration," you say, the smoldering look you get in return not helping quiet the fantasy playing out in your head. Legs wrapped around his waist, your hands in those long, dark strands.

Heat sprawls across your chest when you imagine tugging a fistful, tilting his head back to watch his eyes darken. Bucky may not be a man of many words, but that doesn't necessarily mean he wouldn't make noises.

And oh, the noises you could elicit from this man.

"Should probably wait until it's not so hot out though," you continue, willing your heart to calm the fuck down the moment his knee gently, accidentally-on-purpose, knocks into yours. "I don't usually let a guy get me all sweaty until at least the second date."

This time his palm makes contact, the searing touch licking heat up your forearm, his accompanying laughter sending tingles of pleasure straight to your nipples.

And then, as if you're not already embarrassingly responsive enough, he has the nerve to ask, "What would it take for you to make an exception for me?"

Pink brightens his cheeks before he hastily adds, "'Cause I'd rather not have to wait for the weather to cooperate before I get to take you out."

Your foot weakly hooks around his ankle as you smother a laugh and pretend to consider his offer, then you're playfully darting away again, purposefully turning to glide past him.

You intentionally bump his thigh with your hip, fully expecting him to let you pass, continuing this impromptu game of cat and mouse.

A pleasant, exhilarated rush washes over you when he doesn't.

Bucky doesn't even think about it - one second he's enjoying the view of you swimming away, his eyes raking a glorious path down your back to the swell of your biteable ass, and the next he's tenderly pulling you back, metal fingers delicately wrapped around your calf.

There's no tension on your part, no hesitation, just a gleeful giggle that has him rethinking his entire, meticulously planned course of action.

Ask you out. Buy you flowers. Open doors. Tell you you're beautiful. And intelligent. And hilarious. And a million other praising adjectives.

Then he was going to ask to kiss you.

But you giggled when he touched you - with the same goddamn arm that people stare at like it's some uncontrolled, sentient weapon.

Not you though.

You take hold, metal warming under your touch, fingers encouraging him to explore more of you.

Far be it from him to ever deny a lady.

Slowly drifting his hand up along your forearm, thumb catching tiny droplets painting your skin, he marvels at how readily you accept him. Even the parts he usually hides.

He track the gentle rise of your chest, the miniscule movement of your body towards his touch, the steadily increasing heartrate - all telltale signs that this is right.

Wanted.

Bucky still has to ask. Needs to hear the words to silence the doubt creeping in at the edges.

"This okay?" he exhales, intense blues meeting your wide, hopeful eyes.

"More'n okay," you assure him on the next beath, your tongue peaking out to wet suddenly dry lips.

Holy shit, this man is going to be the death of you. All careful patience and obvious desire - a lethal combination that almost has you forgetting that you're technically in a public space.

Bucky watches you like you're his first sunrise after freedom, metal hand skimming over the inside of your elbow before dropping down, fingertips ghosting over the dip of your waist.

The sound that escapes your parted lips has him repeating the action, firmer this time, his attention laser focused on all the ways you're beautifully communicating for him to keep going.

Welcoming his hands as if they don't come with a long list of regrets.

"Thought about askin' you out at least a dozen times since Christmas," he confesses, his pinkie tracing the edge of your swimsuit snug against your hip.

"Got a hell of a lotta time to make up for then."

Your bold response has him leading you backwards before he can second guess himself, carefully guiding you to the closest wall in order to keep you both above water with minimal effort.

Because the things he wants to do to you are gonna take all of his focus.

The absence of Bucky's left hand is quickly overshadowed by his fingers curling around the low edge of the pool right next to your head, protectively caging you in.

He's barely touched you and warmth already pools low in your belly, thighs fighting the urge to press together in search of friction.

Instinct has you safely wrapping a leg around one of his instead, your opposite hand grabbing hold of his smooth bicep for stability, excitement thrumming through your veins.

Even as your consent sends ripples of arousal straight to Bucky's core, he doesn’t rush, needing to commit every little thing to memory.

Ensuring he'll be able to play this moment back when he's off god knows where, he takes note of the slow flutter of lashes against warm cheeks.

The inviting tease of tongue wetting lips he's dying to taste.

Your questing ankle inching up his calf to pull him millimeters closer.

That grin that makes him truly believe he gets to have this again.

And when he reaches up with his free hand, fingers dripping with saltwater, his brow slightly raised in question, he files away your answer like it's a benediction - the tiny slip of your bottom lip between teeth, a hint of smile playing at one corner of your tempting mouth.

Bucky almost forgets how to breathe at such a simple act until your enticing him with a slow nod and a full, devastating smile.

Metal whirs as he brings himself closer, his leg dangerously close to sliding home between yours. You'd greedily welcome it, your thighs instinctively parting even as you resist the urge to close the gap.

Let him decide. Let him set the pace and you'll gladly follow, throwing out encouraging signs, leaving no doubt that you want this as much as he does.

Eventually, when he's not struggling to form a coherent word, Bucky swears he'll figure out a way to thank you for it. For making him feel alive again, instead of letting him just go along for the ride.

Everything else fades away except you, open and waiting, pulling him in like a magnet until there's no choice left but to take the leap.

To let himself drown in the way your breath exhales in the scant space separating you. The steady cadence of your pulse when the back of his fingers map the apple of your cheek.

"Hope you like flowers, doll," he murmurs, legs intertwining under water, his knee innocently slotting right between your soft thighs. "'Cause you're gonna get 'em by the dozens."

You're sure you respond, freely gifting him the knowledge of your favorite kinds, it's just, Bucky's doing that thing. Warm palm cupping your jaw, long fingers splayed across your neck, his water-slicked thumb daring to be licked as he traces the edge of your bottom lip.

He's close enough that you could count the freckles dusting his cheekbones - a project you intend to cherish soon enough - but you're currently too preoccupied by how thoroughly enamored he is by you.

As if you're a purely figment of his wild imagination. Willingly allowing him to crowd you up against cold tile, knowing he'll treat you like you deserve. Despite all the rumors and whispers you've undoubtedly heard.

"Never seen anyone as beautiful as you," he vows, bringing you close enough to gently bump noses, silently imploring you to hear this isn't a line.

Bucky's usually impenetrable shield is lain at your feet, giving you access to his jagged pieces, praying they don't end up cutting you.

Because this right here is everything - the trusting tilt of your head, your shallow breaths mingling with his, the arch of your spine speaking words long foreign to him - and he'll be damned if he ever risks losing it.

"Gonna kiss you now."

Your free hand finally makes contact with his waist and his sharp exhale throws fuel on the flames of arousal already threatening to consume you.

Somehow, you still manage to fill the drawn out seconds he's giving you to change your mind with an emphatic, "I sure hope so."

You might fucking combust if he doesn't.

It begins tentative. Soft lips and gentle pressure, testing the palpable chemistry, the teasing hint of you lingering on Bucky's lips when he pauses briefly to check in.

The sight of you already enraptured - parted lips and heavy eyelids as you chase after him - has him diving back in, his thumb under your chin coaxing you to that perfect angle in order to deepen the next kiss.

Heat builds quickly, tongues dancing to a tune old as time, muscle memory carrying him along after all these years. A groan reverberates between you before Bucky can swallow it down, your answering moan hitching when his teeth nip at your bottom lip.

The apologetic caress of his tongue leaves you breathless, an exhale of a giggle getting lost when his mouth covers yours again, desperate to drink you in.

It's impossible to know who moves first, your body seeking more contact the instant he's pushing you flush against the chilled pool wall. All that matters is that he's here, warm and solid, kissing you as if his next breath depends on it.

It may as well be, because Bucky can't get enough of you.

The taste of you exploding on his tongue, decades of celibacy narrowing down to this single moment in time, rewiring his brain.

Synapses fire off in time with your racing pulse, the frightening realization settling in that the universe aligned to lead him straight to you.

All the shit he's endured won't ever be erased, and the anger may never completely fade, but it definitely feels lighter in your arms. Like maybe he gets a chance at a happily ever after.

"Already addicted to you, sweetheart," Bucky confesses, kissing a worshipful path along your jaw, his heavy breath exhaling across your heated skin, sending shivers down your spine.

The noises you planned to draw out of him pour out of you unbidden when his fingers grip your hair, encouraging you to bare more of yourself to him.

"Tell me if I cross a line," he murmurs against your neck, his words getting lost in the sensations suddenly flooding you, his thigh fitting perfectly between yours, providing you with just a hint of pressure.

His mouth explores every inch of exposed skin, your body already aching to grind against him, arousal building with every sure flick of tongue and bold nip of teeth.

Your hands cling to him, nails scraping the nape of his neck, fingers caressing metal, proving over and over you want this. Want him.

"Might get caught," you breathe, grip tightening to keep him right where he belongs.

"Door's locked," Bucky grunts, answering your raised brow with a sheepish smile. "Thought I'd be alone," he reminds you, lips hovering just out of reach.

"Oh, I'm not complaining."

His eyes track up to the ceiling, hidden security cameras no doubt steadily blinking away. "Good," he smirks, once again meeting your adoring gaze. "I'll also wipe the security tapes."

"Make you sure you send me a copy first."

"Jesus Christ, doll," he laughs, pulling you in for a passionate kiss before you can throw him for yet another thrilling loop.

Bucky's not sure he's gonna survive long at this rate, but damned if he's not ready to go on the ride of his fucking life with you.

My first fic after a very long, unexpected hiatus - I hope you enjoyed it 🩶

Please let me know if you'd like more of these two!

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nyxthedeity · 2 days ago

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hiii!!! can i request a yule ball fic with oliver wood???

perhaps something related to him asking reader to be his date?

(adore your work btw 🤍🤍)

"ʏᴇ ᴀʟʀɪɢʜᴛ?"

Synopsis: Everyone's getting struggle in finding a date for the Yule Ball, but for Oliver? Oh, he already got his eyes on someone far longer than the Yule Ball. The only problem is how he's going to ask her out.

Pairing: Oliver Wood x Ravenclaw!fem!reader

A/N: Let's just pretend that Oliver is in the same age as Cedric, alright?

The buzz the Yule ball made was both an excitement and frustration to all students. Depending who you ask. Getting outfits? Getting a date? Figuring out how to dance? Not everyone is good at that.

For Oliver? He couldn't care less. He's more bummed that Quidditch practice is unable to take place because of that Tournament. What better more than Quidditch? Totally, not because he's chickening out from asking somebody.

He was hunched over in a table in the Gryffindor common room one weekend, drawing and writing Quidditch tactics for something that definitely won't happen this year, the last weekend before the Yule Ball, before two crackheads decided: hey! Let's go annoy Wood!

Fred and George took the liberty of sitting at the two empty seats with smirks on their faces, eyes definitely teasing. "Ye awlright there, Woody Pecker?" Fred greeted with an awful attempt in Scottish accent. "Already have a date to the Yule Ball?" George ask.

Now he can answer this wisely and say yes to be left alone, or say no and be teased. But before he could say anything, Fred answered for him. "Don't do that George, you might hurt his heart!"

"Alright, what do you two want?" Oliver sighed as he set down his quill. "Just to know if anyone got the spot next to ya. Maybe we could help get ya a pretty lady!" Fred cheerfully answered like he just thought of a world wide solution to Oliver's love life, George just nods so slowly it's kind of suspicious.

"No."

And just like that, the twin's plan couldn't go on.

But the thing is... It's not like he doesn't want to go to the Ball, this is his last year, might as well not think about Quidditch (very hard to do) and just have fun. But the date part? He doesn't know about that.

Whenever anyone close to him mention something along the lines of "date" and "Yule Ball" and "asking my crush out" one name comes to mind.

Y/n Tyres. The Ravenclaw Prefect. The sassy, no rubbish girl. But that's the thing, she's sassy. Not the cute type, it's the intimidating type.

And he understands how a girl is, you're either you're their type, or not at all. And this being his last year? He doesn't want to get heartbroken. He might be drinking fruit punches instead of dancing that night.

But seeing that Fred and George already have a date, Cedric too, even Neville got one. What could hurt?

It's not hard to know Y/n's schedule, just ask Cedric and he'll tell you what time she's free. He's kind like that. And also because he knows Oliver desperately needs this.

At rhe courtyard, Oliver found her light reading a book, she was alone, probably because her friend Rebecca was with her boyfriend. Yes, he knows. Rebecca knows about his little... Admiration.

The soft green grass almost blended in as Oliver approaches. She almost didn't paid it any mind until a two feet was planted firmly in front of her.

When she did look up though, Oliver's mind went blank.

"Can I help you?" She asks in that cool voice that will absolutely fry you if you're messing with her time. So like a wise man, he made up something in that Quidditch filled mind of his.

"I uh... Need a book. For Astrology. I was hoping if I could borrow some from you." Wow, that went smoother than he thought.

Her eyes softened a bit as she nodded. Silently, she reached for her bag and took out a small book and handed it over, then going back to her light reading.

Oliver walked away there so dazed, disappointed and pale that someone took notice. "Ye alright?" One asked. Oliver couldn't even answer that eith how fast his heart is beating and how he couldn't wrap his mind how he turned his opportunity to rubbish.

Maybe next time.

But next time couldn't come faster.

It's Thursday now. Rumor has it that Y/n was going alone in the Yule Ball because all the boys who fancy her couldn't grow a pair.

Now Oliver is in his dorm, trying to figure out a way to make him have courage to just ask the girl out!

Maybe at lunch? Too many people. Dinner? Couldn't risk crying to sleep. At free period? Wouldn't be able go think properly.

Just when?!

He spent almost all day mulling over that stupid simple question. Mind present and not at the same time. Quidditch was supposed to be the only thing in his mind, why the hell is Y/n in it too. Well, that's not her fault anyway. And if that's so, what a beautiful thought to have.

Oliver was day dreaming until when he turned to a corner, he bumped into someone, making them drop all the books in their hand. As he was helping them pick it up and muttering an apology, Y/n walked past.

Oliver abandoned that kid so fast and caught up to her. "Tyres!" He called, making her turn around. Ah, he must be returning the book. The thought made her happy, she likes it when people return things like normal people.

She really hopes that the spine is not damaged too much, she wants to keep a good reputation on Madam Pince. It makes borrowing books much easier... Now come to think of it, Y/n thought that Oliver is just alk about Quidditch, no care for academics at all... So maybe she shouldn't get her hopes up?

Oliver, with Y/n just staring at him made him sweat. Holy crackers, he has never been this anxious even before games. He wonders what she's thinking. Does she look like a pimp? Maybe an idiot?

Just say it man!

“Right, so... I was thinkin’." He's trying so hard to sound casual. He's failing. "About the ball. Not the Quaffle—though, honestly, they should consider enchantin’ it to glow for night games, don’t you think? Anyway—the ball. The Yule one.” He really wants to smack himself in the face because what the hell is he saying.

Y/n blinked oit of her own daze, zoning in and only hearing about half of what he said. About enchanted Quaffle? Or the Yule Ball? This man is confusing...

Oliver's hands is sweating, fidgeting, and trying to grab anything but her hand. He wants to shrink. Like... Actually shrink.

But you know what? Might as well have something funny to say to his kids one day.

“I’d rather fancy goin’, since this is my last year... But not just with anyone. Thought maybe... if you’re not already goin’ with some charmin’ Ravenclaw or mysterious Slytherin..." She's rather popular to those houses you know. Gryffindors don't really like feisty ones. "You might consider goin’ with me? I promise I’ll try not to talk about Quidditch the whole night. Just... maybe half.”

He managed to whip up a boyish grin that looks convincing enough.

In Y/n's mind, she now understands that it's for the Ball. She doesn't think she can enchant a Quaffle if that's what he's talking about. Plus, she's really honored, she almost took herself to the Ball and just drink whatever drink there was and dance with Rebecca, she guess Oliver here is a good change.

She slowly nod. "Sure. I'd like that." She answered.

Oliver almost jumped with joy. But of course he didn't, he'd do that later. A grin couldn't help but crawl it's way to his face as he nod himself. That felt like the world just eased off his shoulder.

"Alright. I'll see you at the Ball, yeah?" He said as he walks backward. "Sure." She answered simply.

She saw how Oliver ran with a happy bounce on his steps as she practically felt the joy coming from him.

Then she remembered her book.

"About my book—!"

Guess who got sick and is banned from using a phone for 2 days? ME!

Don't worry guys, I'm fine and I am recovering, but this is the shortest out of the 6 fics that is pending in my brain so I think it's best to give you guys this.

With me here, I promise, Oliver Wood will never run out of love.

Thank you for the darling who requests this, you answered prayers of many.

Enjoy my darlings!

Your dearest author,

NyxTheDeity.

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threegoldfish · 3 months ago

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#ooc; not part of the system #cw: a bit of a sad mimimi vent sorry #(feel free to ignore.)#(but man. I do feel a bit... bad about my own writing / existence here since a little bit.)#(like as if i'm letting people down and thats why they go*)#(like my portrayal has turned to shit or something? idk.)#(* i love my mutuals and with a few exceptions you are all staying still and ilu sm)#(but then also. i wonder. if my interactions sometimes are slow/vanishing/nonexistent bc... i might not be good enough?)#(or disappointing?)#(its anxiety speaking i know. but i do feel like ppl start to drift away from me and I... am sad.)#(it ok. we can do whatever we want ofc and what we feel comfy with and RPing is meant to be fun.)#(if it isnt fun with what we do i understand!... but still. I am just a human.)#(and yeah i wonder if my portrayal has started to suck or... idk man. sighs.)#(aaanyways as said pls feel free to ignore. i'm just. ugh.)#(gonna delete this in a bit. promise.)#TBD;

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shan-does-art · 1 year ago

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Today is something new, I did a story about my OC Bonnie meets Hiro, I been thought of it before it just I didn't know how do it. It's (may) not like other oc and canon bh6 writing so just letting you know. You can read it whenever you want, enjoy!

-The first meet-

As Professor Granville finished talks about the project and telling the students to choose their partner, everyone did except two students didn't since no other students would choose them. Class have finished, a young teen boy walks toward to his professor and said

"uhh..Professor Granville, I don't have a partner to work with so is it alright if I can work alone?" "No Mr. Hamada, you're going to work with your partner."

as Professor Granville packing her stuffs, Hiro little surprised knowing who it going to be so he ask

"Wait, I have a partner? Who is it?" Professor Granville tells him "Ms. Rivera." Hiro is confused and doesn't know who's Rivera "Ahh..um, who exactly?" Professor Granville chuckles gently "I'm surprised you don't know this student, she's started SFIT few weeks ago. Her name is Bonnie Rivera, that is your new partner."

she looks up at Bonnie, Hiro turns around to see what she looks like. As he did, he looks at her appearance thinking to himself 'She's looks younger, maybe around my age… I wonder she's a genius and what's her maj-' Hiro snap back to reality notice Bonnie caught him looking at her and slightly embarrassed quickly looks away while Professor Granville keeps calling to him

"Mr. Hamada are you listening?" "Ah! I-i'm sorry Professor Granville…yeah, I'm listening." "Very well then Mr. Hamada, I'm expecting you talk to her tomorrow, goodbye."

Professor Granville takes her stuffs and walk to the door. Hiro say goodbye back then sigh and grabs his backpack walks to the door then suddenly Bonnie accident hit Hiro's shoulders she immediately apologize

"Sorry!…" walks away, Hiro scoffs "Ah…smiles and chuckles softly that's okay.."

knew that she won't hear him. Both of them go different separate ways. The next morning, it's 2nd period everyone going to their partner and Hiro goes to where Bonnie sit at and he saw her, so he sit with her and getting his stuff computer, messy notebooks, and old pencil. This very awkward for them, they don't know if they should say something. Hiro goes first and he said

"Um, hey… do you have a esear I can borrow?" He thought to himself 'really? Is that what you have to say, you could've say someting else! I didn't write anything and I ask her to borrow a esear, great just great…' lucky Bonnie didn't see his writing and give him a esear "Here, I know it's pretty small but that's what I have, sorry." "Oh, no worries."

Hiro slightly smiles and pretend to esear a empty writing then he stops and took a breath to relax and stay calm

"H-hi, I'm Hiro..Hiro Hamada nice to meet you." Rise his hand and light wave, Bonnie turns her head a little "Uhh, hello I'm Bonnie Rivera nice meet you too…" smiles little as she getting her notebook from her backpack "so yesterday that Professor Granville tells about the project, you remember that right? Of course you do that's was a dumb to ask, heh.." chuckles softly and felt a bit embarrassed "It is kinda a dumb you ask, but.. you were just wanna know if I know about the project." "Yeah..that's what I meant and uhh, I'm guessing that you don't have a partner." as he scratching his messy hair "Aha no I don't, I'm guessing same thing with you hm?" Bonnie laugh softly "Well then, do you want to be my partner?" "Sure why not" "Wait really?! I mean.. clear the throat cool"

Bonnie smiles and giggles. Few minutes later class finished, everyone getting ready to leave, now back to Hiro and Bonnie

"Great! I'm glad we both agreed what project we should do. I might say you're pretty smart, curious what major are you in?" "Uhh.. thank you, you were also pretty smart too. Me? It's mathematics." "Mathematics huh, that's cool. So the hardest math major, you must be a genius." Bonnie pause for a second "Huh?!…I-I wouldn't say myself a genius but thank you... I heard that you're the young genius in the SFIT but I never thought I'll meet you." Hiro flustered a bit "Ah, really?.. heh, now you have." "Hehe yeah, it is pretty cool that you're in robotics." "Oh yeah, it is pretty cool." Bonnie hesitate for a second "Um, I was wondering maybe you can show me your work… but that's up to you." Bonnie move her right leg back n forth "Sure I'd like to show my work, how about after our presentation?" Bonnie gasp softly "No way, that'll be great."

They both smiles then it's quite "…" "…" still quite. Awkward. "It's was nice chatting with you but I should be going, see you next week." Bonnie said breaking the awkward slient "R-right, it's was nice chatting with you too, bye."

Hiro see Bonnie about to leave the classroom then Hiro ask her something and walks toward her"Bonnie wait!" She turns around "Hm, What's wrong?" "We should uhh..exchanges our phone numbers so we can do on Saturday if you're not busy." He said while getting his phone. "Oh yeah, we can do that. I don't believe I'm going to be busy on Saturday so I should be good."

Bonnie grabs her phone and switch with Hiro's phone, they put their phone numbers and switch it back

"Thanks, you can meet me up at Lucky Cat Cafe at 8 AM, I can send you the location and the time just in case if you forget about it." Bonnie thought to her mind 'Wow, I never meet someone around my age who's is nice to me, is he usually always nice?…not just that, Lucky Cat Cafe does sound flimiar..hmm' "You're welcome. Thank you, that's sounds good to me a great cafe should be good." "Great, bring anything you think it's important, well that's all you should be going now." "Oh right, um, bye.." Bonnie turns around and hits her forehead at the wrong door "Ahh, ow!" Rubs her forehead and then hiss "Bonnie are you okay? Are you hurt?"

Hiro surprised didn't know Bonnie will get hurt herself, he check on her just in case there is a anything scratches on her forehead he lift her messy bangs then sigh relief

"You're okay, good thing you're not hurt that bad just only ltitle bruise. Oh, I have a robot friend who can…" Bonnie takes Hiro's hand of her forehead gentle "help you…" "I'm okay, really. Don't worry about me there's no need to take me to your friend. Thank you." "Hmm, okay then. Next time watch where you going." Hiro cross his arms "Huh?! Of course I was, I thought the door was opened." Looks away and twisting her hair "Yeah right..." "I'm not lying but for reals I really need to go" Slightly smiles and wave goodbye then left, Hiro shake his head and left too.

#my story #my art #big hero 6 #big hero 6 oc #big hero 6 the series #big hero 6 the series oc #hiro hamada #professor granville #my oc #bonnie rivera #canon and oc #Hiro and oc #*sigh* this is was fun but I do not like writing at all... I might do this again if I have ideas ( ´･ω･)#I promise I wasn’t busy it’s just I forgot about it to post

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orcelito · 6 months ago

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Bought a stupid suit thing. Disgustang.

#speculation nation #i got it on sale but it was still kinda expensive. ughhhh #hates every part of that. it's so stiff and uncomfortable and unnatural feeling.#but business professional is the recommended attire... so to that i went...#felt bad staying so close to close but the employees were nice about it at least. and i still got out b4 they closed (barely)#i wanted to go shopping earlier today. in between class and orchestra. but allegedly attendance is required in the lab.#so i went. didnt really feel like attendance was taken. but i still went.#still gotta finish prepping my resume but i dont think itll take Too long... i got a template to follow #from my web coding class actually. bc we just happen to have a resume building assignment this week.#so by working on my resume im working on the lab!! yay!!!#except im not doing the lab resume rn. just the normal resume. the template is still helpful tho.#also need to do a bit of research into the companies that are there and the interview style thingie #GOD this is going to be a whole hassle. i dont wanna wrinkle my stupid suit so i shouldnt stuff it in a bag.#and i dont wanna BIKE in the stupid suit. so im thinking of driving up to campus. forking over the money for guest parking #do the stupid career fair then drive back home to change and then go back up to campus on bus or bike in time for bowling #hopefully. we hope. nonzero chance of having to miss bowling and web coding classes tho. depending on how long i spend at this thing.#ultimately career bullshit is more important than one day of bowling so like. whatever.#but i still want a reward for sucking it up and going to the stupid career fair anyways. even tho i Really dont want to.#im already planning on skipping my first class. he made it sound like it would be fine + expected. so we can go to the career fair.#and that opens up a good amount of time so. doing that. and then hoping i can make it to bowling class...#it's funny to imagine if i didnt have time to go back home to change. me showing up to bowling in a suit.#im not doing that tho. this shit was too expensive to risk it doing physical activity.#BLARGH i am so supremely grumpy going to this thing. i dont want to. at all. i hate all this Professional Attire bullshit.#but i need to... and i already went thru the hassle of getting the damn suit... might as well just go.#i will simply pout and grumble the whole way. until tomorrow where it'll be full social smiles and whatever the fuck.#need to get enough sleep to make talking easier. no time for any fun stuff tonight.#need to find my damn. razor. bc i need to shave my little mustache thing probably. for 'professionalism'. ugh.#kicking and screaming this whole way. man i dont think i even own an ironing board. gonna have to hang the shit up and hope for the best #longest sigh imaginable... i just wanna write....... or play video games...... wahhhh #at least itll be over tomorrow. but then i will have to do presentation stuff for thursday. ughhhhhh

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heejamas · 1 month ago

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MANCHILD

➢ pairing: cowboy!jake x fem!reader … ﹒cowboy au, strangers to lovers, smut \\ ➢ synopsis: you’re trouble, and jake sim knows it. you flirt like it’s your job, wear sin like perfume, and make men beg without even trying. he’s the only cowboy who doesn’t chase you. so naturally, he’s the only one you want. a small-town, slow-burn, filthy little game of who breaks first. ➢ word count: 9.5k

➢ warnings: smut!! minors dni. oral sex (f and m receiveing), unprotected sex (dont do it!!), public-ish sex, dirty talk, possessive!jake, softdom!jake, bratty!reader, spanking, cum eating, praise and degradation, cowboy kink™, jake is a menace but so are you, yeehaw but make it slutty

you’re wiping down the counter when you say it, voice low and lazy, like it’s just another tuesday night and not the kind of sentence that rearranges a man’s brain chemistry.

“i like my boys playing hard to get.”

you don’t mean it to land anywhere in particular. you’re just talking, tossing it out there between gossip, your voice sweet, meant only for the girl beside you. so she laughs, nudges you with her hip. “you mean the ones who ghost you after three days?”

“no,” you sigh, stretching like a cat behind the bar. “i mean the ones who pretend they don’t care. the ones too proud to beg. makes it more fun when they do.”

you say it like it’s a joke, but you mean every word. and across the room, jake sim hears you.

he hadn’t meant to. hadn’t even realized he was eavesdropping until the words tangled around him. he’s not the type to pay attention to chatter. he’s been coming to this place for years, knows how to tune out the flirting and the country drawls and the clink of empty glasses. but your voice is different. and he’s seen you around, of course. everyone has.

you’re the kind of girl people build myths around. the kind they write country songs about, because you have a laugh that could ruin a man. and every guy in town’s tried his luck. most ended up a little poorer, a little dumber, and twice as obsessed. and you never even blinked.

so when you breeze past his table, tray balanced on your palm, perfume trailing like a challenge, jake doesn’t move. doesn’t shift, doesn’t look up from his drink. not obviously, at least. he doesn’t give you the satisfaction. and you notice. oh, you notice. because you’re used to stares, to whistles and clumsy compliments and boys who fall over themselves to hand you things you never asked for. you’re used to the way they sit up straighter when you walk by, the way their words fumble out of their mouths like dropped coins.

but this one? this one just sits there. quiet and unmoved.

you catch him watching only once, just once, when you lean forward to grab a bottle from the bottom shelf, and when your eyes flick up, his are already somewhere else. not pretending, not faking it, just gone. and it pisses you off more than it should.

you don’t say anything. you just toss your hair over your shoulder and smile at the other girl again, louder this time. “i like my men all incompetent,” you declare, tucking a dollar into your apron, “and i swear they choose me, i’m not choosing them.”

jake lifts his beer to his lips, slow. doesn’t smile. doesn’t even smirk. and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel in control of the game. you hate that, but you also love that.

but you definitely hate rodeos.

too loud and sweaty. too many men with too little brain and too much cologne. it’s just the same loop every time—horses, hats, hollering, and someone calling you “sweet cheeks” like that’s supposed to make you blush instead of gag. normally, you stay far away. but tonight’s different. because you heard jake sim was riding.

so you show up. late, of course, on purpose. your boots crunch over dirt and beer cans as you make your way through the crowd, hips swinging just enough to remind everyone you don’t walk, you arrive. every man you pass straightens his spine like you might look at him if he behaves, and every woman rolls her eyes in that half-jealous way they always do.

but you don’t care. you’re not here for them. you’re here for the man on the horse.

and when you spot him, out in the pen, one hand gripping the reins, the other resting light against his thigh, you feel that slow, low flutter in your stomach that tastes a little like trouble. because he’s wearing that stupid hat again, the same beat-up one that sits just low enough to make his eyes a mystery and his mouth a promise. his shirt’s rolled up to the elbows, collar unbuttoned, forearms dusted with dirt and sin. he looks like sin. he rides like sin.

you lean against the fence, pop a piece of gum into your mouth, and pretend you’re not watching. but you are, everyone is. but he doesn’t look into the crowd, not once. he doesn’t wave, doesn’t show off, doesn’t even smile. he just focuses—on the gate, on the bull, on the seconds ticking down before the chaos. there’s something precise about it, almost like he’s not here to perform, just to win.

and you hate how hot that is.

when the gate finally opens and he bursts out, body moving like he’s part of the beast beneath him, the whole crowd goes wild. people scream, hats fly, beer spills. but you just chew your gum and watch. he holds on longer than anyone else that night. and when he lands, smooth and sharp and smug, your stomach does a traitorous little flip.

he still doesn’t look at you. not even when he walks past, later, towel slung over his shoulder, shirt sticking to his back, sweat dripping down his neck like something out of a country girl’s fantasy.

you’re standing by the concession stand now, pretending to look at overpriced chili fries when he walks right past you again. and for the first time, maybe in ever, you don’t know what to do with that. because everyone looks at you. everyone wants something from you.

but jake sim? jake sim doesn’t even blink.

you pop your gum again, louder than necessary. he still doesn’t turn. bastard. so you lick your lips, tilt your head, and mutter just loud enough for the girl next to you to hear—just loud enough for him to maybe hear, too— “god, i hate cowboys.”

except you don’t. you really, really don’t.

so you decide to wear red on saturday. not a soft red. not a muted, tasteful, wine-country red. no, this is bright, dangerous, stop-sign red. the kind that glitters when you walk and blasphemes when you bend. you slip it on slow, knowing exactly what it does to your body and your ego. it’s the kind of dress that starts fights and finishes them.

you don’t wear it for him, not technically. but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t check your lipstick twice before heading to the bar, or if you hadn’t spent a good three minutes wondering if jake sim was the type of man who noticed sequins.

(it turns out—he isn’t.)

he’s already there when you walk in, sitting in his usual corner like a piece of furniture carved from patience and denim. same hat, same shirt, same maddeningly blank expression. he doesn’t flinch when you walk by. doesn’t scan your legs like every other man. doesn’t lean over to whisper something to his friend and then laugh too loud. he just looks. once. and then looks away.

you could scream. instead, you smile. you spend the next hour putting on a show—not for him, of course, never that. just for… the atmosphere. you take extra time leaning over the bar. you laugh a little louder, let your fingers trail longer. you flirt, you twirl, you dance like you’re made of sugar and smoke.

and he just sits there. solid. steady and stoic in the face of sin.

when the jukebox shifts to something slow and sweaty, your friend pulls you out from behind the bar and spins you onto the floor. you go willingly, you always do. you dance with her, and then with some other guy, who’s a terrible flirt but a decent dancer. you laugh as you move, hips swaying, hands up, hair stuck to your neck. people cheer, whistles echo. someone shouts your name.

and still, jake sim doesn’t look. he sits there, beer untouched, fingers drumming slowly against the table. his eyes are on the wall, or the floor, or nowhere at all. you want to throw a chair at him. instead, you press your body just a little closer, let your head tip back, your laughter bubble out like champagne.

and for half a second, just half, you swear you can feel his gaze. but by the time you glance over, it’s gone.

you finish the dance anyway, cheeks flushed from effort or ego or something worse, and when you walk past jake’s table again, you pause. just enough. he still doesn’t say anything. but his knuckles are white around the bottle, and that’s something.

and you’re not much of a smoker, not really. it’s more about the image. the ritual of it—door swinging shut behind you, the hum of the saloon dulling into background noise, a lighter flicked slowly. you like the weight of the cigarette between your fingers, the way it makes your mouth look meaner. you especially like the way people look at you when you do it.

on sunday, though, the sidewalk is mostly empty. the neon sign above the door buzzes like it’s dying, and your heels click against the pavement. you’re alone, almost. because he’s there. leaning against his truck—of course it’s a truck, stupid and long and matte black— arms crossed, hat low, chewing on a toothpick like he was placed there by god.

you try not to look. but of course you fail.

“you always stand like that,” you say, taking a drag and blowing smoke sideways, “or is this a special occasion?”

he doesn’t turn, god, he doesn’t even smile. “like what?” he asks, voice low and scratchy, like he only uses it when necessary.

you flick ash toward the gravel and shift your weight, one hip out, just enough to suggest: i am here and i am wearing very little. so you say: “like you’re being painted,” you say. “by someone too obsessed with denim.”

that gets a reaction, barely—a twitch at the corner of his mouth. nothing close to a smile, but you count it anyway. “you don’t like denim?” he asks.

“i like it just fine,” you say, letting your eyes travel up and down. “i just think it likes you a lot.”

he hums, quiet and unfazed. the toothpick shifts from one side of his mouth to the other with devastating nonchalance. “you always flirt like that?” he asks finally, and it’s almost cruel, the way he says it—like he’s calling you out without even looking at you.

you tilt your head. “like what?”

“like you’re bored.”

you take another drag, slower this time. it buys you a second. maybe two. “i’m not bored,” you say. “i’m offended.”

he finally looks at you then. really looks. not a glance, not a flick of the eyes, but a slow, full scan that starts at your boots and ends at your mouth. “offended?”

“yeah,” you say. “you’re the first man in town who hasn’t tried to get a shot with me.”

he raises an eyebrow. your breath hitches, and you curse yourself for it. because god damn it. he pushes off the truck, and he steps forward, just one step, just close enough for you to smell him. smoke and leather and desert heat. “that why you came out here?” he asks. “to collect another admirer?”

“no,” you say, a little too quickly. “i came out to smoke.”

he nods, glances at your cigarette. “you’re holding it backwards.”

you look down, you are. shit.

he walks past you then, amused and infuriatingly tall, back toward the saloon. and just before the door swings shut behind him, he tosses the toothpick into the dirt and says, without looking: “you’ll have better luck with someone who gives a damn, sweetheart.”

you stand there for a minute, blinking smoke out of your eyes, lips parted in disbelief, cigarette still backwards in your hand. you don’t know whether to chase him or marry him. probably both.

the annual summer festival happens a week later, and the whole town’s lost its damn mind. kids run wild, drunk uncles argue, and there’s a man singing country ballads off-key on the main.

and you look stunning, obviously. short dress, boots too clean to be from here, a pair of sunglasses you don’t need but wear anyway. you walk through the crowd like you’re not sweating like everyone else. and your arm? it’s linked tightly through lee heeseung’s. the sheriff’s son. walking cologne bottle. he thinks calling women “sugar tits” is flirtation and not a felony. you smile like he’s the most charming thing this town’s ever coughed up. and across the lot, jake sees everything.

he’s standing near the fence, drink in hand, chewing on his pride. he looks like a warning sign, his arms crossed so tight his biceps look like they’re planning a mutiny. he doesn’t blink, he doesn’t even pretend not to be watching. you glance at him once, and once is enough.

you laugh louder. lean closer to heeseung, who’s talking about god-knows-what—his truck, his workout, his daddy’s badge—and you nod like you care. every move is calculated. every smile is a weapon. because you know exactly what you’re doing. so you excuse yourself after a while, muttering something about needing another drink, slipping away from heeseung before he can say something else that’ll make your ears bleed. you walk through the back, your boots clicking fast.

you’re halfway to the bar when you feel a heat at your back.

“fun night?” his voice is behind you. dry and quiet.

you don’t turn around right away. you let the moment hang. and then you say, “depends,” running a hand through your hair like it’s not dripping down your neck. “you havin’ fun watching?”

he steps in closer. you feel him before you see him, his chest just a breath away from your shoulder. “you always hang off men you don’t like?” he asks, voice low enough to make your knees consider collapsing.

you shrug. “what makes you think i don’t like him?”

“you’re bored. i know what you look like when you’re havin’ fun.”

you hate how that line makes your stomach twist. hate it more that he’s right. so you finally turn to face him, hands on your hips, head tilted with mock sweetness. “what, jealous?”

he laughs. it’s short and dark. “of lee heeseung?” he scoffs. “sweetheart, i’m jealous of his dog before i’m jealous of him.”

you bite your lip to hide the smile, and you fail. “then why are you here?” you ask, eyes locking onto his.

he leans in, just enough to make you dizzy. his gaze dips—down your lips, down your throat, down your dress—and lingers there, shameless. he looks like he wants to say more. or do more. and you kind of wish he would. but instead, he straightens up, steps back, and lets the space between you fill with heat again.

“because, darling, next time you wanna get under someone’s skin,” he says, “maybe pick a man who ain’t wearin’ daddy’s badge.”

and just like that, he turns and walks off. no touch. not even a goddamn smirk. you’re left standing there, pulse racing, drink forgotten, mouth parted like a woman halfway to disaster.

you fan yourself with your hand, mutter to no one, “fuck my life.”

and over the next few weeks, jake sim makes a habit out of losing his mind quietly.

he tells himself he’s just thirsty. that’s the only reason he keeps showing up to the saloon. he tells himself that every night he parks that stupid truck in the same stupid spot and walks through the same door into the same bar where you’re working, and where you, lately, won’t even look at him.

and that’s what kills him. because you used to look. all big eyes and evil little smiles, like you were constantly cooking up something sinful and he was the poor bastard about to taste it.

but now? now you barely glance in his direction. you walk past him like he’s just another part of the furniture. take other tables. pour drinks with your back to him. laugh at other men’s jokes.

and jake watches silently. desperately. he tries not to, he really does. but his eyes betray him every time. they flick to you the second you walk by—legs bare, hair pulled back with a pen, lips glossed to hell. you smell like vanilla and cigarette smoke, and it’s infuriating how much he wants to bite that smell off your throat.

and the worst part is that he knows you’re doing it on purpose. because sometimes, just sometimes, he catches the way your mouth twitches when you pass his table. the way you shift your weight a little slower, lean over a little further when you’re grabbing something. and when he doesn’t look up—when he pretends not to notice—you bite your lip like you’re trying not to laugh.

you’re playing hard to get. which is adorable, really. but it works. fuck, it works.

jake sim, who’s spent most of his adult life being aggressively unbothered, now sits at this bar like a man possessed. he sips beer and imagines things he shouldn’t. he watches your mouth wrap around straws and thinks about how it’d look wrapped around something else entirely. he stares at your hands pouring drinks and thinks about them fisting in his shirt, pressed against his belt, sliding down—

he coughs. shifts in his seat. takes another sip and pretends like he’s not half hard just because you leaned against the fridge five minutes ago.

he doesn’t talk to you. hasn’t, since the festival. because that would mean giving in. and if there’s one thing jake sim is worse at than feelings, it’s losing. but god, the way you walk? the way you smile at the wrong people? the way you drop the occasional “cowboy” into a sentence like it’s not meant to ruin him?

it’s almost sweet, the way you’re trying to get under his skin. but also: it’s working. and he thinks, not for the first time, that if you asked—if you looked at him a certain way—he’d let you wreck his entire life. you could tie him to the back of his own truck, spit on his mouth, call him useless in front of god and the sheriff, and he’d probably thank you.

but you don’t look at him anymore. you just brush past him one more time, close enough for your skirt to kiss his knee, and say to no one in particular, real sweet: “why so sexy if so dumb?”

and jake swears to god he’s gonna start a bar fight just to calm down.

but the moment you step onto the dirt lot of the fairgrounds, sundress fluttering and sunglasses perched high on your nose, his brain short-circuits. he sees you the second you walk in. he pretends not to, of course. jake sim has made an olympic sport out of pretending you don’t exist. but you’re here, again. and he’s fucked.

he’s in the chute, adjusting his gloves, boots already caked in dust, chest strapped down tight like it might explode. he tells himself to focus on the ride, on the bull, on anything but the way your thighs are peeking out from under that goddamn dress.

you shouldn’t be here. he was hoping you’d show up, obviously, but now that you’re actually here, it feels like a setup. like god’s decided to make him fail in front of everyone and look good doing it. so he refuses to look directly at you. not while you’re standing near the fence, leaning against the railing like you’re modeling for the “ruin a man” calendar. not while you’re laughing at something some poor bastard just said, tossing your hair over your shoulder. and certainly not when you suck on that red snow cone.

he adjusts his hat lower. counts backward from ten. tries to remember how to breathe.

he’s still got it under control—mostly—until the moment he’s mounting the bull and glances toward the crowd just once. just a peek. and there you are, watching, with your lip between your teeth and a look that could sterilize holy water.

he slips. just a little. just enough for one boot to miss its mark and his hand to falter on the rope. no one notices. not really. but he does.

the ride still goes fine. better than fine, actually. he makes it the full eight seconds, lands smooth, wipes the sweat off his brow like he’s not a mess on the inside. like he didn’t almost fall off a 1,500-pound animal because you were licking syrup off your finger.

later, after the noise dies down, after the dust settles and the crowd starts dispersing into beer and music and gossip, you find him. he’s near the back of the stables, away from the noise. hat off, hair damp, shirt sticking to his back in places that make your hands twitch.

you lean against the wall, arms crossed, head tilted. he sees you coming. of course he does.

you don’t say anything right away. just look him over like you’re checking for bruises. “didn’t fall this time,” you say.

“not for lack of tryin’,” he mutters.

you raise an eyebrow. “the bull or me?”

he doesn’t answer. you take that as a win. so you step closer, slow. toe the dirt with your boot, pretend to be casual. but everything about you tonight is a performance, and he knows it. the cherry lip gloss. the dress with buttons that strain when you breathe. the way you keep shifting your weight like your thighs are begging for attention. you’re trying to get to him, and you are. but he’ll die before he admits it.

“you always ride that well,” you say, voice syrupy and cruel, “or was that just for me?”

“don’t flatter yourself, darlin’.”

“too late,” you grin. “flattered myself the whole way here.”

he laughs at that, but he still doesn’t move. you take another step. now you’re in front of him, barely a breath of air between your bodies. the tension crackles, like something’s about to snap. he looks down at you, his jaw tight, eyes darker than usual. you could kiss him, you could push him. you could drop to your knees and he wouldn’t stop you. but he stays still. and you know what that means. he’s losing it. slowly and deliciously.

so you just smile, all teeth and trouble, and say: “you gonna say thank you for coming, or do i gotta leave and come back so you can do it right?”

he looks down at you and decides—fuck it. if this is a game, he’s gonna play. so his hand lifts. two fingers hook lazily in your belt in your dress, just enough to make your breath hitch and your knees forget how to behave. he doesn’t pull, doesn’t tug, just lets it sit there. you blink up at him like you weren’t expecting him to do this. because you weren't.

“thought you came to watch the ride,” he says, voice like gravel and heat. “didn’t know you were hopin’ to start one.”

you’re stunned for a second, flustered. but you recover fast. your hand comes up, trailing a single finger down the buttons of his shirt, slowly. and you giggle. you say nothing, you only giggle and smile. then you step back, leaving him standing there with nothing but the smell of your perfume and a growing problem in his jeans. he blinks once. twice. and you’re already gone.

a few days later, he sees you again at the gas station. you’re sitting on the hood of your car. your car is pink, of course it’s pink. girly in that deadly way. floral air freshener, fuzzy dice, a sparkly steering wheel cover and a bumper sticker that probably says something like “yee-haw, bitch.”

you’re licking a cherry lollipop. wearing the tiniest pair of shorts known to mankind and a tank top that does nothing to hide your agenda. your legs are crossed, one foot bouncing lazily in the air like you have nowhere to be and every intention of being stared at. and people are staring. two guys walk by, heads snapping so fast they nearly sprain something. an old man in a tractor cap gives a long, disapproving look that lasts until he crashes into a trash can.

you? you smile sweetly. wave. keep sucking on that lollipop like you’re not ruining lives. and jake watches from the far pump, arms crossed, jaw tight, trying so hard not to enjoy the sight of you doing exactly what you do best.

and then, just like you’ve sensed him from across the lot, you slide off the hood, sway your hips across the concrete, and approach him with the most dangerous sentence in your arsenal: “cowboy,” you say, “i think i got a flat.”

he raises an eyebrow. looks at your car. no flat. you grin like the liar you are. “could you check for me?” you ask, voice all syrup and fake innocence. “i’d do it myself, but—” you shrug, twisting a strand of hair around your finger. “i don’t wanna chip a nail.”

he stares at you and you stare back. he knows what this is. you want him on his knees. and god help him—he’s thinking about it.

“you sure?” he says, tone dry. “seems like you’re the type to pop a tire just to see what crawls out the woodwork.”

“you caught me,” you beam.

he sighs, but he walks over anyway. you trail behind, delighted, watching him crouch down in front of your car, like he is your personal cowboy-themed thirst trap come to life. he’s in front of you, all strong hands and dirty jeans, touching your tires like it’s a performance.

you lean back against the hood. cross your legs the other way. suck louder on the lollipop, just to be mean. and jake knows the tire’s fine, he also knows he’s losing. and when he looks up—sweat on his brow, eyes half-lidded, gaze landing right between your crossed legs—you don’t say a word. you just smile and keep chewing. you got what you wanted: him on his knees.

and it happens on a thursday. the saloon’s half-full, sticky with the usual noise, and you’ve got a tray in one hand. you spot him before he sees you. or maybe he lets you think that. he’s sitting at the bar, same stool as always. sipping something dark with his hat tipped low and one leg stretched out like the floor belongs to him. he’s talking to someone, a girl you don’t recognize, leaning in just enough to make your stomach twist.

he’s smiling. he never smiles, at least not like that. and that’s when it hits you: he’s doing it on purpose.

your first instinct is to roll your eyes. your second is to walk over there and ruin both their nights. instead, you drop off your tray at the counter, smooth your skirt, and remind yourself that you’re not bothered. not even a little. so you circle around the bar, busy yourself with orders. chat with a guy in a cowboy hat, laugh too loud, lean too close. and eventually, you feel that static buzz that only comes from being watched.

you turn your head, and of course he’s looking. not just looking, jake is devouring. his eyes trail down your legs, up your hips, pause at your chest like he’s making a list of crimes he’d commit if the sheriff weren’t his boss’s daddy. and your heart stutters, your mouth dries. you take a step toward him before you even realize it.

but then he gets up and walks past you, doesn’t say a word. and you think, what the hell?

but then his hand brushes yours, just barely. like an accident that wasn’t an accident. you whip around to say something sharp, but he’s already halfway to the door. and you follow. you don’t mean to, really, but you do. you catch him near the back hallway, one hand braced against the wall, like he knew you’d come after him.

you open your mouth to say something clever, but he steps in real close. close enough that your back hits the wall and your knees almost collapse. “somethin’ wrong, darlin’?” he asks, voice all silk.

“what was that?” you hiss, trying not to stare at his mouth. “flirting with that girl like i wasn’t in the room?”

he smirks. smirks. “didn’t know i needed permission.”

you cross your arms. push your chest up just enough to be annoying. “you’re playing games.”

he shrugs. “so are you.” his hand lifts, not to touch you (the bastard’s too good for that), but to brush a piece of lint off your shoulder. “you looked a little jealous,” he murmurs, voice dipped in sin. “cute look on you.”

your pulse stutters, but you refuse to show it. “you’re gonna die alone,” you say, breathier than intended.

“probably,” he says. “but not before i ruin you first.”

you suck in a breath. his face is right there, close enough that if you leaned forward, you’d taste the whiskey on his lips. you think he might do it, you think maybe this is it. but he doesn’t kiss you. instead, he leans in slow, his breath hot against your cheek, then presses a kiss right there, soft and warm and maddening. the kind of kiss that doesn’t take anything but still leaves you ruined.

then he pulls back. smirking, so smug and infuriating. “goodnight, sweetheart,” he says. and then he walks away, like he didn’t just light a fire in your chest and leave it burning.

and there’s a party on the edge of town on that week—somebody’s cousin’s birthday or maybe just an excuse to drink next to a fire. there’s music blasting out of speakers in the back of a lifted truck, people doing shots, and you’re there, of course, making every poor bastard lose his mind just by existing.

you’re wearing denim shorts and a little white top that ties in the front, and jake sim wants to fight the concept of clothing for making something that looks that illegal.

he sees you before you see him. and he sees heeseung before you do. pretty boy with too-white teeth and too many opinions about his own biceps. he’s been in love with you since high school and never got the hint. but tonight, you’re letting him talk. you’re laughing, you’re standing close. and you don’t even have to look across the fire to know jake’s watching.

you toss your hair over your shoulder. heeseung says something about his new truck and how it “purrs like a mountain cat,” which isn’t a thing, but you smile anyway. you’re about to make some flirty comment just to push it further when a hand wraps around your arm.

not rough, not mean, just firm. you whip around and there he is. jake. his face is unreadable. calm, almost. but his grip says something else entirely.

you blink. “well, hey there, cowboy—”

“walk,” he says.

you try to act annoyed, dramatic. “what if i don’t feel like—”

“walk.”

so you do. he leads you away from the fire, away from the crowd, toward the gravel lot where his truck is. you expect him to say something, yell, maybe. accuse you of something dramatic and delicious. but instead, he spins you around and presses you up against the passenger door.

his hand is still on your arm. the other braces beside your head. his body doesn’t touch yours, not really, but he’s close enough that you can feel the heat off his skin and the tension coiled under it. you blink up at him, wide-eyed and fake-innocent. “is this how you treat all your women, cowboy? dragging them into parking lots and pinning them to cars?”

“no,” he says. “just the ones who know better.”

you gasp softly, it’s almost a laugh. “oh, so now you’re mad?”

he leans in, mouth inches from yours, eyes dark and hungry. “you wore that top on purpose.”

you smirk. “maybe i was hot.”

he looks down, pointedly. “you are. and you know what you’re doin’.”

“do i?”

he exhales sharp through his nose, like he’s trying not to combust. and when he speaks again, his voice is lower. “you really want him to touch you? that what you’re lookin’ for?”

you blink slow and wet your lips. “maybe i just want somebody who actually does it.”

the look on his face shifts just slightly. then he leans in. you think this time it’ll happen, finally, the kiss, the collapse. the moment the game ends. but instead, his lips graze your jaw, not your mouth. his hand dips low, fingers brushing the hem of your shorts like he’s thinking about it.

“you don’t want ‘somebody,’” he whispers. “you want me.” you’re not breathing. he pulls back again, just enough to leave you gasping in the space between what was almost and what still isn’t. “but you’ll have to beg, sweetheart,” he adds, smirking. “and i don’t think you’re ready to do that yet.”

he turns like he’s going to walk away again, like that’s the last word. like he didn’t just light a match and drop it between your legs. but this time, you don’t let him. your hand shoots out fast and grabs his belt loop. he pauses and stills, and slowly, turns his head back toward you.

“you think i won’t?” you ask, voice low and deadly sweet.

he looks down at your hand, still fisted in his jeans like a challenge. then his eyes flick back up to yours—dark, wild, curious. he steps closer, just one step. then another. until he’s right in front of you again, and this time there’s no space. no teasing, no gaps. just you, caught between a truck door and the worst mistake you want to make.

he leans in. both hands come to rest on either side of your head. caging you in and claiming the air between you. “careful now,” he murmurs, voice rough. “you’re not the only one who likes to play.”

and then his knee presses forward, between your legs. you gasp. it’s not subtle, not even a little. he fits it there, deliberate and slow, until your thighs part just enough to make room for the solid weight of him. his thigh is strong and warm. your breath catches and your fingers twitch where they’re tangled in his shirt.

he’s watching your face. watching your mouth, like he’s trying to memorize the exact second you lose composure. but you don’t, you smile. then, slow and wicked, you roll your hips just a little against his thigh—enough to make him grunt, low in his throat, like he wasn’t ready for it. “you started it,” you say, feigning innocence. “don’t get shy now, cowboy.”

he exhales sharp. one of his hands drops and wraps tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him. your shorts ride up. the pressure of his thigh against you gets sharper, filthier, almost unbearable. “you think this is a joke?” he growls.

“no,” you breathe. “i think it’s foreplay.”

his hand tightens. he shifts his thigh just barely upward, grinding it between your legs, and you have to bite your lip to keep the sound in. he leans in, mouth ghosting over your ear. “i could make you come like this,” he says, voice like a sin you want to confess over and over. “right here, against my truck, with nothin’ but my thigh between your legs.”

you shiver, but you smile. “you talk a big game,” you whisper, lips brushing his jaw. “but so far all you’ve done is flex in tight jeans and give me blue balls.”

he lets out a sharp laugh, dangerous. then his hands drop to your hips, grip possessive, and he rolls you against his thigh again. this time harder and filthier. like he wants to see how far you’ll let it go. your knees almost buckle. your head hits the truck window. but your hands are in his hair now, pulling, tugging, dragging his face closer.

and still he doesn’t kiss you. you pant, flushed and desperate and mad as hell. he just smirks. “look at you,” he says. “makin’ a mess on me and i haven’t even touched you proper.”

you glare at him and your lip curls in frustration. “maybe you’re scared.”

he arches a brow. “of what?”

“of me.” you press down hard against his thigh again—your move now, your game—and you feel him tense. feel him curse under his breath like you’ve just won a round he didn’t even know he was playing. you lean in and whisper against his mouth: “i could ruin you.”

he inhales sharp. you swear you hear him mutter fuck. but still, still he doesn’t kiss you. he pulls back, eyes wild, chest rising and falling like he just ran a mile.

and then he steps away. leaves you there. aching and panting. blinking like you just came out of a trance. “one of these days, sweetheart,” he says, adjusting his belt like he needs a minute. “you’re gonna be the one beggin’.”

and then he climbs into the driver’s seat and drives away. you stare after him, thighs trembling, heart racing, and mutter:

“i’m gonna set his truck on fire.”

and jake sim spends the week trying not to think about you. which is stupid, because you’re everywhere. in his sheets, in his hands, in his mouth when he mutters fuck at two in the morning and fists his hair like it’ll shake you out of his head.

he sees you in the curve of a beer bottle. in the red of a stoplight. in the fucking grocery store, standing in front of a watermelon display like you invented sin.

he can’t focus. can’t sleep. can’t work. every time he bends over a fence or climbs into the truck, he hears your voice in his ear: i could ruin you. every time he closes his eyes, he sees your thighs wrapped around his fucking leg. he’s losing it. actually, clinically losing it.

and the worst part is that he let it happen. he swore he wouldn’t. told himself he wasn’t like the rest of them—the boys who lined up for your attention like fools in heat. he used to watch you tease and twist and toy with every man in town and laugh. not because he didn’t get it, because he did. but now he’s just another name on your list. and he hates it.

he’s a grown man. a cowboy, for christ’s sake. he should be immune to lip gloss and flirty banter and skirts short enough to send him to jail. but he’s not. and the worst part is that you know, you know what you’re doing. you know exactly how to stand, how to talk, how to glance up with that little tilt of your head like oops, did i break you again?

and he’s fucking gone. he’s a freak for it. a perv. he thinks about your mouth at church. he imagines your legs wrapped around his waist when he’s driving. he’s so far gone it’s pathetic.

so on thursday, when the thought of you cleaning up at the saloon alone hits him like a truck, he doesn’t fight it. he gets in the truck, drives like the devil’s chasing him. when he gets there, the bar is dark, empty. just the faint sound of clinking glasses and a broom dragging across the floor.

you’re behind the counter. sweaty and tired. loose hair falling around your face. still the hottest thing he’s ever fucking seen.

the door creaks open. you don’t look up. “we’re closed,” you call out, distracted.

then you lift your head, and you pause. your lips part.

his boots hit the floor. he doesn’t say a word. just crosses the room in four heavy steps, reaches for your wrist, and pulls you in like he needs you to breathe. and then— he kisses you.

not sweet. not shy, not teasing. hot, open and filthy.

he groans when your mouth opens under his, when your fingers clutch his shirt like you’ve been waiting for this just as long. his hands are everywhere, your waist, jaw, the small of your back. he kisses like he’s mad about it, like this is a punishment.

your back hits the counter. your teeth knock. a glass falls off. and still, he kisses you like he’s trying to erase the space between you.

he pulls back just enough to speak, breath hot on your cheek. “you win,” he mutters. “is that what you wanna hear?”

you’re panting, flushed. “not yet,” you whisper. “i like my man playing real hard to get,” you whisper, breath ghosting his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to tease.

and that’s the moment he snaps. his hands come up, cup your jaw like he’s trying to memorize it, and he kisses you hard, messy and desperate. and you moan, you can’t help it. he tastes like whiskey and salt and everything you’ve been dreaming about at three in the morning.

his hips press forward, tight against yours, grinding you back into the edge of the counter like he wants to leave a dent in your spine. and you grin against his lips. you reach back blindly, “you gonna keep kissing me like a saint,” you pant, pulling back, “or you gonna bend me over something, cowboy?”

his eyes go dark. “oh, you wanna act like a brat now?” he growls.

you smirk. “what gave it away?”

he grabs you, lifts you right off the floor and sets you down on a table like you weigh nothing. your legs part without hesitation and he steps between them, his hips hard against yours, and his hands gripping your thighs like he’s trying to decide which one he wants to ruin first. “look at you,” he mutters, eyes trailing down your body. “pretty little mouth, dirty little attitude.”

you tilt your head, all fake innocence. “you like it.”

he leans in close, mouth against your ear. “i’m gonna fuckin’ break you.”

your breath vanishes. his fingers trail up your thigh, slow, teasing, maddening. he doesn’t go where you want him, but just next to it, brushing the edges, watching you squirm. “i know what you need,” he murmurs. “you need someone to shut that mouth. teach you some fuckin’ manners.”

you wrap your legs around his waist. “you volunteering?”

he laughs, low and filthy. “baby, i’ve been applying for that job all month.” then he grinds forward, slow and mean, dragging a moan out of you that echoes across the empty bar. you gasp and clutch at his shoulders. he grabs your hips, presses them down, holds you there. “no running now,” he mutters. “you been beggin’ for this.”

you roll your hips up into his. “you liked it.”

he groans, kissing down your neck, biting just enough to make you gasp again. “liked it so much i nearly wrecked my truck thinkin’ about you.” his hand slips under your top. calloused fingers on your skin, rough and reverent all at once. he palms your chest like he’s claiming it. like he’s mad you let anyone else look. you arch into him, moaning. “so impatient,” he teases, voice a growl. “what happened to makin’ me beg, sweetheart?”

“shut up and fuck me.”

he smirks against your throat. “say please.”

you groan, kick your heels against his ass. “cowboy—”

“say it.”

you hiss, then lean in and bite his lip. “please.”

he pulls back just enough to smirk, breath hot against your lips. “please what?” he asks, voice low, gravel rough.

you glare at him, or at least, you try to. but your legs are wrapped around his waist, your hips aching for friction, and his hand is already creeping up your thigh like he’s got nowhere to be but inside you. so you say it, no shame. no power left to pretend. “please, fuck me, jakey.”

he groans loudly, like the words physically hit him. then he mutters something that sounds like jesus fucking christ, and crashes his mouth into yours. and this kiss is different. it is hungry and starving. he grinds against you, slow and hard, pressing you down into the table with the full weight of his body. your shirt rides up. your back arches. the wood creaks underneath like it might give out, and honestly—if it breaks, let it. you’ll thank it for its service.

his hands are everywhere. palming your thighs, squeezing your ass, gripping your waist like he owns it. “look at you,” he rasps, lips trailing down your throat. “fuckin’ dream girl of the county. all these poor bastards lining up for a smile, and here you are—legs open for me.”

you gasp and whimper and dig your nails into his shoulders. he presses his hips harder, grinds right against where you need him most. your head drops back, your moan echoes. “you love this,” he says, panting now. “bein’ up here where anyone could walk in. where anyone could see you gettin’ ruined by me.” you don’t answer, you can’t. “what happened to that bratty mouth, huh?” he growls, dragging his teeth along your jaw. “where’s all that sass now?”

“shut up,” you breathe. “just—please.”

“beggin’ again?” he taunts. “thought you didn’t do that.”

“i’m making an exception.”

he laughs, dark and hot, and grabs your hips tighter, pulling you to the edge of the table. “you should see yourself right now,” he mutters, undoing his belt with one hand. “look so fuckin’ pretty like this. so desperate.”

“you’re the one that came after me.”

“yeah,” he admits, lining himself up, voice breaking a little, “because i’m a goddamn fool for you.”

and then he pulls back. his hand wraps around your jaw, gentle but firm, tilting your face up to look at him. he’s flushed and panting. pupils blown wide. and his voice, when he speaks, is low and dangerous and thick with control he’s barely holding. “get on your knees.”

your heart stops and your grin widens. “you asking or telling me, cowboy?”

he presses his thumb into your cheek, leans down, kisses the corner of your mouth like he’s being nice before doing something awful. “i’m tellin’ you,” he mutters, “be a good girl and make me feel good.”

you blink slow, mouth open, pretending to think about it. “what’s in it for me?”

his hand slips down, fingers wrapping around your throat just enough to make you feel it—not choking, just owning. “my cock in your mouth,” he growls. “and maybe if you do it right, i’ll let you come later.”

your knees buckle, but your pride doesn’t. you hum, all fake sweetness. “guess i could use something to suck on.” you drop to the floor, knees hitting the sticky saloon wood like you belong there. he watches you, chest heaving and jaw tight. trying not to come just from the sight of you looking so cute on your knees for him. you look up at him, eyes wide, lips parted. “you nervous?” you tease.

he barks a laugh. “just waitin’ to see if the mouth that talks so much can finally do something useful.”

you pout. then reach for his belt, slow and dramatic, undoing it like it’s the last gift under a christmas tree. and when his cock springs free, hard, flushed, huge, your mouth waters. you glance up again. “you been thinkin’ about this, haven’t you?”

he hisses as you wrap your hand around him, thumb brushing the tip. “every fuckin’ night,” he admits, voice ragged. “jesus, i’d wake up hard just rememberin’ how you looked struttin’ around in those little shorts behind the bar.”

you stroke him once, twice, slow and sweet. then you lean forward, kiss the tip. just a whisper of a touch. he groans. his hand finds your hair, pulling it already. you drag your tongue along the underside, all the way down, then back up again. he swears, low and filthy. “look at you,” he rasps. “knees on the fuckin’ floor, pretty mouth full of me. you know how many men in this town would give their right hand for this?”

you hum around him. smile with your eyes, because you do know. and you love that it’s you doing this to him. so you take more of him in, then more. until he’s deep in your throat, and he’s gripping the edge of the table so tight you think he might snap it in half. “fuck,” he moans. “that’s it, sweetheart. just like that. takin’ me so fuckin’ good.”

his hips twitch forward. just a little, just enough to make you gag—on purpose, and he loves that. he loves the sound. he loves how messy your mouth is for him. so he starts to move in shallow thrusts. hand in your hair, not rough, but claiming. “you gonna let me come in your mouth, baby?” he groans. “gonna swallow it all, show me how good you are?”

you nod and moan, sucking harder, and that’s it. he gasps, his hips snap forward. his whole body shudders. he comes hard, hot and thick on your tongue, fingers tangled in your hair, voice wrecked. you swallow it all, slowly. wipe the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, like a brat.

you’re still on your knees, lips wet, tongue peeking out in satisfaction like you just finished dessert and might go back for seconds. he looks down at you, utterly wrecked. and then he laughs breathless and disbelieving. “jesus christ,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair like you just short-circuited every last nerve. “you’re gonna kill me.”

you grin, smug as sin. but then he leans down, and his strong arms slide under your shoulders, lifting you like you weigh nothing. you squeal, half-laughing, hands flying to grip his shirt. “hey—!”

“shut up,” he breathes. “my turn.”

he sets you down on the table again, right where you were before. but this time, he doesn’t kiss you yet. doesn’t even touch you. he just steps back, eyes dark and hungry. and says, “spread.”

you blink, chest rising. “what?”

he tilts his head, steps back in, hands firm on your knees. “you heard me, sweetheart. open up. now i’m gonna make you feel good.”

you part your thighs slow, watching his eyes drop, watching his breath hitch. you lean back on your elbows, head tilted, and he glances at the wet mark through your shorts. he drops to his knees, his hands grip your thighs, dragging you to the edge like he’s pulling you into hell with him. he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, slow and reverent, like you’re a prayer and a sin at the same time.

“you wet for me already?” he murmurs, hot breath brushing your core through your shorts.

you nod, breathless. “since you walked in.”

he grins. bites the soft skin just above your knee. “should’ve told me. i’d’ve come sooner.”

he yanks your shorts and panties down fast, like he’s impatient. because he probably is. so then—finally—he licks you. one long, slow stroke that makes your back arch off the table. you gasp. grab the edge and moan his name so soft it sounds like a confession.

and he devours you. not gentle, not slow. just hungry and precise, like he’s got something to prove. his tongue works you open, circles and flicks and drives you fucking wild. he hums when you buck your hips, groans when you moan. his grip on your thighs bruises. his tongue never stops. “so fuckin’ sweet,” he mumbles against you. “no wonder they all wanna taste.”

you whimper. he slides a finger in, then another. crooks them just right. your whole body tightens. your breath catches. “that’s it, baby,” he whispers. “ride my face. let go. give it to me.”

you do. you shatter, legs trembling, back arched, voice gone. you’re gasping his name, tugging his hair, begging him to stop or keep going—you don’t even know. he doesn’t stop. not until your whole body is shaking. not until your thighs twitch and your breathing turns ragged and your hand slaps the table in surrender.

then finally he pulls back with his mouth glistening with you. his smile is wrecked, his eyes wide and wild. he looks up at you like you just handed him the goddamn meaning of life. “holy fuck,” he whispers, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “you came so good for me, angel.”

you try to glare, you really do. but your limbs don’t work. your knees are jelly. your stomach’s still twitching in aftershocks. and then he stands, towering. glowing like he just found religion between your legs. and then he leans down, kisses your jaw, and says—soft and cocky— “think you can take one more?”

your eyes flutter open, you blink at him. “you’re insane.”

he grins and kisses the corner of your mouth. “that ain’t a no.”

you roll your eyes. but you’re already lifting your hips, already turning. and then his hands are on your waist, firm and steady, spinning you around until you’re bent over the table. your cheek presses to the cool wood. your arms stretch forward. “fuck,” you whisper.

he hums behind you, hands sliding up your back, bunching your shirt at your ribs. “look at you,” he mutters. “so goddamn ready. still drippin’ for me.” he leans over you, chest to your back, mouth at your ear. “tell me you want it.”

you inhale shakily. “i want it.”

his hand slides between your thighs. fingers glide through your wetness. “tell me who’s gonna make you come again.”

you gasp. “you are.”

“say my name, sweetheart.”

“you, jakey.”

he groans. lines himself up. and then he pushes in. you gasp, you arch and whimper. his hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping you down, controlling the pace. his hips move slow and deep, dragging a moan out of you every time he bottoms out. “so tight,” he pants. “like you’re fuckin’ made for me.”

you moan his name again, cheek still to the table, one hand reaching back to grab at his wrist. he laughs low and feral. “no runnin’ now,” he growls. “you said you could take one more.”

his thrusts get faster and harder. the table starts to creak. your moans start to sound like pleas. and he’s loving every second. he leans in, bites your shoulder, mutters against your skin, “gonna fuck you so dumb you forget how to sass.” you gasp and grin. you push back against him just to be a brat. he grabs your hips, pulls you back onto him hard. “jesus,” he hisses. “you like this, don’t you? bein’ used like this.”

“i like you like this,” you pant. “all obsessed.”

he grunts, and slaps your ass with a sting that makes your knees wobble. you yelp. and then he laughs, breathless, wicked. “i’m not lettin’ anyone else touch you again,” he mutters, voice cracked open, raw in your ear. his hand comes down to your hip, gripping. “this?” he growls, grinding into you harder, deeper. “this fuckin’ mouth, these thighs, this perfect little pussy— all mine.”

you moan, loud and shameless. he leans in, mouth hot on your neck, and his hand slips around you, fingers finding your clit like they never forgot it. he rubs in tight, fast circles, exactly how your body begs for. “come for me again, baby,” he pants. “show me how fuckin’ pretty you fall apart.”

and you do. you break, and your cry punches through the empty bar, your walls clenching so tight around him it nearly knocks the air from his lungs. your hands scrabble for the edge of the table, your face buried, your voice gone, just moans, sobs, his name like a prayer you can’t stop saying. and then—still shaking, still high on it— you whisper, broken and filthy: “inside. jake. please—come inside.”

he fucking loses it. his hips stutter, his breath catches, his hand grabs your ass roughly. “fuck, baby—” his head drops to your back. his rhythm falters, he’s right there. “you want me to fill you up?” he growls, desperate. “want me leavin’ you dripping with me?”

you nod, frantic. “yes—yes, please—i want it, i want all of it—”

he groans, loud. his thrusts go messy. erratic. wild. “goddamn, you’re gonna ruin me,” he gasps. and then he comes, deep and hard. body shuddering as he spills inside you, hips pressed tight, your name falling from his lips like a sin he’s finally ready to be forgiven for.

his hand stays in your hips. his forehead pressed to your back. both of you panting. shaking. wrecked. and you smile, eyes closed, face against the table, voice barely above a whisper:

“told you you were obsessed.”

he laughs—hoarse, drunk on you—and kisses your spine. “shut up,” he murmurs. “you fuckin’ love it.”

after, at your place, after he wrecked you in every possible way, you watch him fall asleep beside you, arm slung across your waits like he is still trying to stake a claim. cowboy hat on the floor. love bite on his throat. your lipstick on his chest.

you smile to yourself. “i like my men playing hard to get,” you whisper.

lucky for you, he never stood a chance.

author’s note: soooo i saw this edit of jake in full cowboy mode and lost every functioning brain cell i had left. then i watched manchild by sabrina carpenter and went wait what if… so this fic accidentally became the most porn-with-plot thing i’ve ever written. but i regret nothing. cowboy jake has a chokehold on me and the saloon girl in my brain wouldn’t shut up until he was wrecked and begging. anyway, yee-fucking-haw 🤠

my masterlist // perma taglist: @rairaiblog @nqdirr @iyoonjh @saeris-world @jayparked @solonenova

© all rights reserved @/heejamas — do not repost, copy, translate, or modify my works without explicit permission. these are works of fiction and are not meant to represent real-life actions, thoughts, or personalities of any public figures

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pucksandpower · 2 months ago

Text

Engaged-ish

Lando Norris x Grand Duchess!Reader

Summary: in which an obscure Luxembourgish tradition leads to a proposal … sort of

The paddock buzzes like a beehive, sun-drenched and shimmering with the scent of gasoline, sunscreen, and expensive cologne. Cameras flash. People talk in clipped, purposeful voices. Somewhere, an engine snarls awake.

And then — chaos.

Well, not chaos exactly. More like a whoosh, followed by a yelp.

“Oi! Shit! Watch out!”

A blur of black and orange comes flying down the narrow stretch between team garages. Lando Norris, crouched low on a scooter like a gremlin on wheels, is laughing before he slams into something soft and solid.

There’s a crunch of expensive heels.

A thud.

A gasp.

And then-

“Oh my God. Ohmygodohmygod.” Lando’s already halfway off the scooter, scrambling to his feet with hands out like he can rewind time by sheer panic. “Are you — are you okay? I didn’t — I mean, it’s not like, that fast, right? It’s — okay, yeah, no, you’re very much on the ground, cool cool cool-”

You’re lying there, halfway on your side, propped up by one elbow, blinking. Your oversized sunglasses are askew. One of your heels has flown halfway under a stack of Pirellis.

And the guy looming above you is grinning like he’s not sure if he should laugh or throw himself into the Mediterranean out of shame.

"Hi," he says. "Sorry for, uh. Running you over."

You tilt your head, still stunned. “Are you seriously racing a scooter through the paddock?”

“It’s not racing if no one’s timing it,” Lando says brightly, offering you a hand. “… But yes. And that was reckless. And stupid. And really fun. But mostly stupid.”

You stare at his hand. His cap’s pushed up on his head, curly hair spilling out in sweaty tangles. His eyes are impossibly bright. He looks like he just crash-landed from a cartoon.

You take his hand.

He pulls you up with an exaggerated grunt. “Wow. Okay. You’re stronger than you look.”

“You’re more of a menace than you look.”

He grins. "Thank you. Wait, was that a compliment?"

“Not even remotely.”

You dust yourself off, lifting your sunglasses onto your head. Lando watches, then lets out a short laugh.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“You’re — yeah, wow, okay. You’re very pretty. Like, really pretty. You’re probably important, huh?”

You narrow your eyes.

“Are you asking if I’m important because I’m pretty?”

“No! No no no,” he says, horrified. “God, no. I mean — you look like the kind of person who has a security detail and a Wikipedia page. Which is not the only reason you’re important. It’s just … I feel like I’m gonna get sued.”

You smirk. “You might.”

He’s staring at you like you just told him he ran over Taylor Swift.

“Okay. What’s your name? I’ll write you a very panicked apology letter. Maybe flowers? Wait, do you even like flowers? Maybe chocolate. Wait — nut allergy?”

You blink. “Are you always like this?”

He considers that. “Yeah. But sometimes I tone it down for the elderly or if I’m at a funeral.”

You should be irritated. You’re not. Somehow, all this flailing panic is … disarming. He’s like a golden retriever who just knocked over a vase and is now waiting to see if you’ll still pet him.

“I’m Y/N,” you say finally.

“Y/N,” he repeats. “That’s a lovely name.”

“And you are Lando Norris.”

He pauses. “… So you do know who I am. That feels unfair.”

“You ran me over.”

“Right. Nevermind.”

You retrieve your shoe from under the tires with a little sigh. He watches you with a sort of guilty awe. Like he can’t quite believe he survived the collision.

Then, after a beat, “You here for the race?”

You arch a brow. “What gave it away?”

“Could be the Monaco sun,” he says, walking backward beside you now. “But also the outfit. You look too … elegant to be someone’s PR handler. You’re not a driver’s girlfriend either, or I’d have seen you on Insta by now.”

You snort. “What a deduction.”

“I know, right? Sherlock Norris. So … what do you do?”

You stop walking. He stops too. Tilts his head.

You smile. “I would tell you …”

“Oh, you would?” He says, eyebrows bouncing.

“-but I think I want to see if you can guess my job correctly.”

He grins. “Love a challenge.”

You lean in slightly, like you’re sharing a secret. “You only get one guess.”

“Only one?”

“One.”

“Okay, okay. No pressure.” He pinches the bridge of his nose like it’ll help summon divine clarity. “Let’s see. You’re well-dressed, clearly clever, somehow not screaming at me despite the vehicular assault … so you’re either incredibly powerful or completely unbothered by earthly consequences.”

“Very astute.”

He squints. “You’re … a fashion CEO.”

You blink. “That’s your guess?”

He nods, proud. “Big time. Like, quietly running a billion-euro empire from a Parisian penthouse. You look like you boss people around in three languages.”

You purse your lips. “Close.”

“Seriously?”

“No. Not even remotely.”

He looks personally offended. “Okay, then who are you?”

You just start walking again.

“Oh, come on! That’s mean,” he whines, trailing after you. “I guessed. You said I get to know!”

“No,” you say over your shoulder. “I said I want to hear if you can guess it. You didn’t.”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Is this what heartbreak feels like? Are you — are you a spy? A secret agent? Do you know Daniel Craig? Please tell me you’re MI6.”

You’re laughing now, which only makes him more dramatic.

“Oh, you’re loving this,” he accuses. “You’re totally enjoying watching me flail.”

“You flail very naturally.”

“Thank you — wait, no. That’s not a compliment.”

“Isn’t it?”

He squints suspiciously. “You’ve got the same energy as my trainer when he says I’m doing a good job but makes the workouts harder.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Okay, mysterious beautiful stranger who may or may not be royalty-”

You freeze for a split second.

He catches it.

“Oh my God,” he says slowly. “Wait. Wait. Are you actually — wait. Like, real royalty? Is that — no. That’s not a thing. That’s a thing in Netflix movies.”

You raise a brow.

“Oh shit,” he whispers.

You don’t confirm. Don’t deny.

He stares at you like you just turned into a unicorn. “I ran over a princess.”

You tilt your head. “Technically, Grand Duchess. Hereditary Grand Duchess, if we’re being precise.”

He’s silent.

For about three whole seconds.

Then, “I’m going to jail.”

You burst out laughing.

“No, seriously,” he says, mouth falling open. “That’s like treason? Assault on a noble? Is that a law? Is there a dungeon? Oh my god-”

You reach for his sleeve, tug it gently. “Relax. You’re not going to prison.”

“But I could be,” he says, stunned. “You’re actual royalty. I think I saw you once, like a year ago! You were on the cover of Vogue or something-”

You glance sideways. “So you have seen me before.”

“I thought you looked familiar! But I just assumed I’d dreamed you.”

You roll your eyes.

He stares at you for another second, then breaks into a wide, sheepish grin. “This is insane.”

“You’re telling me.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “So … you coming to the motorhome, Your Highness?”

You pretend to consider it. “Only if you stop calling me that.”

“Deal,” he says immediately. “But I’m still going to make you guess what my job is, just to even the playing field.”

You glance at his McLaren shirt. “You sell scooters.”

He gasps. “Correct. Wow. Nailed it in one.”

You both laugh.

***

The McLaren motorhome hums with life, all sharp lines and bright orange accents, but it feels like a bubble. A refuge tucked between the chaos of the paddock and the roaring engines beyond. You follow Lando inside, still unsure how you got here — still vaguely amused that he hasn’t stopped talking since the crash.

“You know, I don’t normally just run over people,” he says, leading you past a security guy who gives you both a baffled look. “You’re actually my first. Well. That I know of. I might’ve clipped a Ferrari engineer once, but he was dramatic about it and threw a clipboard.”

You smile, trailing after him. “Is this your version of flirting?”

“Oh no, no, this is panic,” he says quickly. “My flirting is marginally smoother.”

“Marginally.”

“On a good day.”

The motorhome is bustling. Engineers tap away on laptops. There’s a spread of snacks someone’s half-raided. You notice a few people double-taking as they see you walk in, but no one says anything. It’s like they’re used to Lando bringing in strays.

“Do they always stare like that?” You ask under your breath.

He glances around. “What, that? Nah. That’s just them wondering if you’re a Netflix producer, or my cousin, or a very lost model.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so annoyingly casual about this.”

“It’s my greatest skill,” he says proudly, then spins around suddenly. “Wait … here.”

He pulls off his McLaren cap and steps forward, holding it out to you. “Sun’s brutal today. You’ll need this if you’re hanging out here.”

You blink at the hat in his hand. “You’re giving me your hat?”

“Lending it,” he corrects, but he’s already stepping closer.

And then — without really thinking — he lifts it over your head and places it gently on top of your hair, adjusting it with exaggerated care.

“There,” he says, grinning. “Now you look fast.”

You snort. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to,” he says. “You feel fast.”

You adjust the cap slightly, not thinking much of it. It’s warm from his head. Smells faintly like his shampoo and sun.

And somewhere across the paddock, at least four camera lenses catch it. The exact moment Lando Norris — a nonchalant, grinning mess of curls and chaotic charm — places his own hat gently on your head with all the care of someone proposing a life together.

Of course, neither of you notices.

“You look good in papaya,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

You raise an eyebrow. “You just like seeing people wear your merch.”

“True,” he admits. “It’s excellent branding.”

There’s a pause, and then you both start laughing at the same time. Loud and open, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Somewhere in the background, a McLaren comms staffer walks by, glancing between the two of you and immediately pulling out her phone.

“Right,” Lando says, flopping onto the couch and patting the space next to him. “Come on. Sit. Tell me everything.”

You lower yourself carefully onto the cushion, still unsure how your diplomatic morning turned into … whatever this is. “Everything?”

“Everything. Like what’s your actual day-to-day like? Are you doing royal things all the time? Are there, like, scrolls? Do you own a sceptre?”

“No scrolls,” you say. “And sadly, no sceptre. But I’m working on it.”

He nods solemnly. “You deserve a sceptre.”

“Thank you.”

“But seriously. Do you have meetings with … I don’t know, other royals? Do you sit in a big room and talk about treaties and wear sashes?”

You laugh. “Sometimes. Though most of my meetings are just government-adjacent. I do a lot of international work. Cultural diplomacy. Economic initiatives. Tourism stuff.”

“So … not just tea parties and ribbon cutting?”

“Shockingly, no.”

He whistles. “That actually sounds important.”

“It is.”

“And exhausting.”

You tilt your head. “It can be. There’s pressure. Constantly being watched. Expectations. Every gesture means something.”

He raises a brow. “Even hats?”

You don’t even flinch.

But internally, you do hesitate. The old Luxembourgish tradition flashes through your mind — one your grandmother once explained with a warm smile and a twinkle in her eye.

“If a man offers you something of his, something worn, something marked by him — especially a hat — and places it on your head, it means he offers you protection. Partnership. In the old days, it was a proposal before a proposal.”

You remember laughing at the time. It was quaint. Archaic. Romantic, in a way that felt more myth than law.

You doubt Lando Norris is aware of any of that.

You watch him now — grinning at a text, tossing his phone aside, still slouched like he owns the whole motorhome — and decide not to mention it.

“It’s just a hat,” you say lightly.

He nods. “Right? Totally normal. Generous, even.”

“Deeply generous,” you echo, smiling.

You both fall quiet for a moment. It’s not awkward. It’s … easy.

Then he turns to you again.

“So do you get bored of it?” He asks.

You blink. “Of what?”

“Being important. Being watched. Being … not normal.”

That one hits.

You lean back, letting your gaze drift to the window. “Sometimes. It’s hard to know if people are being real with me. If they want something, or if they’re just pretending they don’t know who I am. Or worse, pretending they do.”

He nods, slower now. “Yeah. I get that. A bit.”

You glance over at him.

“Okay, not the royal part,” he adds. “But … being public. Being expected to be on all the time. It’s weird, right? Like, people think they know you. Like they’ve already decided who you are before you say anything.”

You watch his face as he says it. There’s a moment of real honesty there, flickering between his words.

And you realize he’s not as clueless as he seems.

“I like this,” you say softly.

He looks up. “This?”

“This. Just talking. Not performing.”

He smiles, slower this time. “Me too.”

Someone calls his name from across the motorhome, but he doesn’t look away.

You pick up a packet of cookies from the coffee table, toss it into his lap. “Tell me more about crashing into other people. I want to know how many lawsuits you’re juggling.”

He laughs. “Okay, so once in Silverstone, I clipped George Russell with a golf cart. He insists I did it on purpose, but I maintain it was sabotage from Mercedes.”

You lean in, smiling. “Tell me everything.”

And so he does.

He talks with his hands, dramatic and unfiltered. He tells stories that make you laugh until you’re clutching your stomach. He impersonates Daniel Ricciardo. He makes fun of himself, of the team, of the absurdity of fame. You don’t realize how much time has passed until the room starts to empty.

You glance at the clock and blink. “It’s been two hours.”

“No way.”

You both look around. People are filtering out. The buzz of the paddock is louder now, the day slipping past you like sand through your fingers.

You reach up to adjust the hat again, and Lando watches, biting back a smile.

“You’re really keeping that, huh?”

You shrug. “Finders keepers.”

“I knew it,” he says. “You just came here for the merch.”

“I’m royalty,” you reply. “I came here for the drama and the free stuff.”

He clutches his heart. “A woman after my own heart.”

You hear a few more shutter clicks outside — photographers catching shots through the motorhome windows, lenses like little eyes peering in. Lando doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he’s used to it.

You should care more. Maybe you do, somewhere deep down.

But right now? In this moment?

You don’t.

You’re wearing his hat, and he’s laughing like he’s never had more fun in his life. And you’re just … two people on a couch, pretending the world outside doesn’t exist.

Later, you’ll both hear about the photos. About the symbolism. The headlines in Luxembourgish tabloids translating your laughter into lovers’ whispers, the cap into a silent vow.

But for now, you just look at him and smile.

And he smiles back.

***

It starts early.

Too early for a Sunday race day.

Lando is still half-asleep, blinking against the pale Monte Carlo morning light slicing through the curtains, when his phone explodes.

First it’s the buzz. Then the buzzbuzzbuzz. Then the ping, ping, ping of messages stacking up like a digital avalanche.

He groans, rolls over, tries to bury himself under the pillow. No use. Whatever this is, it’s not going away.

And then-

Cabrón. WHAT have you done?

Carlos is the first one in the group chat. With a screenshot.

Lando squints blearily at it. All caps. Tabloid headline.

A blurry photo from yesterday.

It’s you. Wearing his McLaren cap. Laughing. The moment he placed it on your head captured in too-crisp detail.

And the headline-

HEREDITARY GRAND DUCHESS OF LUXEMBOURG ENGAGED TO FORMULA 1 STAR LANDO NORRIS IN SECRET MONACO CEREMONY?

He blinks again.

“…What the fu-”

Another buzz.

ZAK BROWN: Call me. Now.

ANDREA STELLA: This is not funny. We are in Monaco. Please, for once, use your head.

GEORGE: Lando. Mate. Explain the royal engagement.

MUM: We need to talk ❤️

He stares at the screen like it might bite him.

The Grand Duchess part doesn’t even register at first. He scrolls through more links, more headlines, all variations of the same fever dream.

Symbolic proposal shocks royal observers in Monaco GP paddock.

Royal family confirms no comment

McLaren’s Lando Norris in relationship with Luxembourg’s future monarch?

He mutters, “What the — what is happening?”

Carlos sends another message.

CARLOS: This is the best thing that’s ever happened. Can I be your maid of honor?

CARLOS: Wait. Groomsman. Unless you're planning to wear the dress, then honestly I support it.

Lando doesn’t even have the energy to reply.

He swings out of bed, throws on a hoodie, and starts pacing. The cap. The hat. Was it really that big of a deal?

He offered it because she looked a little sun-blind. He thought it’d be cute. A gesture. Flirty. A laugh.

Not an international incident.

There’s a knock on his apartment door.

He opens it.

Zak stands there with the energy of someone who’s been yelling into a phone for two hours straight. Andrea is behind him, looking like he aged ten years overnight.

“You’re trending,” Zak says without preamble. “Not for winning. Not for pole. Not even for crashing. You’re trending because apparently you’re about to marry into a monarchy.”

“I didn’t — what — no,” Lando says, holding his hands up. “I gave her a hat!”

“An engagement hat!” Carlos shouts from inside the apartment, because of course Carlos has let himself in somehow. “The most sacred of all hats!”

Lando glares. “You’re not helping.”

Andrea pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you understand the implications of this, Lando?”

“No! Because it’s insane!”

Zak exhales. “There are diplomatic rumors flying. Press camped outside the motorhome. Questions coming in from Luxembourg’s government channels.”

Lando looks helpless. “But I didn’t do anything.”

Carlos, now lying fully horizontal on Lando’s bed, grins. “You proposed. With headwear.”

“I hate all of you.”

Carlos lifts a hand. “It’s what we do.”

***

By the time Lando makes it to the paddock, he’s wearing sunglasses and a hoodie pulled up like a man on the run.

He gets stopped four times before reaching the McLaren motorhome.

One PR officer actually bows at him, just to be a menace.

Oscar gives him a slow, impressed once-over and just says, “Your Royal Highness,” with a mocking nod before walking away.

He’s never living this down.

The only thing he wants is to find you.

And, as if summoned by the strength of pure panic, there you are. Standing just outside the McLaren garage, mid-conversation with someone from Alpine, sipping from a bottle of water like you own the place. Your hair is tucked into a sleek ponytail. The sun makes your earrings glint.

Lando jogs up to you, breathless.

“Hey! Hey, hi, um, hi.”

You turn, startled. “Good morning.”

“Not really,” he says, lifting his glasses. “What the hell is going on?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“The cap. The hat. The one I put on your head yesterday? Apparently that means I proposed to you. The tabloids are going crazy. Everyone thinks we’re engaged. My mum texted me.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Wait, seriously?”

He pulls out his phone, flicks through the headlines, and shoves it toward you.

You squint at one. “‘Royal Love Blooms on the Grid?’” You snort. “‘Luxembourg’s Heartthrob Duchess Swept Off Her Feet by McLaren Maverick?’”

Lando’s voice pitches up. “Swept off her feet! I literally ran into you with a scooter!”

You start laughing. Not a polite laugh. A full-body, unbothered laugh. Like this is all the most normal thing in the world.

He stares. “Why are you laughing?”

You wipe a tear from under your eye. “Because this is nothing. You should’ve seen the time they said I was secretly dating a Swiss banker who turned out to be my second cousin.”

He pauses. “… What?”

“Or the time they decided I’d renounced the throne to become a goat farmer in Liechtenstein.”

He blinks. “Okay, that one’s kind of iconic.”

You give him a shrug. “This is what happens when you’re born into a monarchy and dare to show emotions in public.”

He stares at you. “You’re telling me you’re fine with this?”

“I think it’s hilarious.”

“Hilarious? They called me your future consort.”

“Are you not?” You ask innocently, sipping your water.

He splutters. “What-”

You grin. “I’m kidding.”

You’re very not kidding. Not in the way that matters.

Because watching him panic like this — watching him trail after you with his hoodie strings bouncing and his voice pitching up with every breath — it’s … oddly sweet.

He cares. Not just about the press. About you. About how this reflects on you. That matters.

You reach over and tug gently at his hood to straighten it. “Relax. The headlines will change by tomorrow.”

“You really think that?”

“No,” you admit. “But that’s what I tell myself when I’m spiraling.”

He laughs despite himself. “You’re way too chill about this.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“You’re literally a royal and you’re less stressed than me.”

“That’s because I’ve had years of training in pretending I’m not screaming inside.”

Lando looks at you. Really looks at you.

There’s this flicker of something in his chest. Admiration. Confusion. Something just slightly more than fondness.

He exhales. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So are you.”

“I didn’t mean to propose to you.”

“Shame,” you say casually, and walk away before he can respond.

He stands there, stunned, as Carlos passes behind him, humming “Here Comes the Bride.”

***

Back in the McLaren motorhome, the chaos continues.

The PR team is in damage control mode. Zak is pacing with a headset. Andrea has three newspapers folded under his arm and an expression that could melt titanium.

But Lando?

Lando is leaning on the windowsill, watching you from across the way as you chat with someone from Mercedes.

Still wearing his cap. Still laughing like you haven’t just caused a minor diplomatic crisis.

And for some reason … he’s not mad.

He just grins, taps the glass once, and mutters, “Yeah, this is totally fine.”

Absolutely fine.

Nothing is on fire. Nothing at all.

***

You know something’s wrong when Martine shows up.

Martine only shows up when things are very wrong. Like, international-incident-meets-centuries-old-protocol wrong. She’s your primary handler, which is a polite way of saying she’s the one who stops you from accidentally tanking Luxembourg’s economy with a bad outfit choice.

You spot her across the paddock: sharp black blazer, sunglasses that mean business, marching toward the McLaren motorhome with the speed and grace of a small, determined missile.

“Oh, no,” you mutter.

Lando, sitting on a folding chair next to you with his helmet in his lap, glances up. “What?”

You nod in Martine’s direction. “That.”

He follows your gaze and immediately winces. “Oh no.”

“She’s here to kill me.”

“She’s probably here to kill me,” he says, standing up like a man preparing to face execution.

Martine stops two feet away, does not greet you. Does not smile. Just removes her sunglasses and levels the two of you with the look she usually reserves for scandalous budget overspending or cousins dating minor celebrities.

She speaks in a voice so tight it might shatter glass. “Well, I hope you’re both having fun.”

You open your mouth to respond, but she holds up a hand. “No. Stop. Don’t speak yet. We’re in crisis mode.”

“Isn’t that a little dramatic?” Lando offers, with a hopeful grin.

Martine turns to him so slowly it’s almost operatic. “Mister Norris, the Luxembourgish Parliament has just issued a formal declaration of congratulations on your engagement. Your faces are on the front page of every major paper from here to Berlin. People Magazine referred to you as the ‘millennial fairytale.’ And — just to really put a cherry on top — your Instagram post from two days ago has now been recirculated as a ‘subtle announcement.’”

Lando swallows. “That post was about McNuggets.”

“Yes,” Martine says. “And you hashtagged it #lovemylife. So now the press thinks the nuggets were metaphorical.”

You press a hand to your face. “Okay. That one’s kind of on you.”

Martine whirls on you next. “Do you understand the implications of this? Because this is not just a PR disaster. This is a constitutional event. We cannot simply say it was a misunderstanding.”

“Why not?” Lando asks, hands outstretched. “Can’t we just say it was, like, a joke? A mix-up? A funny cultural thing?”

Martine takes a deep breath, as if preparing to deliver a death sentence.

“Because,” she says carefully, “in Luxembourgish law, once a declaration has been acknowledged by Parliament and received no formal objection from the heir apparent within the hour, it becomes a matter of record.”

Lando stares. “What does that mean?”

You sigh. “It means … it’s official. As far as the government’s concerned, we’re engaged.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence. And then Lando says, very quietly, “Oh, my god.”

Martine nods grimly. “Oh, your god, indeed.”

“I didn’t even do anything!” He protests. “I gave her a hat!”

Martine’s eyes narrow. “Which, in Luxembourg, is equivalent to a pre-marital vow of intent.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“It’s ancient tradition!”

Lando throws his hands in the air. “Well maybe someone should’ve written a pamphlet! ‘Hey, welcome to Luxembourg, don’t give royal women hats!’”

“I should have known,” you say, mostly to yourself. “I knew the hat was going to be a problem.”

Martine exhales and pinches the bridge of her nose. “There is a press conference in two hours. The Grand Duke has already spoken to French media.”

You freeze. “Wait. My father knows?”

Martine shoots you a look. “Knows? He’s celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

“His exact words,” she says, pulling out her phone and reading from a very official-sounding email, “‘I have always dreamed of a son-in-law who drives fast and talks nonsense. This is perfect.’”

Lando, completely bewildered, points at himself. “Is that a compliment?”

You look at him. “Honestly? I think it is.”

Martine puts the phone away. “You both need to keep this under control. Just for a few days. Until the press dies down.”

Lando’s face scrunches. “Wait. Waitwaitwait. Are you saying we have to pretend to be engaged?”

Martine nods once. “Exactly.”

“Temporarily?” You ask.

“For now,” she says. “But you will both need to act engaged. Convincingly. That means appearances. Smiles. Coordination. Possibly an interview.”

Lando looks like he’s going to be sick. “Interview?!”

“Oh, you’re absolutely doing the interview,” Martine says.

You blink slowly. “So … just to clarify. Our options are either to lie to the international press and pretend to be planning a royal wedding or risk sparking a diplomatic conflict between my country and the rest of the European Union?”

Martine smiles grimly. “Correct.”

Lando leans against the nearest wall. “This is a nightmare.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Could be worse.”

“How?”

You grin. “You could’ve actually proposed.”

He groans. “I’m never giving anyone a hat ever again.”

***

The rest of the morning is a blur.

Your phone doesn’t stop buzzing. Everyone from Monaco’s royal family to your mother’s childhood piano teacher is reaching out.

Lando’s friends have renamed their group chat “THE ROYAL CONSORTS.”

Carlos sends a meme of Meghan Markle waving from a balcony, photoshopped with Lando’s face. Lando throws his phone across the room.

Everywhere you walk in the paddock, people are staring, whispering, smiling in that way that means they think they know.

Lando sticks to your side like a man attached by invisible glue.

“This is surreal,” he mutters, not for the first time. “You’re just … fine with this?”

You glance at him. “I’ve been fake-smiling through political dinners since I was ten. This is honestly one of the less stressful things I’ve had to fake.”

He eyes you. “That’s kind of impressive.”

You shrug. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s insane. But it’s also temporary. We do a few appearances, wear some coordinated outfits, and smile for the cameras.”

He groans. “Do I have to wear a sash?”

“Only if you want bonus points.”

He considers. “Does it come in papaya?”

You grin. “Now you’re thinking like a royal.”

He glances sideways at you. “You really think we can pull this off?”

“I think,” you say slowly, “we have no choice. But yeah. We can do it.”

There’s something unspoken between you in that moment. Some flicker of understanding. And maybe a spark of something else.

***

By the time you arrive at the media scrum, the photographers are already in position. Flashes pop. Lenses aim.

You loop your arm through Lando’s, and he looks down like you’ve just handed him a live grenade.

“What do I do?” He mutters.

“Smile,” you whisper back. “And look like you’re wildly in love.”

He takes a breath, then smiles so wide it almost hurts to look at. A little crooked. A little chaotic.

It’s perfect.

He leans toward you. “Like this?”

You nod. “Exactly like that.”

The cameras love it. Shutters go wild. A symphony of clicks.

Someone shouts, “Any wedding date yet?”

Lando opens his mouth to panic.

You answer smoothly, “We’re just enjoying the moment.”

“Have you met each other’s families?”

Lando again looks like he might choke. You reply, “They’re … very supportive.”

“How did the proposal happen?”

Lando starts to laugh, helplessly.

You answer, “It was spontaneous.”

And that’s how the day goes.

Flash after flash. Smile after smile.

And through it all, Lando — your accidental fiancé, your completely overwhelmed co-conspirator — stays right beside you, fingers brushing yours, as if anchoring himself to reality.

You don’t know what’s coming next.

You don’t know how long you’ll have to keep this up.

But when Lando looks at you with that half-panicked, half-awed grin — like he still can’t believe this is happening — you just smile back.

Because somehow, against all odds this royal disaster? Feels a lot like fate.

***

The Grand Prix is over, the champagne has dried, and the press has moved on to whatever other scandal is brewing in the glittering circus of Monaco. And yet … you stay.

You’re supposed to leave, technically. There’s a return flight booked under your name, a motorcade on standby, and a color-coded itinerary that includes words like “debrief” and “post-engagement optics strategy.” But instead of heading back to Luxembourg, you text Martine something vague about needing to monitor the situation on the ground.

She doesn’t push. She never pushes when you use diplomatic language like that.

And so, you stay — in the sunshine, in the noise, in the afterglow of whatever chaos you and Lando have created.

And Lando? Well. Lando leans in. Hard.

It starts with a bouquet. You think it’s from some Monegasque diplomat until you read the note.

For my one true duchess. Long may she reign.

- Your Devoted Fiancé™

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.

The next morning, there’s a box of chocolates left on the doorstep of your borrowed suite. Heart-shaped.

The note reads: May these sweets bring you half the joy your smile brings me.

- His Royal Himbo-ness

Then come the messages.

LANDO: Milady, I beseech thee … may I take thee to breakfast?

YOU: Only if thou bringest me hashbrowns.

LANDO: I would brave dragons and tyre degradation for thee.

YOU: Good, because I just saw you stall your scooter outside my hotel.

It’s ridiculous. It’s also … weirdly fun.

You keep telling yourself it’s fake, that it has to be fake. A temporary performance to appease international dignitaries and excitable royal fathers with a love for motorsport.

But then one afternoon, you find Lando outside your hotel with a paper crown from Burger King and a daisy between his teeth.

He bows. “Milady. Thy noble steed awaiteth.”

You snort. “You’re riding an electric scooter.”

“And she runneth on pure love.”

He offers his hand, like you’re a princess in a storybook.

You take it.

***

It’s only when you’re not performing — when the flowers are left without a camera flash or you’re laughing in a hallway while ducking behind a vending machine — that Lando starts to notice it.

The quiet moments.

The way your smile sometimes fades the second people look away. The way you’re constantly being trailed by someone in a blazer holding a tablet. The way your phone buzzes and you flinch like it might explode.

It hits him hardest at the hotel bar.

You’re sitting across from him in some ridiculous formal dress, sipping water like it’s wine because the event is too long and you’re too tired, and someone behind you says, “She doesn’t even look that royal.”

You hear it. He knows you hear it. But you don’t flinch. You just smile, poised and polite, and excuse yourself a moment later. You come back three minutes later, smile reset, posture perfect.

He watches the entire transformation with his stomach twisting into a knot.

“You alright?” He asks gently, when the crowds have thinned.

You glance over. “Of course.”

And he doesn’t push. But something in his chest tugs.

***

The idea comes to him in a flash.

“Hey,” he says the next night, casually leaning against the doorframe of your hotel suite. “Wanna ditch this disaster and do something stupid?”

You arch a brow. “Define stupid.”

“Burgers. Reality TV. My place.”

You blink.

“No press, no handlers. Just us. A comfy couch and some bad choices.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he says. “I just thought maybe … you might want to feel normal for a bit.”

You don’t answer right away.

Because it’s absurd. It’s reckless. You have a state dinner in forty-five minutes and there are actual diplomats waiting downstairs to make small talk about Luxembourg’s agricultural exports.

But then you look at him — hopeful, earnest, wearing a hoodie that says “QDRNT” and socks that do not match — and you think screw it.

You shut the door behind you.

“Let’s go.”

***

He smuggles you out the back through the hotel kitchens.

“You’ve done this before,” you note, as he expertly navigates a series of corridors.

“Absolutely,” he says. “I once snuck out past curfew during a sponsor dinner to get tacos with Max.”

“And how’d that end?”

“In a minor fire.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

He just grins.

Ten minutes later, you’re sitting in his apartment — barefoot, legs tucked under yourself on the couch, a paper bag of burgers between you.

“You know,” you say, unwrapping one of them, “if this gets leaked to the press, they’re going to think you’re a bad influence.”

He takes a dramatic bite. “Milady, wouldst thou accept this humble offering of ketchup and meat?”

You snort, almost choking on your fries. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you remain seated.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue.

He clicks on the TV and scrolls to a show that looks suspiciously like Love Island, then leans back and stretches his arms behind his head like it’s the most relaxing evening of his life.

“Do you do this a lot?” You ask.

“What, seduce royalty over fast food?”

“No,” you laugh. “Just … be this normal.”

He shrugs. “Normal’s relative, innit? I mean, yeah. When I can. When people let me.”

You nod slowly. “Must be nice.”

He turns to look at you. “You really don’t get much of that, huh?”

You take a sip of soda. “Not unless it’s scripted. Or has a purpose. Even this … it’s not real.”

He shifts on the couch, voice quieter. “It feels real.”

You glance over at him, something flickering behind your eyes. “It does, doesn’t it?”

There’s a long beat. The show drones in the background — someone screaming about being “mugged off” and crying in a hot tub.

And then he says, softly, “Can I ask you something?”

You nod.

“What would you be doing right now if you weren’t, y’know, you? The royal stuff, I mean.”

You pause.

“Sleeping,” you say finally. “Without a schedule. Without worrying if my resting face looks too detached in photographs.”

He smiles, a little sadly. “You’re good at it. The pretending.”

“Too good,” you murmur. “It’s like muscle memory.”

He nods, thoughtful.

Then, in a whisper like a secret:, “I wish I could give you more of this.”

You turn to him fully. “More burgers?”

“More normal,” he says. “More space to just … be. Laugh. Eat crap food and wear ugly pajamas and not have to explain yourself to anyone.”

Something in your chest squeezes.

You don’t say anything.

Instead, you lean over, take a fry from his tray, and say, “You talk too much.”

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Didn’t mean to-”

“I like it,” you interrupt.

He blinks.

You nod toward the screen. “Shut up and watch trash TV with me.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

He salutes. You hit him with a pillow.

He yelps, dramatically falling sideways onto the couch like you’ve slain him. “Oh no! The duchess has betrayed me!”

You’re laughing now, full-bodied and unfiltered, and Lando watches you like he’s discovered something sacred.

And in that ridiculously expensive Monaco apartment — over lukewarm burgers and cheap television — something real clicks into place.

Something neither of you says out loud. Yet.

***

There’s something wildly disorienting about pretending to be engaged while boarding a private jet with your not-actually-fiancé and his team. Everyone’s in branded hoodies, backpacks slung low, and you are wearing sunglasses too big for your face and eating gummy bears out of Lando’s hand.

It shouldn’t feel this easy. But it does.

Lando slouches into the seat beside you, nudging your knee with his. “You ready to charm the entire paddock again?”

You grin, biting off a red bear. “As long as you don’t run me over with a scooter this time.”

He chuckles. “I make no promises.”

The entire team is still buzzing about Monaco, and Lando’s riding the wave like he was born for it. Every time someone asks about “the duchess,” he beams, slings an arm around you like it’s instinct, and says something utterly absurd like, “She saved me from a life of bachelor mediocrity.”

You elbow him every time. He doesn’t stop.

When you land, everything’s familiar but shinier. More photographers. More interest. More rumors. The press is obsessed, still pushing out think pieces dissecting your “engagement,” articles titled How Luxembourg’s Royal Match Might Save McLaren’s PR Season and Love, Speed, and Statecraft: A Modern Fairytale?

You try not to read them. You try not to notice that people are beginning to look at you and Lando like something real is happening.

But the problem is … it’s starting to feel real.

Especially when he FaceTimes his mother from the garage and yells, “Mum! Look who I’ve got!”

You barely have time to blink before a kind, curious woman appears onscreen, waving excitedly. “Oh, she’s gorgeous! Hello, sweetheart!”

“Hi,” you laugh, suddenly weirdly nervous. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Don’t let him get away with anything,” she says warmly. “He’s always been a cheeky one.”

“Mum,” Lando whines, red in the ears.

You smile. “I’ll keep him in line. Royal decree.”

His mum howls with laughter. “Oh, I like her.”

After the call ends, Lando’s quiet for a second, just watching you like he’s never seen you before.

“What?” You ask.

He shrugs, softly. “Nothing. Just … you’re good with my family.”

You nudge his shoulder. “And you brought a duchess to meet your mum over FaceTime in a dirty motorhome. What a catch.”

He grins. “The best catch.”

It’s easy. Too easy. And that’s what makes the next part harder.

***

You find out about the betrothal preparations by accident.

You’re in your suite, half-watching footage from practice, when your phone buzzes with a message from Martine.

Draft of formal announcement attached. Parliament reviewing wording. Father approved. Event tentatively scheduled for end of month.

You stare at the screen. You knew they were talking. You just didn’t know it had escalated.

The file opens to a beautifully typeset letter with phrases like With deep joy, the Grand Ducal Family announces … and in celebration of the enduring relationship between Luxembourg and the international community …

Your name. Lando’s name. Your actual engagement.

You blow out a slow, quiet breath. “… Right,” you murmur.

Because this was never supposed to get that far. This was supposed to be a joke. A misinterpreted hat and a string of PR saves. Something temporary. Something ridiculous.

And now it’s a royal decree in waiting.

***

You don’t tell Lando right away.

You’re not sure how. Or when. Or even if it’ll matter. Part of you wants to see if he’s catching on.

The problem is — he is. But not in the way you expect.

You catch him in the paddock later that afternoon, pressed up against a journalist with a tight smile and a voice that sounds … off.

“We’re just having fun,” he’s saying. “I mean, obviously we’re fond of each other, but come on, it’s been, what, a few weeks? Everyone’s reading into things too much. It’s not, like … real real.”

You freeze. Your chest does something strange.

“Fake engagement,” the reporter repeats, scribbling fast. “So you’d call it fake?”

“No — well — I mean, it’s a misunderstanding. But like, funny. Silly. Not serious-serious. I’m not actually about to marry-”

He looks up.

Sees you.

His mouth shuts instantly.

You turn on your heel before he can say your name.

***

He finds you later in the hospitality suite, tucked into a corner booth with your legs crossed and your arms folded tight. You’re wearing sunglasses even though you’re indoors. It’s not sunny.

“Hey,” he says, breathless like he ran. “Can we talk?”

You don’t look at him. “You should go.”

“Please don’t be mad-”

“I’m not mad,” you say. “I’m just confused.”

He slides in across from you. “About what?”

You take off your sunglasses slowly, like peeling back a layer of yourself.

“Are you embarrassed?” You ask, quiet but steady. “Of me?”

His eyes widen. “What? No!”

“Because I heard you,” you say. “With the press. Like I’m some PR stunt you’re trying to backpedal.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

“I didn’t think they’d take it this seriously,” he says finally. “I thought we were just having fun.”

Your expression doesn’t change. “Is that all it is to you?”

He fidgets. “I don’t know.”

You let the silence settle like dust between you.

“Do you think I chose to be born into this?” You ask, softer now. “The titles. The politics. The fact that I can’t even order a burger without it being international news?”

“No, of course not-”

“I’ve spent every day of my life playing by someone else’s rules,” you say. “And then this — this accident, this whole engagement — it’s the first time I’ve actually liked the story I’m in. And you’re out here telling everyone exactly how fake it is.”

Lando looks like he’s been slapped. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

“Well, you did.”

You stand.

He reaches for your wrist, but you step back.

“I have to go,” you say. “My advisors are expecting me. We’re planning a fake betrothal gala.”

Your voice cracks a little on the last word.

And then you walk away.

You don’t see the look on Lando’s face as you leave. But if you had, you’d see it plain as day:

Regret. Real, gut-punching regret.

***

Lando’s been outside your hotel for thirty-six minutes.

Thirty-six minutes of pacing, kicking the heel of his sneaker against a marble step, and trying to figure out if knocking on the door of a royal suite gets him arrested. Or excommunicated. Or worse — rejected.

He’s holding a paper bag.

Inside is an apology attempt in the form of your favorite milkshake (two straws, vanilla with caramel swirl), a squished pastry from the café you liked down the block, and a note that says I suck but I’d like to stop sucking, please?

He stares at the door. Then knocks, fast, before he can lose his nerve.

When it swings open, you’re there. Barefoot, in an oversized t-shirt and a messy bun. You look tired. And beautiful. And like you haven’t made up your mind about forgiving him.

“You came all this way to give me diabetes?” You ask.

He lifts the bag sheepishly. “There’s also emotional vulnerability in here. Limited edition.”

You lean against the doorframe. “How limited?”

“Like … might expire in fifteen minutes if left at room temperature?”

Your mouth quirks. “Alright, come in.”

He steps inside. There are no royal advisors. No handlers. No headlines. Just you. And the thudding panic in his chest.

“I brought peace offerings,” he says, unloading the bag onto the table like a raccoon presenting stolen treasure. “Pastry. Milkshake. Handwritten note, because I’m a man of old-school charm and no real plan.”

You sit down across from him, legs folded under you. “Didn’t peg you for the note-writing type.”

“Yeah, well, I panicked halfway through and drew a sad face instead of finishing a sentence.”

You pick it up, scan it. Then lift your eyes to his. “You really drew a sad face next to the word ‘unworthy’?”

He winces. “In hindsight, it was maybe too on the nose.”

Silence.

You take a long sip of milkshake. “Why did you say it wasn’t real?”

Lando swallows hard. “Because I freaked out.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He nods. Rubs the back of his neck. Then looks at you, really looks at you.

“You’re a duchess,” he says. “A literal royal. You speak six languages and have a coat of arms, and every photo of you looks like a Vogue cover. And me? I crash scooters into things and get told off by Zak for being late to briefings because I got distracted by pigeons.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Pigeons?”

“Look, they were doing funny head bobs, alright?”

You huff a laugh. He presses on.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t real because I don’t want it to be,” he says, voice low now. “I said it because I didn’t think I deserved it. Deserved you.”

That catches you off guard. You blink. “You think I’d pretend to be engaged to someone I didn’t think was worth my time?”

“You agreed to it because of a hat, Your Highness,” he points out. “Not exactly a high bar.”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, grinning, but there’s something earnest in his eyes now. Less golden-retriever panic, more quiet honesty.

“I meant it when I said I like being around you,” he says. “Not because of the title or the press or the fact that you can probably have me banished. I like you. The person who steals fries from my plate and makes up stories about strangers in cafes and gets this little line between her eyebrows when she’s pretending not to care.”

You glance away, trying to hide the fact that your heart’s doing the cha-cha.

“I was scared,” he adds. “Still am, kinda.”

“Of what?”

“Of messing this up. Of not knowing where the fake part ends and the real part starts. Of it being real and you not wanting that.”

You stare at him. Then lean forward. And kiss him.

It’s not for show. It’s not for the cameras or the press or the legacy of Luxembourg. It’s just for him.

His breath catches. His fingers curl reflexively around the edge of the table like he’s grounding himself.

When you pull back, you’re still close enough to see the freckle on his cheek, the way his eyes dart to your lips like he’s already memorizing the way you taste.

“That,” you say, “was not fake.”

He exhales, stunned. “Good. Because if it was, I was gonna have to dramatically fall to my knees and declare my love in rhyme.”

You snort. “Please don’t.”

“I had a verse ready,” he insists. “Something about you being the queen of my circuit and the pole position of my heart-”

You groan, but you’re laughing now. He grins wide, basking in it like sunlight.

Then your smile fades, just a little.

“But I don’t want to keep pretending,” you say. “Not like this.”

He nods. “Neither do I.”

“I want it to be real,” you say. “Even if that means stepping back from the public part. Even if that means confusing everyone.”

“Let ‘em be confused,” he says. “I just want to be with you. Not the tabloid version. You.”

You sit there for a moment. Letting the quiet fill the space between words.

Then you reach for his hand.

“I have to make some calls,” you say. “Tell my advisors we’re not doing a state engagement tour.”

Lando bites back a smirk. “Damn. I had already picked out a tiara to match my race suit.”

You stand, tug him up with you. “Help me sneak out the back?”

He beams. “Always.”

***

An hour later, you’re both in disguises — hoodies, sunglasses, and the kind of hats you only wear when you’re actively avoiding being recognized.

You walk along the water like two teenagers skipping class. Lando swings your hand between you.

“You know,” he says casually, “I don’t even mind if you tell your family we broke up.”

You glance at him. “What, you want me to text my father hey, sorry, not actually marrying the F1 driver?”

He shrugs. “I mean, if you want. But like, add a smiley face so he doesn’t hate me.”

You stop walking.

“Lando,” you say, turning to face him. “He doesn’t hate you.”

“You sure? He looked like he wanted to adopt me and throw me in a dungeon over video call.”

You roll your eyes. “He likes you. He’s just never had to deal with this kind of scandal before. Luxembourg is … very traditional.”

Lando’s quiet for a second. “Do you ever wish you weren’t royal?”

You hesitate. “Sometimes.”

“Because it’s lonely?”

You nod. “Because it’s … scripted. Every word. Every move. Every smile.”

He squeezes your hand. “Then let’s unscript it.”

You look up at him.

And in that moment — no palace, no cameras, no ancient traditions — you believe it.

This thing between you isn’t part of the plan. But maybe it’s the best part.

***

The Château de Berg looks exactly like a place where people wear sashes unironically.

Lando stands at the base of the grand staircase, fiddling with the cuff of his tux, while you float down the steps like you’ve been doing this since birth — which, frankly, you have.

You’re in navy silk and diamonds. He’s in mild, manageable panic.

“You okay?” You ask when you reach him.

He stares at you. “You look like a Bond girl. I look like I got lost on my way to a wedding I wasn't invited to.”

“You look great.”

“Yeah, great and very much like a commoner infiltrating the kingdom.”

You roll your eyes, looping your arm through his. “You’re my date, remember?”

“Right. Your real date now. Not just the guy who caused a constitutional crisis with a baseball cap.”

“That was a team hat,” you correct. “And technically, it’s a national treasure now.”

He laughs, but there’s a beat of silence as you both step into the gala ballroom.

Because everyone is watching.

Every. Single. Person.

Politicians, nobles, press photographers, distant cousins who’ve probably never spoken to you but now feel emotionally invested in your relationship status. All of them freeze slightly when they see you walk in.

And then Lando does the most Lando thing imaginable. He squeezes your hand. In full view of everyone. No hesitation.

Your spine, trained by decades of royal etiquette, goes rigid for a half second, then softens. You glance at him.

He just smiles.

“Do I bow to anyone?” He asks under his breath.

“You could,” you whisper back. “But that would be weird.”

“So I shouldn’t curtsy either?”

“I swear to God, Lando-”

“Just checking.”

You lead him through the crowd, nodding politely to various dignitaries who eye Lando with expressions ranging from bemused to is that the F1 boy who did the shoey that one time?

When a Luxembourgish minister tries to corner you with questions about heritage tourism initiatives, Lando — beautiful, clueless, brilliant Lando — steps in and distracts him by asking detailed questions about the country’s road safety infrastructure.

He even nods seriously. “Roundabouts are so underrated, man.”

You almost choke on champagne.

Later, after the violinist finishes a performance so somber you briefly feel like you should repent for something, you tug Lando away toward one of the quieter wings of the palace.

He follows without question. “We sneaking out again? Because I don’t think I’m dressed for burgers.”

“Not this time,” you say, leading him through a hall lined with portraits of monarchs in very large ruffled collars.

You open a door.

The room inside is small by royal standards — still the size of a generous hotel suite — but softly lit and quiet. At the center, on a velvet pedestal, rests a crown.

Not a cartoonish, jewel-encrusted monstrosity. But elegant. Heavy-looking. Steeped in history.

Lando freezes. “Wait. Is that-”

“The ceremonial crown,” you say. “For the heir.”

He blinks. “So … yours.”

You nod.

He steps closer, squinting. “It looks really … shiny.”

“That’s the gold.”

“Right. Of course. Just, y’know, very crown-y.”

You raise a brow. “You want to try it on?”

His head snaps up. “Am I allowed to?”

“Absolutely not.”

He grins. “So obviously I have to.”

You gesture to the nearby armchair like a royal game show host. “Then kneel.”

He hesitates. “Like, actually?”

“If you want the crown, yes.”

He kneels.

It’s chaotic, awkward, and completely him — one knee down, then wobbling a bit because his dress shoes have no grip. You bite back a laugh.

“You sure you’re ready for this responsibility, Mr. Norris?”

He places a hand dramatically on his heart. “I solemnly swear to not crash into any world leaders on a scooter.”

You lift the crown carefully from its stand.

It’s heavier than you remember. Or maybe it’s just that Lando’s looking up at you with that dopey grin, eyes crinkled, like he thinks this is the best joke you’ve ever played on him.

You lower it toward his head, pausing just above.

Then say, soft and teasing, “Do you swear loyalty to the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg?”

He blinks.

Then something changes in his expression. Something unguarded.

“I swear loyalty to you,” he says, quiet now.

Your breath catches. And for a moment, it isn’t funny anymore.

You look down at him. Kneeling. Grinning still, but less exaggerated. Less ironic.

And you feel it — the shift. That terrifying, impossible weight in your chest.

You want it to be true. All of it.

Not just the fake engagement. Not just the headlines or the banter or the jokes about tiaras.

You want him.

The chaos. The kindness. The fierce way he holds your hand in front of a room full of people who’ve probably written dissertations on protocol.

You set the crown down beside him.

“Too heavy?” He asks.

You sit across from him. “Too real.”

Lando folds his legs under him, now seated on the floor in full tuxedo, just inches away. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” you admit.

“Because I said something dumb again?”

You shake your head. “Because you said something honest.”

He rests his chin on your knee.

“That’s the thing about crowns,” he murmurs. “They look like jokes until they’re not.”

You meet his eyes.

And maybe he sees something in yours, because he adds, “Hey, I’m not asking you to make me royal. I’m just saying … you don’t have to wear the heavy stuff alone.”

You don’t kiss him this time.

You just lean your forehead against his and stay there, hearts thudding in tandem.

The velvet. The gold. The hush of history around you.

And him.

The boy who kneeled because you dared him to. And meant every word he said.

***

Silverstone is humming.

The air crackles with adrenaline and overpriced beer and the unmistakable scent of burnt rubber. British flags wave like it’s a national holiday — because in a way, it is. It’s Lando’s home race, and every person within a five-mile radius not cheering for Lewis Hamilton is wearing something papaya. The grandstands are alive with chants and cheers. It’s chaos. Beautiful, electric chaos.

And somehow, you’re in the middle of it.

Again.

You’re not in a palace. Not under a chandelier or beside a velvet rope. You're in a paddock full of sweaty engineers and excited children and a camera crew who keeps zooming in a little too often. The sky above is a mess of clouds that can't decide whether to rain or behave. It feels real. Unfiltered. Like the first inhale after you’ve been holding your breath for years.

Lando is glowing.

Not literally. (Although he’s so ridiculously tanned from being outside that he might be.)

He’s just … alive. In his element. Grinning like a kid who got handed the keys to a rollercoaster.

“Mate,” he says to a McLaren engineer, “if we shave 0.2 off sector two, I’ll get you a beer the size of your head. Swear.”

Then he catches your eye across the garage, and the grin softens. Changes. Like he can’t quite believe you’re there.

“You showed up,” he says, walking over. His suit is half-zipped, gloves dangling from one hand, hair a little flattened by a headset.

You raise an eyebrow. “I said I would.”

“Yeah, but sometimes I think you’ve got a kingdom to run or — what do you call it — ancient royal responsibilities?”

You smile. “I rearranged Luxembourg’s strategic policy briefings to be here. So you better win.”

“Oh God,” he mutters. “National pressure.”

You reach into your bag.

He narrows his eyes. “What’s that?”

“A surprise.”

“Is it a scepter? Please tell me it’s a scepter.”

You pull out a hat.

Not just any hat.

It’s a custom McLaren cap — deep orange with black trim, his driver number embroidered in silver thread on the side, and a small, discreet crest of Luxembourg stitched into the underside of the brim.

Lando blinks. “Wait. What — ”

“I had it made,” you say, holding it out. “For you.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “You made me a hat?”

“Technically I designed it. Royal prerogative.”

He takes it reverently, like it might shatter in his hands.

“Try it on,” you say.

He does.

And you reach up, slow and deliberate, to adjust it — placing it gently on his head.

The way he did with you in Monaco.

The way you now know means something in your culture.

It’s not just cute. It’s not just a gesture.

It’s a statement.

There’s a beat.

A collective inhale from the crowd around you, like everyone saw it and knows.

Someone’s camera shutter clicks.

Then another.

Then three more.

Somewhere, a tabloid headline is practically writing itself.

Lando stares at you under the brim.

“You just …” he starts, voice low.

“Balanced the scales,” you finish. “You gave me yours first.”

His mouth quirks up. “This means I’m the Grand Duchess now, yeah?”

“You would make a terrible duchess.”

He scoffs. “I’d be brilliant.”

“You’d try to turn the royal palace into a karting circuit.”

“I would never-” He pauses. “Okay, I would. But like … a tasteful one.”

You both dissolve into laughter.

The kind that catches you off guard and settles somewhere deep in your ribs.

The kind that means this — whatever this is — isn’t just temporary anymore.

***

Later, while Lando’s giving a pre-qualifying interview, a reporter points to the hat.

“Custom cap today, Lando?” She asks with a wink.

He glances toward you, watching from the edge of the pit wall in sunglasses and a smug little smile.

Lando shrugs. “Gift.”

“From the Duchess?”

His face turns ten shades of red. “Maybe.”

“Looks like a pretty serious gesture.”

He scratches his neck, sheepish. “I mean, if you’re lucky enough to get one, yeah … you hold onto it.”

The clip goes viral before the session even starts.

***

After qualifying, he finds you waiting beside the McLaren motorhome, arms crossed, foot tapping in mock impatience.

“You said you’d get pole,” you tease.

“I said I’d try. Which I did. Very hard. Max just exists to ruin my life.”

You loop your fingers through his. “I’m still proud of you.”

“Even with P2?”

“Especially with P2.”

He shifts his weight. “They’re calling it the Reverse Proposal now. On Twitter. The hat thing.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course they are.”

“I’m trending with your country’s name. I’m not even in Luxembourg.”

“Give it a week. You’ll probably be knighted.”

Lando leans closer. “Would you stay?”

“Hm?”

“After the race. Stay in the UK a little longer. I’ll take you to my hometown. My mum’ll feed you way too much and ask if I’m behaving.”

You smile. “And what would you say?”

“That I’m doing my best.”

You brush a hand through his hair, just under the brim of the cap.

“You’re doing more than that,” you whisper. “You’re making me feel like I’m not just … a crown.”

Lando’s eyes soften.

“You’re not,” he says. “You’re everything but that.”

The cameras catch you leaning into him.

Not for show. Not for press.

Just because.

And somewhere, miles away, in a palace covered in polished marble and a thousand years of history, a staffer is already drafting a new press release.

Not for a fake engagement. Not for a tradition accidentally triggered.

But maybe, just maybe …

For the real thing.

***

It starts like a joke.

The kind Lando makes when he’s nervous. Fidgeting with his hoodie strings, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, saying things like “Right, so if this goes terribly wrong, I can still blame the British weather, yeah?”

You’re in London. More specifically, you’re in a hidden garden tucked behind a historic townhouse, the kind with ivy climbing up old brick walls and roses blooming like they’re performing for royalty. (They probably are.) You’re only in town for a few days — official meetings, diplomatic appearances, a quiet dinner with a visiting Luxembourgish minister. Nothing too scandalous. Nothing that would make the papers.

Until now.

You glance at him suspiciously. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird,” Lando says, very much being weird.

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s thirty degrees and I’m in long sleeves.”

“You’re in a hoodie. Like a gremlin.”

“First of all, rude.”

You cross your arms, stepping in front of him on the cobbled garden path. “What are we doing here, Lando?”

His grin flickers. Just for a second.

Then he exhales.

“Okay, right. So. I wanted to do this somewhere quiet. Somewhere just … us.”

Your eyebrows rise.

“Not in a castle. Not in front of the entire European Parliament. Just … with birds and, like, a suspiciously photogenic squirrel over there.”

You blink. “Are you okay?”

He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie.

And pulls out a hat.

Not just any hat.

The hat.

The one from Monaco. The one he placed on your head the day everything spiraled. The one that started a thousand headlines and at least one constitutional debate. The one you lost your mind over when it mysteriously vanished from your closet last week.

“Is that-”

He nods, sheepish. “Yeah. I, uh … borrowed it.”

“You stole it.”

“Temporarily.”

“Lando!”

“I had a plan!”

You laugh, half outraged, half flattered. “You absolute menace.”

He steps closer, holding the cap in both hands now. And suddenly, he’s not fidgeting. Not bouncing. Just looking at you like the rest of the world has gone silent.

“I was gonna get a ring,” he says. “I have a ring. But I thought maybe this … this felt more us.”

You stop breathing.

He takes a breath for you.

“I didn’t know what I was doing back then. When I gave you this. I didn’t know who you were or what that meant or how much that one tiny moment would mess up my entire life in the best way possible.”

You blink fast.

“Lando …”

“And now I do. Know. Everything. I know who you are. I know what you carry. And I know I want to carry it with you.”

He swallows. The cap shifts in his hands.

“So, yeah. This is stupid and not shiny and it’s probably sweaty. But it’s ours.”

Then — slowly, deliberately — he places it back on your head.

And kneels.

Not dramatically. Not performatively.

Just … reverently.

Like a man who understands now what he didn’t back then.

“Will you marry me?” He says. “For real this time?”

Silence.

Except your heartbeat.

And the click of a single camera shutter — because of course someone, somewhere, caught it.

You don’t care.

You kneel, too.

And kiss him.

Right there in the dirt and roses and British humidity.

“Yes,” you say against his smile. “Obviously, yes.”

***

The palace releases a statement two hours later.

Their Royal Highnesses the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess are pleased to confirm the engagement of Her Royal Highness the Hereditary Grand Duchess Y/N Y/L/N to Mr. Lando Norris.

You pass the phone to Lando.

He stares at it like it might explode.

“Oh my God,” he says. “It’s real. It’s really real.”

And then he pulls out his phone.

“You’re not tweeting,” you warn.

“I’m absolutely tweeting.”

You watch over his shoulder as he types.

@LandoNorris: turns out giving someone your hat is a big deal 👀

also turns out i’m marrying the love of my life

brb crying 🧡👑

You groan. “You put emojis in your engagement tweet.”

“Of course I did.”

“I’m going to be monarch someday and you just used the eyeball emoji.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you said yes.”

He turns to the camera crews still filming.

“She said yes, by the way!” He calls out. “Like, for real this time! Sorry to disappoint anyone still holding out for a princess fantasy. She’s mine now.”

You bury your face in your hands.

It’s absurd.

It’s embarrassing.

It’s … perfect.

Somewhere, your father is probably watching the livestream and toasting with vintage champagne. Somewhere else, Parliament is scrambling to schedule a press conference. And somewhere even farther away, an ancient Luxembourgish historian is definitely writing a very dry academic paper titled “The Sociopolitical Implications of Cap-Based Courtship in the 21st Century.”

But all you can see is Lando.

Grinning like the sun.

Yours.

3K notes · View notes

iamfuckingsorry · 1 year ago

Text

status update: 15 days until the final draft of my thesis is due to be submitted to my supervisor.

22 days until my committee is getting it.

How much of my thesis is written you ask? About 1/2 of the methods section, by far the easiest section to write. I haven't even finished analysing my results yet.

And I'm working 3 days this week so can't even really spend the weekend catching up :)))

#honestly it's still fine #like i can get the introduction done in a day or two i've done that before i know what i need to write #the results section won't take long to write at all either once i have all the results. i just need to do some R stuff #there's more stuff i could (should) do but i don't think it's strictly necessary if i'm aiming at barely passing this #i'm jusr like... sigh #so fucking tired of this shit #i dont even want the degree. having it might make it more difficult for me to get the jobs i want if anything #ugh #like i know it's not a major life problem. i live in an okay cheap apartment and have a job that i don't hate that pays well enough and shi #it's just. ugh. i was really looking forward to doing my thesis - my undergrad thesis was so much fun!#but this project is just like... 90% data analysis or something. not a fan at all #can't wait for it to be over but i also have zero motivation to work on it #herr's personal tag

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cherry-leclerc · 4 months ago

Text

greed ☆ op81

genre: smut, affair, erotic literature, angst, forbidden romance, enemies to "lovers", a bit angst/yearning, established relationships, voyeurism

word count: 16.4k

greed (noun) — intense and selfish desire for something, especially wealth, power, or food.

nsfw warning under the cut!

18+...pwp, unprotected sex, missionary, riding, fingering, f!receiving, deep throat, m!receiving, finger sucking

inspired by red sex (re-strung) [rakhi singh]

cherry here!...had fun writing this one teheee. it's a long one, so definitely take breaks in between and enjoy. missed you guys—welcome to the twisted world of greed mwah!

Twirling your tongue around the bright pink straw, you blink blankly, quietly taking in the conversation that occurs in front of you. You should probably talk a bit, you remember thinking. Smile, at least, but you can’t seem to bring yourself to lie—you didn't want to be here.

“I thought you hated pineapple?”

Turning, you shrug half-heartedly over at Lando. “It makes my mouth itch,” you mumble, not enjoying a single sip of the smoothie. Well, except for the whipped cream. Taking a lick, your eyes stay connected onto his blue ones as he shakes his head.

“Don’t drink it, then,” he tries, but you simply turn a blind eye, facing the complete opposite direction. From where you're sitting, you spot a group of kids playing jump rope. Even when one of them falls with a loud splat and starts to cry, you continue to stare.

“Oh no,” a soft voice gasps. As soon as you hear it, you grind your teeth, hearing a slight crack immediately. “Poor baby.”

You like to think of yourself as an even person. Everyone who enters your life deserves a fair chance. You’ll get to know them—befriend them, perhaps—and if it doesn’t work out, then it doesn’t work out, but no one can say you never tried.

But oh, how you hated Lily Zneimer.

The worst part of all is that there isn’t really a single reason for your sudden distaste towards her. On paper, you two should be the best of friends, but the one thing holding you back is sitting right in front of you.

Oscar clicks his tongue, a nice tick coming through as his sharp brows raise with surprise as he watches the scene unfold. He, too, sort of remains as stoic as you, but the one difference is that he has a bit more empathy. You lack a lot of that, you’ll be the first to admit.

The cries continue, the young boy's parents suddenly alert by now as they run towards their child. “I’m sure he’s fine,” he says, squinting his eyes due to the bright sun. “It builds character.”

“Getting hurt?” Lily asks, frowning as she gently shoves his shoulder. “You really do have a heart made of ice.”

This gets a snicker out of your boyfriend, making you sigh, instantly checking out, but Lando is as happy as can be. While he enjoys the moment, you lack interest in it, and if it weren’t for the fact that the Australian was the one that invited you both out for drinks, then you would have happily been tucked away in bed. Make good use of the hotel perks and whatnot.

The brown eyed driver swings a hand behind his girlfriend's chair, playfully tugging her hair, making her blush and making you recoil with disgust. Not that you ever show it, but you definitely feel it. “Maybe I do, but only you can make it melt.”

That’s enough to call it a day. Standing abruptly, the chair squeaks against the pavement as you share a tight lipped smile. All at once, their eyes look up at you as you force a yawn. “I think I’m going to head up now. Thanks for the invite,” you say.

Lily pouts subtly, blue eyes round and hazy. “So soon? It’s still early.”

You nod, sparing her small smile, but deep within, the sound of her sweet voice begins to irritate you to the point you think you might snap. “The sun’s got me tired. I just need to lay down a bit.” Leaning forward, you peck Lando’s cheek, warm and sandy. “But I'll see you later, yeah?”

“Sure,” she squeaks, waving numbly as they watch you walk away—practically fleeting, really. Humming sadly, the British girl looks down onto her lap, toying with her bracelets. “I don’t think she likes me much,” she mutters, wincing sheepishly.

Oscar frowns. “That’s not true…”

Lando frantically nods, feeling bad for Lily and her first encounter with you being a total bust. Come to think of it, ever since the blue eyed girl has been around, you’ve been quite distant. “She hasn’t been sleeping well.” Lie. “She just needs to recharge, that’s all.”

You end up spending the next few days locked up in yours and Lando’s room. You avoid the paddock at all costs because you’re really not in the mood to see anyone—especially her. The British driver tried his best to get you out from these four walls, but gave up shortly after you blamed it on a migraine. You haven’t had one of those in years, but he learns to respect your decision. You do promise to be there for his race, though.

And as expected, you see her. Sat perfectly with her legs crossed, the young girl beams, motioning for you to join her on the open chair. At first you act like you don’t see her, preferring to stay standing for the next few hours rather than being pushed up next to her, but when she calls your name, you curse beneath your breath before making your way.

“Hey,” you cheer, hugging her briefly before taking a seat.

A giggle. “Hey. I heard you’ve been feeling a bit under the weather.”

“Huh?”

Lily blinks. “Lando said—”

In one quick motion, you click your fingers, nodding along. Right—Lando had lied on your behalf. It completely slipped your mind. Letting out a muffled groan, you wince theatrically, hoping she buys it. She does, worry quickly taking over her gentle gaze. “I have, yeah, I have.” Cheer’s erupt as the camera pans over to the fan zone, then back to the drivers that line up for the National Anthem. “But I'm much better now!”

Her concern slowly melts away as she smiles. “That’s good to hear.”

You would have not traveled with Lando to this week's race if you had known she would be here. Usually, she’s not, but you almost feel as if you know everything about her from how much Oscar talks about her. It gets exhausting hearing the same stories being told over and over again, as if she was the best thing to come around. Was it really that hard to just not bring her up?

But alas, you are here, and so is she.

It feels like an eternity slowly goes by, so you’re quick to dart out the garage as you make your way towards the podium. The good thing is that she doesn’t need to because Oscar secured a lucky fourth place. Close, but not close enough.

Running towards you after a round of media, Lando pecks your lips. He smells like a mix of champagne and sweat, not a completely unpleasant scent. He wiggles his brows. “Proud?”

You grin, eyes crinkling just the same as his. “Super.” Another kiss. “You were great out there.”

A subtle shade of red burns his nose as he smiles widely, pulling you towards the direction of McLaren Hospitality, leaving you to follow him as you admire the way everyone looks at him the same way you do.

You like that he’s a winner. You like that you’re dating the winner. And that’s why you admire him, because he gives you the right to brag about him by simply being his girlfriend. The kind everyone wishes to be. Entering the familiar orange motorhome, you two are caught at a stop as soon as Zak calls out for Lando who turns curiously.

“My man!” he cheers, making you take a step back and letting them have their moment. You listen for the first few minutes, but when it looks like the congratulatory might run deep, you claim a seat on the nearby sofa, scrolling through your phone to kill time. At some point, you look up to see them bid goodbye, sighing tiredly as you make your way up. Zak grins from ear to ear, pointing at you with nothing but radiant energy. “See you there!”

With that, he walks away, leaving you two alone once again. Raising a sharp brow, you tap Lando’s shoulder with confusion. “What does he mean by that?”

“He’s rented a yacht for the team to celebrate today's win,” he explains, guiding you towards the privacy of his room with a large hand on your lower back. “You know him—he likes to go all out.”

You hum, still walking up in front of him. “I figured you would want to go clubbing…”

There’s a cloudy sigh behind you as he clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I mean, yeah, I do, but we should probably skip that and do this instead.” Reaching to twist the knob, you pause, turning to face him with a surprised expression. “What?”

“Nothing,” you respond, shaking your head. “Look at you maturing. You see, my Lando would have never preferred a classy yacht party instead of a trashy club.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I’ve changed.”

“Right,” you tease, finally opening the door, but as soon as you do, the room next to you squeaks, indicating someone exiting. Oscar and Lily come to a halt as soon as they spot you both. Your lips open in the smallest of gaps as they smile politely.

“Congratulations,” the British girl is the first to break the silence as she goes in for a quick side hug, one that Lando accepts without missing a beat. “You must be over the moon.”

“I am,” your boyfriend lets out, still not used to the feeling of being first. A beat. “Hey, did Zak mention anything about—”

“The yacht party?” Oscar fills in with a loopy grin. Lando snickers, nodding at his guess. He shakes his head. “Yeah, but we can’t. I have to drive Lily to the airport.”

Intrigued by the fact, your brows dart up. “Ah, no way—you’re leaving already?”

“Yeah,” she says, smiling tiredly. “I have a few tests lined up for next week, and I can’t miss them.”

“Shame,” you hum, but the relief of not having her around anymore makes you feel a thousand times lighter. “I was going to suggest grabbing dinner next week…”

“Really?” Lando and Lily question in sync, both equally as surprised as one another. On the flipside, Oscar stands with an unrecognizable expression, making you avoid even looking at him because something about it somehow convinces you that he can see right past your lie.

Coughing awkwardly, you bob your head, catching the glimmer in her blue eyes as she holds her breath, almost. Something about it makes you feel bad, but just for a split second. “Yes, really, but it looks like we got a bit unlucky.”

Swiftly, Lily turns to face Oscar with a helpless expression, as if pleading for aid, but for him it was an easy decision. “You can’t skip out on exams,” he whispers lowly, but still clear enough for you to hear. “You know that.”

And sure—she does—but ever since she got here, she’s felt so out of place. Not with the team, not with two McLaren drivers as a duo, but rather with you. And now this? Any opportunity to have you as a friend is as good as gold in her eyes.

And to be quite honest, you didn’t expect for someone as truthful as Lily to lie to their professor in a lengthy email, claiming to be severely down with the flu in order to stay a couple extra days and catch that unpromising dinner you had made up as some way to get her to think you’d miss not having her around. This was your reality and you just had to deal with it.

But Oscar?

Watching you carefully as you hug Lily back when she leaps with excitement into your arms, he squints with subtle suspicion in your character. Something in your rigidness and mannequin smile makes him want to pull the British girl away from you, feeling the need to protect his girlfriend's innocence.

Smiling softly over her shoulder, you catch a glimpse of Oscar, making your stomach churn. His eyes remain on you for a second longer before sharing a smile of his own.

Yup, you think to yourself.

He knows.

A week goes by at a snail's pace.

The four of you fly together to the next continent with nothing but fake enthusiasm. Well, fake from you, and unbeknownst, fake from Oscar, too.

He doesn’t know why he doesn’t trust you completely. In hindsight, you haven’t done anything wrong, but everytime you and Lily are together—which is most of the week—it feels like you have. Maybe it had something to do with the sinister glares you’d send her way when you thought no one was looking, or the fact that you’d have to take a heavy breath in preparation every time she’d greet you with a warm hug. But maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was seeing something that wasn’t there, but that doesn’t mean he’d be at ease for the rest of the week.

Hence, dinner.

You find yourself forced to make a reservation at one of the fanciest cuisine restaurants close to where you’re staying and that itself was annoying. You shouldn’t be doing any of this—she shouldn’t even be here.

Smiling gingerly, the British girl let out a small giggle at some joke Lando made. By the looks of it, it’s pretty funny, so you numbly follow her lead, though you have yet to know what it was. “You must be laughing all the time,” Lily notes, blue eyes focused on you with wonder. You hum, pursing your lips with uncertainty. She giggles harder. “Well because of how funny he is.”

Lando claps once, making you flinch in return. “Thank you! It’s about damn time someone appreciates my humor.”

“I do appreciate it,” you defend, slowly losing your patience. Licking your lips, you look back towards Lily who remains with a smile. “Don’t listen to him, he just likes the attention.”

“That I can agree on,” Oscar adds, cracking a grin of his own. Suddenly, you’re all into the discussion. The Australian sneers childishly. “You can’t seem to live a single moment without making things about yourself.”

“Oscar,” Lily warns, faint pink painting her pale skin. “Be nice.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Lando says, waving her off like it’s no big deal—which it’s not. He leans back against his chair, flipping his teammate off who scoffs lightheartedly. “This is how we talk. Right, Osc?”

“Right.”

Somewhere in between dessert, while you’re in the middle of licking your spoon clean, the invitation that came to ruin your life, comes up. Lily clears her throat nervously, suddenly worried by the thought of you turning her down. “I was meaning to ask…” Puzzled, you keep your eyes on her, awaiting her next words. She shrugs sheepishly. “Well, I graduate this summer, and Oscar is throwing me a party up in North Carolina…” She trails off, gathering her words. “I was wondering if you two would like to come?”

“Oh,” Lando's voice comes through like a muffle, mouth full of cheesecake. He swallows, blue eyes flickering between the couple and his girlfriend who remains with a blank expression, metal spoon still in place. “I mean—yeah. Right?”

Unfreezing, you place the utensil down onto your plate, smiling weakly. “Uh…yeah.” Lily grins, letting out a breath of relief, making Oscar frown over the realization that your response mattered so much to her. You nod robotically. “Sure, why not?”

“Great!” Lily cheers, beaming like a kid on Christmas Day. “And don’t worry about spending on a hotel—we’ve got you covered.”

You blink, bewildered. “You do?”

She nods. “Of course, we do! You’re our guests, you’ll be staying with us.”

Your boyfriend smiles faintly. “That’s kind of you, but it’s really no problem. We wouldn’t want to overcrowd.”

“Nonsense,” the Australian speaks up, shaking his head, brown strands of hair swinging in the slightest. “We have plenty of room. All of our family and friends are already staying at the hotel nearby—it’d be nice to have a bit of company.” His eyes soften, making your heart beat a little faster. “What do you say?”

It feels like he’s looking directly at you—chocolate orbs as sweet as can be. As if nothing else exists in this moment if it’s not you or him. But in reality, his attention is focused on your boyfriend, awaiting his response.

Not yours.

Flustered, you poke Lando’s leg beneath the table, hoping he takes the hint. Blue eyes flicker towards your direction for a millisecond before returning with a nod. “Looks like you have two roomies.”

Lily squeals, smiling brightly as Oscar’s lips remain in a thin line, his version of a smile.

And if he could turn back time…

He really fucking would.

Once the season ends, everyone is on a high. Lando for coming in second in the Driver’s Championship and for bringing in the Constructors Championship for the first time in years, and Oscar for the latter. Regardless, it was an outstanding season for the two of them.

You and the Brit end up flying in a few days later due to going back home to pack a few more necessities, but once you’ve got that all figured out, you find yourselves in the middle of a heatstroke, making you second guess all your life's choices all at once.

“It feels as if my skin’s melting off,” you groan, fanning yourself with the roadmap, because as it came, satellites are utter shit when it comes to where you’re staying. Lando tries to convince you that having no internet for a few weeks isn’t all that bad, but as soon as a twenty minute drive turns into a one hour drive due to getting lost without the guidance of a GPS, he regrets his words. You roll your eyes, narrating as he finally pulls up to the driveway of what appears to be the best looking house in all of North Carolina.

He whistles. “If it weren’t so hot during the summer, I’d definitely move here.”

Scoffing, you exit the car rental, looking up at the navy blue house where green ivy hangs. “We are not moving here. I’d rather die.”

“Fair,” he mumbles as he makes his way towards the front door, you right on his heels. Swinging the door open, you two are instantly hit with the fresh gust of air. “Thank God,” Lando moans, loving the fact that the AC is the only thing preventing him from fainting.

Pushing him in, you make sure to close the door behind you as you shut your eyes with sweet relief. Somewhere towards the end of the hall, you hear shoes squeak against the wooden tiles. Lily waves, hair up in a similar ponytail as yours, as she smiles as warm as the weather that nearly cost you your life. “You made it!”

“We sure did,” you respond, gritting your teeth in order to prevent yourself from letting out some snarky remark. Not that she deserves it, of course she doesn’t, but you couldn’t help it. Pointing back towards the wooden door, you wince apologetically. “Sorry to barge in. Someone didn’t bother knocking.”

Lando makes a face, then turns to the blue eyed girl with a playful smile. “You don’t mind, do you, Lily?”

She shakes her head, pursuing her lips with delight. “Not at all. We left it unlocked knowing you two would show up. We’ve been fixing the guest bedroom for the past hour and we didn’t want to run the risk of not hearing you knock, so…I guess it all worked out just fine.”

“See? Lily says it worked out just fine,” your boyfriend says smugly as you roll your eyes, not at all impressed with his sudden cockines. “Where is Oscar, by the way?”

Lily signals upstairs, then blushes. “Do you mind helping me grab a few things from the car, Lando?” A shy chuckle. “It’s just that we went out for some party essentials last night, but we were too tired to bring them in, and the box is too heavy, and Oscar is pretty busy, and I’d hate to bother him, and—”

“Sure,” Lando cuts off her rambling. “That way I can grab our suitcases, too.”

“Fantastic,” she hoots, dusting her hands against her shorts as she grabs a set of car keys from the kitchen table. Turning to you, she grimaces. “Do you mind checking up on Oscar?”

Your plump lips part, a line of dehydration hung upon them. “I would, but I should help Lando—”

“It’s okay,” your boyfriend fills in. “I’ve got it all under control.”

Lily pleads silently, brows drawn together. “You’d really be doing me a favor. It’s just that he was in the middle of fixing the duvet and he tends to run out of patience if he doesn’t get it right away.” A chuckle. “Please?”

Which is how you find yourself in a room, alone with the one person you probably shouldn’t be alone with, but find yourself wishing that were always the case. Alone with one another, that is. Gently knocking on the already open door feels like the right thing to do, so you do just that. Alerted by the sound, the Australian’s head jerks up, brown eyes caught against yours.

You tilt your head slightly, like some greet. “Lily sent me,” you find yourself explaining as he sighs, resting on the unmade bed. Leaning against the doorframe, you bite the inside of your cheek, not knowing what to say next.

He huffs. “Of course she did.” A snort. “Sorry your room still isn’t ready. It's just that, I, uh…can't seem to get this right,” he admits, shyly scratching the back of his neck as he motions towards the unmade mess. “Lily always helps, but she’s a bit busy right now, and I'd hate to bother her, and—”

“I can help.”

A pause, then: “Oh, don't worry, you don't need to do that. You’re our guests.”

Chuckling, you shake your head, already making a move to grab the sheets. Taking hold of one corner, you signal for him to do the same, the Australian instantly catching on and taking hold of the opposite side. Aligning it, you look up at him, watching as he focuses on your hands and repeats the order. You smile, going for more and doing it all over again. Once it's perfectly laid out, you take a step back. “Not too shabby.”

“Huh,” he muttered, blinking with amazement. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” you say, fixing the mountain of pillows before taking it in with a gentle smile. “Lando’s excited to be here.”

Oscar looks up, neat brows raising. “Is he?”

“Mhm,” you hum, finally connecting your gaze to his. From this distance—close—you note the faint trace of cologne that hugs him, along with a thin layer of sweat. Grinding your molars, you fume silently within you as you catch it—her perfume. You wonder how close she had to have been in order for it to imprint on him, but as soon as you ponder for too long about it, you shake your head, acting as if you’re brushing away some invisible dust. “He’s looking forward to jet skiing.”

A deep chuckle. Pressing his back against the wall, he crosses his arms, giving you a clear view of his muscles that pulse like the world's biggest temptation. If you had the chance—just one—you’d kiss them the way you've fantasized for so long now.

He opens his mouth, about to say something that's going to change everything amongst you two, but bails at the last minute, shaking his head as if he barely caught himself. Intrigued, you raise a neat brow. “What's wrong?” you ask, feeling far too curious.

Oscar tsks. “No, uh, it's nothing.” A beat, then he looks up, squinting his eyes skeptically, as if you're a puzzle he can't quite figure out. He's looking at you the same way he did that day you lied about planning the dinner, and that itself makes your stomach dip. Suddenly, you're not as interested in finding out what he has to say anymore. “Lily loves you, you know that?”

Not what you were expecting. “She does?”

“Yeah…” he mumbles, orbs still trained on you. You want him to look away—you need him to look away. Pink lips curl into something of a scoff. The Australian’s eyes darken, making you freeze with trepidation. “She thinks you’re great.” Opening his arms like some grand gesture, he motions towards the lively room. “I mean, look at her. She’s trying her best to please you.”

Something about the way he says it makes you feel as if he’s not that fond of Lily’s behavior. As if you don’t deserve her kindness, even just a sprinkle of it. Pursing your lips, you rock against the heels of your feet. “And I appreciate that, I really do.” A hint of hesitation. “And I like Lily, as well—”

A raw chuckle. Blinking, you catch him shaking his head, brown eyes shut in disbelief, and when he opens them once again, it’s not that kind-hearted and easy-going Australian you’ve come to know—no. He’s broad, and cold, and guarded.

“No, you don’t.”

You gulp, laughing awkwardly as you rub your forearm, feeling the heat of shame radiate off your body. “What are you talking about? She’s super sweet—”

“I never said she wasn’t,” he cuts you off again, this time a bit harsher. Enough to take a step back. Your heart races times a million at this point, palms moist with sweat. “I never said she wasn’t sweet—I don’t doubt that even for a second. But I know that you’re lying, and I know that you hate her.” A beat. “Why?”

“I do like her,” you continue to insist, feeling claustrophobic all of a sudden. “What makes you even think otherwise?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at her,” he says, accent sharper than usual. “Like you wish her the worst—I know what hate looks like.”

This time, you grab what’s left of your courage, and look at him straight in the eyes, not backing down. “Yeah? And what does hate look like?”

“You’re looking at it.”

It’s as if an ice cold bucket of water is thrown at you with no alert. His insinuation makes you want to recoil, but if you do, then he’d know he’s gotten to you, and if he gets to you, then he’ll figure the rest of it out.

“I’m sorry, that was rude.” He smiles tauntingly, inching close and tilting his head as he opens his mouth. “I just don’t like you, that’s all. I’m not cruel enough to hate.” Cruel. He’s calling you cruel. He knows, therefore, you’re cruel. The word itself shouldn’t affect you this much, but it does. Narrowing your eyes, you push him away, but he doesn't budge. Instead, he cocks his head in question with little to no surprise. “What? You don’t like hearing the truth of what you are? Did you really think you were a good person?”

“Look,” you finally speak, glaring. “I don’t know what you think you’ve seen, but I don’t hate Lily. For God sakes, I barely even know her!”

“Exactly!” he shouts back, breaking. “Which is why I’m more than confused! What has she done to you?”

Have possession over you, you think to yourself as you pant, blinking with defeat. I hate her because what she’s done to me is have possession over you, and that’s not fair.

“I—”

“Hey,” a soft voice melts into the room, Lily coming into view, cheeks flushed. “Is everything alright in here? We thought we heard yelling.”

Standing behind her, frowning over her shoulder, Lando stares with a lost expression. Everything indicates that there had been some sort of altercation, but the smiles you two wear are enough to try and convince them otherwise. Walking towards her, Oscar wraps his arm around her waist, pecking her temple as she blinks, still worried. “What? That’s absurd. We were simply talking. Weren’t we?”

It takes you a minute to register that he’s speaking to you, so when you do answer, it’s nothing but a whisper. “Yeah… just, yeah.” You shake your head, blinking hastily. “We were just talking.”

“Are you sure?” Lando asks, pushing past the couple as he rushes to you, large hand grabbing your wrist softly as he looks at you. His gaze flickers momentarily toward Oscar, as if accusing him for doing something, in return, making the Australian frown for his sudden distrust. As if he’s the bad guy.

You nod, plump lips formed into a thin line. “Yup,” you say, attention flickering down to where Oscar keeps Lily secure against his touch. As if you’re the bad guy. You chuckle, shrugging. “He was thanking me for helping him do something so easy as setting a bed.”

Oscar clenches his jaw. “Yeah. Thanking you.”

Anyone who knows you, knows that you’re a decent human being. There’s not much to contradict that. But no one will ever know you the way you know yourself. Because if they did?

They’d find out that there was no one greedier….

Than you.

Dinner that night is homemade pizza. Lily followed a recipe.

It’s quite delicious, sure, and you’re able to make that note due to that one small bite you had before you ditch it for your mimosa. Lando tries to get you to eat, but you gently promise him that you’re just not that hungry. You see the way Oscar stares, feeling bad for his girlfriend who spent hours making this for you. She excuses herself, rushing towards the kitchen as the Australian apologizes, following after her.

Turning abruptly, the British boy huffs, causing commotion. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on now?”

“This again?” you groan. “I already told you—nothing. Drop it.”

“What’d he say to you?” he questions, a layer of curiosity making an appearance. “Did he say something to offend you?”

“No,” you hum against your glass. “He did not.”

“Did you say something to offend him?” he switches the inquiry, making you glare.

“Are you seriously asking me that right now?”

Lando sighs, relaxing against his chair once again. He takes a bite, swallows, then takes another. “I get the sense that you’re keeping something from me—you’re not like that.”

Actually, you are. He just doesn’t know it. Placing a hand over his, you hum, calming him down as he connects his gaze onto yours, eyes as soft as jello. “He might’ve lost his temper on me a bit.”

“What?” he screeches, making you hush him.

“Let me finish,” you hiss. He nods, curls bouncing. “He couldn’t get the sheets to stay in place. Remember how Lily said he tends to lose patience because of that?” Another nod. You shrug. “Well, that was it. We just didn’t want you two to make a big deal out of nothing. Much like now,” you point out, spotting a subtle blush threatening his cheeks.

“Well, forgive me for looking out for you,” he sings. “I care, you know?”

“And I thank you for that, darling, but you can let go of it now, right?”

“Definitely.”

He doesn’t. Matter of fact, as soon as the couple makes their way back, it’s the first thing he brings up, teasing his teammate who blinks, confused, then: “Oh. Yeah. Right. I had a bit of a moment where I couldn’t get the…yeah. That was it.”

Lily rolls her blue eyes. “Didn’t I warn ya?”

You giggle. “You did, you really did.”

There isn’t much to do from that point on, the sun has set and the moon hangs as bright as headlights. Lando knocks out after a much needed shower, and while you can’t sleep with wet hair, you settle on fixing yourself up a tea now that it’s cooled down.

Walking barefoot towards the lake, you hum, finding peace with the way crickets sing. Blue, gentle waves sway back and forth as you look beyond, mind at peace. That is until you hear a small cough. Startled, you search for the culprit and you find him, laid down on the grass.

“Can’t sleep?”

Oscar sighs. “I’d rather not talk to you right now.”

“Or ever?” you offer, but he doesn’t find you humor all that entertaining. Making your way, you find a space next to him. “You can’t ignore me, you know that? We’re about to spend a month together. That, and you’re my boyfriend's teammate. I see you on track.”

He disregards the fact that you're right, sitting up instead, laying his arms over his bent knees. “What’s your game?”

“I don’t have one,” you say softly. “I’m just here to have fun—it’s summer.”

A scoff. “I’m serious—what do you want from us?”

There was a point in time when you first met the Australian where you remember thinking: this is a boy. His arms were twigs, his neck was small, and his fireproofs fit him loosely.

Fastword, a year later: everything has taken a turn. Oscar Piastri has matured, and now—now you want him.

“My parents had my sister three years after they had me.” Oscar cocks his head, puzzled as to why you’re telling him this. You continue, occasionally sipping on your tea. “And the months leading to her birth, they always told me how lucky I’d feel to have her once she was born. Then she was,” you say. “And you know what I felt?”

“Lucky?” he finds himself guessing quietly.

You shake your head, causing his brows to jump up with surprise. “I love her, I do, but I think that was the moment I realized I didn’t like to share. I wanted my parents to stay my parents, and not hers. I wanted my grandparents to stay my grandparents, and not hers. And…once we grew up and we were old enough to date—I wanted her boyfriends to like me more than they liked her.”

Quiet, his eyes linger with disgust. “I love knowing that I can get away with it—get what I want.” This time, you look at him, and it hits him all at once: you want him. You smile, like what you’re saying is funny and not fucked. A giggle. “You’re a smart individual, Oscar. Do you get what I’m saying?”

He does. And it makes his stomach knot.

“I’m in love with Lily,” he states, as if that will make you back off. “I’m. In. Love. With. Lily.”

But he can tell you don’t care. You never have, and you never will. And the fact that she has him is why you hate her. He sees that now.

Standing, your knees are at his eye level, forcing him to look away, forcing him to look up. You hold power in this stance, and he’s basically at your knees—worshiping you. He doesn’t like that. In one fast movement, he jumps up, towering over you, but that’s fine. It doesn’t matter. And he realizes he can never win when it comes to you because it seems you like that too.

He gulps. You grin.

“Doesn't matter.”

You’re playing a dangerous game.

It starts early in the morning and ends late at night. At times, he feels like a kid hiding behind his mum's skirt, practically sticking to Lily like superglue, and normally she loves that, but with how busy she is with graduation, she pushes him off most times now. It’s always: Oscar, no or Oscar, what now? He can’t seem to get it right.

“Why don’t you go jet skiing with Lando?” you speak up and he finds it weird that you’re helping him out. The British girl nods. Yeah! Why don’t you? He doesn’t need to be told twice.

They come back with fresh sunburns and a couple new freckles. Lando’s curls are hard from the sea salt, so he gives you a quick kiss, running up stairs for a quick shower. He’s been having lots of those. Not even a minute later, Oscar goes on to do the same.

Somewhere along the line, you hear your name, and you know what that means. Rolling your eyes, you look over at the blue eyed girl. “I bet you he forgot his towels—”

I forgot my towels!

Giggling, Lily shakes her head, muttering ‘boys’, then signals towards her room. “I just washed some, you can grab them from our cabinet.”

“Thanks,” you chirp, making your way. While yours and Lando’s room sits at the far right side of the hall, Oscar’s and Lily’s is on the left. And you never meant to walk in on him, not at all, but you did.

Swinging the door open, you’re caught face to face with a shirtless Oscar, dying his wet hair with a blue towel. He freezes. “W-what are you doing here?” he stutters.

You try not to stare, you really do, but you can’t help it. His body is solid, chiseled, even. His skin is moist from lathering lotion and that’s enough to make your head spin. And yet, you don’t let him see that. Pushing past him, you dig your hand deep into the cabinet, pulling two fresh towels, similar to his. He frowns.

“Just grabbing towels for my boyfriend.” Smile. “See you.”

Is this how you get people to fall for you? By not seeming desperate? Because while he knows that you want him, you sure don’t show it, and that definitely confuses him.

That same night, you four are watching a movie in the living room. Cherry Falls to be exact. The entire way through, you’re curled into Lando’s chest under a blanket. On the other side of the long couch, Lily and Oscar sit as straight as can be, but his arm remains over her shoulder, keeping her safe.

You’re not jealous over something like that, but when she flinches during certain scenes and he comforts her, that gets you. “Hey,” you start, whispering into the Brit’s ear. Green eyes are stuck on the screen, nodding robotically. Yeah? You kiss his warm skin, making him jump. “Why don’t you and I go to bed?”

“Bed?” he asks, slow and unsure where you’re headed. “Already? But…we’re halfway through.” You yawn, rubbing a hand along his thigh. He blushes, impressed with how cool you’re able to play it. Coughing, he nods excitedly. “I think we’re done for the day,” he announces, a bit too loud.

Lily pauses the movie, tilting her head curiously. “Aw, but we’re halfway through…”

“I know,” you add, smiling apologetically. “But I’m just so tired.”

“As am I!” Lando cuts you off, voice squeaky. He shakes his head, blinking hastily, then clears his throat. “But please, don’t let us stop you from finishing the movie.”

“Yeah,” you quip, getting up, about to walk away when Lando reaches for your hips, keeping you in front of him. It doesn’t take much to feel his bulge pressed against your ass. He laughs awkwardly. “We still have that picnic tomorrow, don’t we?”

“We do,” Lily cheers, smiling widely. “Oh, I’m so excited!” Turning to face the Australian, who hasn’t said much up until now, just stares blankly, she taps his knee. “We should probably go to sleep, too.”

“No!” Lando yelps, blushing bright red as the blue eyed girl frowns. “Keep on watching. Keep the telly on. In fact…” He reaches for the control. “Turn up the volume.”

“Great idea,” Lily says, pursing her lips as the numbers go up on the screen. “Alright then, you two go rest.”

“Thank you,” you reply, walking carefully in front of the British boy who still tries his best to hide behind you, waving sheepishly. “See you in the morning!”

Oscar really underestimated how naive Lily can be. While she was wide-eyed enough to believe that you two were ready to knock out, he knew the truth. Pecking her cheek, he makes a stand, making his girlfriend pout. “Where are you going? I thought we were gonna finish the movie?”

“We are,” he promises, smiling gently. “I’m just gonna run to the restroom real quick. Be right back.”

Running up the stairs, two steps at a time, he rushes to your side of the hall, quickly identifying small moans. He stops dead in his tracks, heart stuck in his throat, and he doesn’t know why.

Fuck, baby, he hears Lando groan. Oscar grimaces, shutting his eyes with discomfort. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn’t have his ear pressed against the door, intruding in your guys’ private sex life.

He shouldn't be bothered so much. Or at all.

Lando, you whine, surely writhing with pleasure. The sound makes him break a sweat, makes his brain go fuzzy. He can’t even think properly. And he knows this is wrong—on so many levels—but what’s worse is that he wishes Lando were dead.

Skin to skin contact makes his jaw clench with anger. The fact that he knows what you feel like makes him want to barge in and rip you two apart. And it dawns on him—why does he care so much?

“No,” he mutters, taking a step back as if the door were made out of lava. He blinks hastily, shaking his head harshly until he feels his brain jump from side to side. “God, no…”

It’s official—you have his attention.

Without even making a move.

You feel his gaze on you. You don’t even have to look and see to know that it’s him and not Lando. Lando’s gaze doesn’t burn, but his? His zaps. Looking up from where you rested on the red gingham blanket Lily rolled onto the fresh grass, you squint behind your glasses, making eye contact with the Australian.

You know you have him.

Reaching into your bag, you grab your sunscreen, squirting it onto your legs, making sure to lather it on in a teasing manner. You rub up and down, slow and steady. Briskly, he looks away, paying attention to his teammate who continues to ramble on and on about nothing in particular.

Not as particular as you.

“I love having you two around,” Lily says, ripping your gaze away like one would their band aid. She hums, gingerly fixing her floppy hat and motioning towards your sunscreen. Go right ahead. “Thank you,” she replies sweetly. A beat. “I have a favor to ask.” This get’s your attention. Furrowing your brows, you nod, urging her to continue. “So, I’m in a bit of a predicament.”

“What is it?”

Lily blushes, as if she’s too embarrassed to admit. “Remember how I skipped a few exams in order to extend my stay the first time we met? In order to have that dinner with both you and Lando?”

“Yeah,” you say, still uncertain about where this might possibly lead. “I think I do.”

She cringes. “I never took them.”

“What?”

“I know! And now my advisor is telling me I won’t be able to graduate if I don’t find a way to take them, and I don’t know what to do!” She groans, bumping the edge of her palm against her forehead. “Oh God, Oscar is going to be so mad at me.”

“Okay, calm down,” you soothe her. “Have you tried reaching out to your professor?”

“Not yet,” she mumbles, tears pooling the corner of her eyes, making you feel just a dash of pity. “Should I?”

“Yes,” you respond quickly. “You should. Ask them if there’s any way to take those exams. Say you’re sorry—like really sorry. They have to be able to tell that you never meant to skip out in the first place.”

“I didn’t,” she squeaks, voice wavering. “I’m not usually like this, but…” Her blue eyes flicker down to her lap, fingers playing nervously with the hem of her shirt. “I just really want to fix this and graduate on time. Everyone is counting on that!”

“You’re going to walk that stage, Lily, alright? You just need to keep your eye on the prize.” Sighing, you unlock your phone, handing it to her. “E-mail them right now.”

“O-okay,” she stutters, eyes softening. “Thank you for being such a great friend.”

You blink. “Oh. Yeah—anytime.”

She finds privacy back in the parking lot, leaving you alone with the boys deep in the horizon. It’s peak golden-hour, so they look significantly tan. You smile, lying back down, glasses hugging the curve of your nose. You’re halfway asleep at one point, but as soon as you feel a droplet fall onto you, you peek an eye open.

“Where’s Lily?” Oscar questions, furrowing his dark brows.

You roll your eyes. “She went to get something from the car.” She probably wouldn’t like Oscar knowing the truth, and you’re not one to tell it. You wave your hand dismissively. “Now move—you’re blocking the sun.”

Grinding his teeth, the Australian scoots, but his eyes remain down on you. You lay tan now, white bikini standing out against your skin. Brown eyes trails down your legs, spotting an ankle bracelet. He hums. “What’s it say?”

You sigh. “Could you be more specific?”

He kicks your feet, making you lean against your elbows, staring at him coldly. Noticing what he was referring to, you lick your lips. “It's the number four.”

“Four?” he asks plainly. “Why four?”

“I’m really trying to relax,” you spit, taking your sunglasses off and glaring. “You’d be doing me a huge favor if you just left me alone.”

Aren’t you supposed to want him? Aren’t you the one who's supposed to be chasing after him?

The tips of his ears burn bright red, and not from the sun. Seeing as he wasn’t leaving, you let out a heavy breath. “He asked me out on April fourth—fourth month, fourth day. His racing number is four.” You make a face. “Do you get it or do you need further explanation?”

He ignores the dig. “Why an ankle bracelet, though? Why not a ring or a necklace?”

Your red lips part open, then close. His guts twist with jealousy once he comes to the realization. The reason it’s an ankle bracelet its so that anytime he fucks you, legs dangled over his shoulders, he could admire it. Seeing as he figured it out without having you respond makes you blush.

“Ankle bracelets are my favorite.”

His eyes darken. “You know what? Next time you two fuck, why don’t you moan a little less loud?”

Your neat brows lift up with surprise. “How are you so sure we already did?”

He pauses, clearly caught on spying. He swallows. “You sound like a pornstar.”

“Is that supposed to be an insult?” You laugh. “Lando doesn’t seem to mind. In fact…” Biting down on your bottom lip, you blink innocently up at him as his breathing pattern becomes uneven. “He fucking loves it.”

God—what were you doing to him?

Just as he’s about to speak, Lando calls out for him and Lily calls out for you. Where are the beers, mate? The Australian spins back and lets out a lousy smile. “On it, give me a second!”

As he turns again, you’re already up on your feet, adjusting your bikini and throwing Lando’s shirt over your head. The sight alone irks Oscar more than he’d like to admit. “I should go see what Lily needs,” you sing teasingly. Spinning on your heels, you stop, cocking your head to the side and giving him one last glance. “Oh, and Oscar?”

You point down to his hard on imprinted on his short. Horrified, heat rushes to his cheeks.

“Don't get so excited over nothing.”

What appears to be the first time in her life, Lily lies to Oscar.

They need some last minute measurements for my cap and gown, she explains, puffing her cheeks as if the thought of flying back home is too much of a tassel, and not a necessity—she has to go back and take her exams. She had received an extension, but the only catch was that she had to take them in person, as originally planned. I’ll be back in a week.

The Australian tries to tag along with his girlfriend because the thought of being left alone to third wheel a couple who probably fucks 24/7 is too unbearble. But as expected, Lily declines, claiming it’d be rude for both hostesses to leave their guests behind. And all would’ve been fine if Lando’s father hadn't broken his clavicle playing rugby.

“Do you really have to leave?” you sigh, zipping his suitcase.

He nods. “Mum would kill me if I didn't show up.”

“I’ll miss you.”

A soft smile. Pecking your lips, his thumb rubs against your cheek lovingly. “I’ll be back before you know it. Time will fly by.”

Which is how you and Oscar find yourselves sharing a large house with a million desires. He's quick to note that you have a thing for summer dresses—and so does he, apparently. Jaw clenched, he carefully watches as you cut up a variety of fruit, humming as you prepare yourself a plate. You hum a soft melody, making him more and more intrigued to know what it was.

“Love in the Morning. Ennio Morricone,” he hears you say, munching on a slice of watermelon, walking towards the living room. There, on T.V., plays an unknown reality show, but he's not paying much attention, either way. No, his gaze is stuck on you, focused on the way you stretch your legs onto the coffee table, the rest of your upper body resting against the comfy couch. You swallow, reaching for a piece of mango. “One of my favorite instrumentals.”

It's one of his, too, and not because he knows it by heart, but because you do. Because you sound so beautiful, like a siren, when you hum it. He wonders if you're aware of the power you hold. Though, the way you ignore him lets him know that you do.

Against the sunlight, the one that peeks through the open window and summer skies, your ankle bracelet shines, blinding him, almost. He feels his chest grow tight—so much so, that it hurts to breathe regularly—and he has to remind himself that this isn’t normal—this isn’t normal.

Since when did you matter this much to him? Since when did you affect him this much?

Without a second thought, he claims a spot next to you on the couch, reaching for a berry and popping it in his mouth. You bite the inside of your cheek, somehow satisfied by this small action of his. “Tell me a bit about yourself.”

You blink, caught off guard. In all your time of knowing the Australian, he never once bothered to get to know you—really get to know you. He never cared, not even in the slightest. But now, in a turn of events, he does. Squinting suspiciously—teasingly—you shake your head, vanilla perfume radiating off your skin.

“No.”

His lips turn downwards. “No?”

“No,” you repeat, flipping through the channels, pretending he wasn’t even there. A click. “Why should I?”

Because suddenly, you’re the only one in my mind.

He bites down on his tongue, tasting a hint of blood. “I’m not into you, don’t flatter yourself.”

“I never said you were,” you say, a bored tone evident.

Oscar’s hands get clammy, thankful for having them pressed against his lap. Maybe he can still make a run for it. To his room. Back to Australia. He doesn’t even care where, exactly, but far, far, far from you. That way, he wouldn’t feel so grossed out in wanting to know more about his teammate's girlfriend. The one whom he never thought about once before this trip. And how can he even defend his honor?

You got into his head.

You don’t register what he’s doing—not instantly, at least—but before you know it, he’s pushing your legs off the coffee table, claiming a seat there, instead. Now, rather than having a clear view of the television, you have one of him. Large and desperate and perfect.

He narrows his eyes, sharp and threatening. “Are you glad that both Lily and Lando are gone?”

“Nope,” you respond, popping the p. “Why would I?”

Why would you? Geez, who really knows? Oh, maybe because now you have me all to yourself, and isn’t that what you wanted all along? Why don’t you want me anymore?

Slightly grinning, Oscar lets out a raw chuckle, making you want to jump onto his thick lap and lick up his neck. You bet it’d taste like salt and cologne, but the mere thought sounds like a dream. A wild, wild dream.

“I know you think about me.”

Zero reaction. Unimpressed, you push your bottom lip out, wagging your index finger at him before pressing it against his cheek, making him pause because that alone makes his skin burn. You push, forcing a dimple before doing the last thing he’d ever thought you’d do.

Slap him.

He thinks he’s imagining it, and you didn’t just do that, but the smug look on your face and the sting on his lets him know that he isn’t picturing it, and you did just do that. You smile sweetly, standing and ditching your place right in front of him, making your way towards the stairs.

“Get a life, Oscar. Not everything is about you.”

You like to mess with people’s sanity. That must be it because—what the fuck is wrong with you?

First, you insinuate lusting over him. Later, you put on a show for him every chance you get. And now? Now you toy with him, making him feel like the crazy one. And one thing’s for sure.

He is not crazy.

You barely have a foot up one stair when you’re pulled back, and before you know it, pushed down to sit on the step, the Australian kneeled down in front of you. You breath hitches, eyes as wide as cherry pies. His brows are drawn in softly, a pink tint dusting his ears like some shy teen.

“Maybe not—but everything is about you.”

You always knew you’d get him, and you knew exactly how you’d do it. You’d plant the seed and have him come running to you. It always works. I mean, it’s how you got Lando, after all.

But Lando was a want. Oscar is a need.

With his knees still glued onto the ground, the brunette leans down and kisses your ankle, laying his lips flat as you gasp softly, feeling the familiar bracelet dig into your skin.

“Tell me you think about me too,” he whispers pathetically—fragile. Another kiss, this time up your calf. “What do I have to do in order to get you to say it?”

“You’re insane,” you mumble, orbs stuck on the top of his head, shaggy hair hanging loosely before he looks up at you, past his lashes. Butterflies erupt.

Up your thigh, he licks you, tasting your lotion, but he doesn’t seem to mind the bitter taste. “Come on—I want you.” He sucks, forming a purple bruise. “Don’t you want me, too?”

You do. You fucking crave every piece of him. But you can’t let him know that. And you really do try your best to fight him off, but as soon as he starts curling his fist around your small dress, you’re just as good as gone.

A tiny moan rings through the air, then a pant follows. He’s barely even touched you and he’s already knocked the air straight from your lungs.

“I d-do, Oscar.” Whine. “I do want you.”

And just like that—he’s taken whatever power you were claiming onto—back.

Letting go of your dress, he chuckles, enjoying your out of breath state, and standing, making you feel small as you blink, confused as to why he stopped.

Dark eyes glint sinisterly as he kicks your open legs together, not too hard, but still enough to make you jolt with surprise, leaning your elbows up against the step, brows furrowed.

A beat. “You really are a pretty little thing.”

And with that, he walks away, leaving you to feel abandoned.

It’s a brutal game of tug-of-war. One where both of your guys’ hands are burning from trying not to be the first to let go.

The first to admit defeat.

Though, it seems like the days grow longer, your dresses fall shorter, and his mind is hazier. All of which is making it more difficult to keep a distance. That is, until Lily FaceTimes Oscar.

“I need you to buy some flowers.”

Mid-bite, his teeth push down on his apple, eyes glued on her. He pulls away, drying his mouth with the back of his hand. “Won’t they dry out before the party?”

She shakes her head, highlighting what looks to be a set of notes. “That's why you're going to get carnations. They last longer.”

“Is that so?” he entertains, smiling gently when she bites down on her marker, brows furrowed as she reads her piece of paper. Throwing away what's left of his fruit, he hums. “Alright, I’ll take care of it tomorrow, don't worry.”

“Oh no, tomorrow won’t work. You have to do it today.”

He frowns. “Why?”

“Because she's only available today. She's going dress shopping tomorrow.”

He doesn't even have to ask who she is because he already knows. Shaking his head adamantly, the Australian rejects her idea before it even has a chance to lift off the ground. “I could do it myself,” he snaps, his usually tranquilent voice coming out a bit harsher than intended. And it’s not like him. He never, ever, speaks to Lily this way. So, obviously, it surprises her, a wounded expression mapping out immediately.

And she could have been mad. She really could have been mad—but she wasn’t. “Is everything okay?” she asks carefully, as if walking on eggshells. It makes him feel like shit. “What's wrong, Oscar?”

“I…” His tongue goes numb. The vivid image of you looking at him, like you hold him in the palm of your hand, comes through. And he doesn’t completely hate it, not right away. But once the British girl hums softly through the phone, he’s ashamed. “I just wish you were here. I miss you.”

A beat, then: I love you.

You had not been the biggest fan of going floral shopping with Oscar, either. Quite frankly, you didn't think being with him for hours on end was a good idea. At least, here in the house, you could escape, but out in the open, your chances were ironically not that good. Where would you run off to if you depended on him for a ride back?

Yet, you found yourself saying yes, and you didn’t know why. You had no clue why you felt the need to help her out. You had no clue why you felt a certain way towards her all of sudden.

You had no clue when Lily Zneimer—the girl you're supposed to hate—was someone you saw as a friend.

It was a tough pill to swallow, because on one hand, you were still attracted to her boyfriend. But on the other hand, you suddenly had self-control. You didn't want to ruin their relationship anymore. You didn't want to lose her amity.

You were trying to be better.

“Ready?”

Looking up from your book, you nod. “Let me just go grab my sunglasses.”

As he watches you run upstairs, he feels something—different. From your end, that is. As if something has shifted. But he doesn’t have much time to dwell on it, because before he knows it, you’re back.

The car is quiet and his music can barely even be heard, but nothing is far more awkward than the tension between you two. It’s suffocating, so much so, you roll down the window. He makes a noise, making you tilt your head to look at him. He’s frowning. “It’s a hundred degree’s out, roll it back up. I can turn on the AC.”

You don’t utter a single word, just follow his instructions. He finds that weird. See, usually, you’d be doing something to get him hot and bothered, but these days you seem to be playing it safe. If anything, he should be thankful. He should be glad that you’ve left him alone for whatever reason.

But now he wants in on your game.

“How’d you meet Lando?”

“Don’t. We don’t have to talk.”

He ignores you. “I met Lily in school. She was in the class next to mine and I used to think she was the most beautiful girl in the world.” His mind panics as soon as he realizes what he’s just said, but you don’t seem to have done the same. A cough. “How’d you meet Lando?”

Seeing as he probably wasn’t going to let this go unless you answer his question, you sigh, twisting your body and adjusting yourself to have a good view of him. Like this, you can count every mole on his skin if you really wanted to, but you don’t. “I never really met Lando, per se. I just always…knew him, I guess.” His brows furrowed and you chuckle. “We grew up as neighbors.”

“You did?” he asks, brows jumping up with shock. “I had no idea.”

“Yeah,” you mumble, chewing on your bottom lip. “He was my sister’s boyfriend for two years.” This shouldn’t surprise him. Coming to a red light, he turns to look at you, fighting the urge to show any kind of reaction, he doesn’t want to scare you off. You look away, wincing. “I knew what I was ruining the moment he and I started talking behind her back, and I did it anyway.”

“So…they were still dating?”

Nod. “She caught us locked up in the bathroom. There really wasn’t any explanation to that.” Green flashes as you point numbly and he steps on the gas once again. “And you know what? I didn’t even feel all that bad, and you want to know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I got what I wanted.”

I love knowing that I can get away with it—get what I want, that is.

Your words from nights ago replay inside his overly crowded mind, making it pound like a sore thumb. His lips open, but he has nothing to say, and it appears you’re done talking, too. Or so he thought.

“Oscar…” you whisper. “I can’t taint another relationship.”

He keeps his eyes on the road, jaw slacked. You don’t want him anymore. You want nothing to do with him. Shouldn’t he be pleased? Shouldn’t he be ecstatic that your diabolical plan has expired? One you never admitted to, but still.

So then why does he feel let down?

“Lily is great,” you continue, eyes closed as you nod gingerly. “She’s the best, and she deserves the friend she thinks she has.”

“Except you two aren’t friends.”

You blink. “Wh-wha—yes we are. What are you talking about?”

He grits his teeth. “You two aren’t friends. You could never be.”

This gets a rise out of you. Straightening your back, your brows pinch together with offense. “And why not?”

“Because.”

“Because?” You scoff, not impressed by his bland response. “We can’t be friends simply ‘because’?”

Switching lanes, he huffs, spotting pink carnations in his rear view mirror. You had chosen those on Lily’s behalf. He didn’t really care at the moment, but now he wishes you had gone with white. What were you two arguing about again?

Spotting the familiar blue house, he lets out a breath, pulling into the driveway, quickly putting the car in park, and turning off the ignition. This almost makes you back down because suddenly his sole focus is on you, not the road.

“You’re on my mind.”

Oh. Biting down onto your bottom lip, you shake your head. “I’m n—”

“Yes,” he says, firmly, reaching for your hands and pulling them up to his mouth, kissing them over and over. “You are and you know it.”

“Oscar, no…” you let out, trying to pull away, but his grip tightens. A crazed look colors his irises as his chest rises fast, up and down, as if he’s close to hyperventilating. Bewildered, your lips turn to a downward spiral. “You don’t know what you’re saying—”

“Yes, I do!” he yelps, voice cracking as you stare with shock. “You did this to me, you got in my head on purpose!”

“I didn’t do anything!” you squeal, frightened by his tone. “Did I tell you that I wanted you?”

“You implied it,” he defends rapidly, pleading with eyes for you to show any signs of recollection. “What changed?”

“I already told you,” you snap, this time using all your power to yank your hands back. “I don’t want to be this way anymore. I can’t.”

Silence.

Slow breaths explore the car as he stares blankly. “That’s not fair.”

“What isn’t fair?” you hiss, aiming a glare.

Oscar shakes his head, flinging his door open and hopping out, leaving you dumbfounded as you watch him go. Unbuckling yourself, you make a beeline for him, barely even reaching him as you tug on his shirt, making him turn back with a dark look in his eyes. Your heart nearly flat lines from how scared you are of him from this point of view.

“What isn’t fair, huh?” you ask, trying to sound brave, but there’s a slight tremble in your voice.

Glowering down on you, the Australian’s lips form a slow smile, almost in a sinister way. Mocking, too. He chuckles to himself. “You like to have your own fun, don’t you?” Your shoulders drop, taking a clumsy step back, but he takes a dominating one forward. “Yeah…you do. You get to knead your fingers into someone’s brain until all they can think about is you, and once they do, you’re out.” Pause. “It’s no longer fun.”

“That’s not—” You let out a shaky breath, wincing at his accuracy. “Where are you going with this?”

Oscar shrugs, broad shoulders going up before falling sourly. “I’m gonna do the same.”

You freeze, stomach twisting with trepidation. “Huh?”

He nods, clicking his tongue. “How come you only get to have your fun?” He leans down, coming eye level with you, and narrowing his gaze until you see his iris dilate. Something about that sends a shiver down your spine. “Why can’t I do the same, too?”

Taking a step back, he makes sure to send a sly smile, the kind that lets you see he has a hidden dimple. He sighs as he steps into the house, forcing you to watch him go with a smug reaction and leaving you with a poor one. Last minute, he turns around, inclining against the doorframe, making him appear larger than the world.

Oscar squints teasingly.

“I’m going to have you begging me to fuck you.”

There was a moment in the past week where you nearly fell for it—almost.

It happened one morning, and all he had done was walk into the house, all big and sweaty. He had just come back from a run.

“Excuse me,” he says, reaching over to grab a glass from the cabinet, intending to pour himself a bit of water. A certain warmth radiates off him and you feel it cling onto you immediately, pushing you towards him. You physically have to stop yourself.

Pursing your lips, you move, allowing him to easily grab what he needs. Without a single thank you, he hums, the cool water tasting heavenly. The way his Adam’s Apple juts up and down makes you want to scream, looking away as rub your eyes fiercely. He smiles, setting the glass down. “I need your opinion on something.”

“What is it?” you ask, still not looking. Maybe you should leave to go buy your dress for the party. Time is running out, and you have nothing. Though, at this point, you didn't want to be here anymore.

“It's about Lily’s graduation gift. Should I get her a necklace with her birthstone, or—”

An ankle bracelet with my number on it?

Immediately, you turn to face him, cheekbones beet red and a slight twitch in your eyes, those that are now dark and looming. Satisfaction plays a role in his features as he stares innocently. “I was leaning towards the ankle bracelet. I really do think you and Lando are onto something.”

“What’s your game?” you ask, bitterness evident in your tone. Your question takes him back to when he was the one asking it. To you. Neat brows furrow with anticipation.

The brunette shrugs. “I don't have one. I'm just here to have fun.” He smirks. “It's summer—isn't it?”

This is all a bad case of deja vu, one you don't find appealing. How dare he ask you something like this with a dirty smile on his face? The look is just the right amount of disgusting, and the right amount of intriguing.

He was getting to you.

Clicking your tongue, you roll your eyes. “Whatever your plan is—stop it.” Pointing a finger, you shake your head firmly. “Because it's not going to work on me.”

“It’s not?” he asks, closing the gap and towering over you dangerously so. He sees the way your breathing becomes a tad bit irregular, letting him know that this was working, no matter how much you denied it. “Because you’re a better friend now? Because you got one taste of loyalty and now you've decided to be loyal to yourself?” A large hand reaches for your chin, forcing your head to tilt back and look up at him. And you hate how handsome he is in an infuriating moment like this. “People don't change overnight. I doubt you'd be the first.”

Old habits die hard, but over time, and he's right. You're still the same avaricious girl as yesterday.

Pushing his thumb against the corner of your lips, you instinctively open your mouth, making room. A soft smile tugs at his own lips as his eyes admire your lipstick coating his finger. Slowly, he eases the digit in, feeling your wet tongue hug it. And then, suck.

“Fuck,” he groans beneath his shaggy breath, brown orbs not wanting to miss a single second of this. Humming, your vibrations send a chill down his spine, finding it harder to not bend you over amd just fuck you into oblivion. But no—he had to hear you say it.

Pink tongue laps around his thumb, doe eyes blinking prettily, lashes fluttering like butterflies. Instant jealousy enters the room as his mind begins to race with the fact that Lando has probably had you like this millions of times. He pushes down on your tongue, making you whine and bite down. And he doesn't even flinch.

“Tell me you want me…” His brows knit with need. “The same way I want you. Please, just—say it.”

Without warning, you bite down hard, this time getting a reaction out of him as he grunts with pain, and you push him away harshly until his back pounds against the nearest wall, letting out a loud thud.

“Let me tell you one thing, Oscar,” you start, strolling over to him like a fallen angel. Today you wear a white dress, clung to your body like a glove, allowing him to see every curve of yours, in return, making his palms sweat. You grin, reaching him. “You won't ever see me begging for anyone—especially you.” His stomach drops. “No matter how much I want this to happen, too.”

Are you willing to get down on your knees and supplicate?

The answer is an obvious one for him: yes. He’d spend hours at your feet if that meant having you, for even just a second. Normally, he isn't this submissive, nor this desperate, but it seems like only you bring this side out of him. He doesn't entirely hate it.

“Ye—”

Ring! Ring!

Sighing, you walk up to your phone that sits on the nearest counter, and pick it up. “Hi, baby,” you greet sweetly. “How’s Adam?”

Ring! Ring!

Digging into his back pocket, he curses, picking up. “Hello, darling,” he says warmly, making you flicker your gaze over at him with accusation. “How’s everything going?”

Turns out, Adam’s bone wasn't actually broken and Lily had aced her exams. She ended up telling Oscar the truth, to which he was surprised she had kept it hidden from him for so long, but was far more surprised when she told him that you knew. Long story short, by some twist of fate, they’ll be back in the next couple of days. They land on the same day, so they’ll save the Australian the hassle and just drive in together.

“See you in a couple of days. Alright. Bye,” you say, rubbing your temples.

Oscar looks up, chewing the inside of his cheek before letting go. “I’ll see you, then. Fly safe.”

A moment passes by. “Did she tell you—”

“That they’re flying in together? Yeah. They were both in London, after all. It makes sense.”

“Sure,” you mumble, brushing a strand of hair away. “They land Wednesday, then?”

“Correct,” he says, nodding along. It’s already Monday, so that was…soon.

Too soon.

“I should probably start fixing up the arrangements,” you announce. “Lily asked me a couple of days ago, but I haven't gotten around to it. I just pray they haven't died yet.”

“They haven't,” he states, making you curl a brow. He smiles sheepishly. “Carnations last longer. Lily said so.”

“Of course,” you say, grinding your teeth. “Lily said so, so it must be true.”

Nothing more, nothing less. You just walk towards the flowers, and feel the irritation paint your silhouette, because as expected, Lily was right—like always.

Thing is, Oscar has come to learn your behavior. The way you tell a lie, the way you tell the truth. He's learned your body language, and right now, he can tell one thing for sure.

You never stopped hating Lily.

He smiles.

And that makes him happy. Because he knows this isn't over yet.

By Tuesday, the entire setup is ready. The flowers sit beautifully at every table, and the lights hang nicely around the trees. The sound of the lake singing is your only reminder that you could use a break. And apparently, it was also Oscar’s.

“The event decorators just left. But you did an excellent job with the florals,” he adds last minute.

A hum. “I tried my best.”

The dock creaks. The frog's ribbit. The crickets harmonize. And you two are too close to one another. Your shoulders brush, making you flinch and for him to cough awkwardly. “Despite everything, I had fun having you around. A summer well spent, don't you think?”

With a deadpan expression, you turn to look at him, making him laugh, and the corners of your lips fight back a smile. You haven't heard him laugh in so long, you come to realize. In all sincerity, that is. “It was alright,” you respond, shrugging it off as if nothing. “But yeah. I had fun, too.”

Fun teasing each other. Fun trying to get each other to crack. But fun, nonetheless.

And he thinks: if not now, when? You don't know at what moment he catches you off guard, but he does, because in a single second, he's kissing with urgency. Like he's never kissed anyone before and he was making sure to get it right. And it was more than right. Heat pools in between your legs as you try your best to keep up with him, but the taste of cheap beer makes you get high on life. Since when is he much of a drinker?

Since you.

The good thing is that the entrance back to the house isn't that far, so your guys’ tumble is pretty successful. Though, you don't make it to either’ bedroom, but rather the couch, where a bunch of disposables lay. Lily had them shipped a couple days ago. Says she wants as many pictures as possible, savor the memories for a lifetime.

Without any precaution, he wipes his arms across the cushion, sending the cameras to crash against the floor and throwing you onto the couch, smiling once you squeal with excitement. All except one camera—but neither of you notice that yet.

Your soft hair lays around you like a halo, making him wonder if he’s gone straight to heaven. You gesture him to come in closer, and he’s quick to obey, diving for your neck. You giggle, a lazy hand finding its way into his locks. “No marks,” you pant, squirming as he licks a line down your throat before going up towards your lips.

“No marks,” he confirms. “On your neck.”

You pause momentarily, disattaching your mouth from his. “No marks anywhere.” He grins, nodding just because. You frown. “I’m serious, Oscar.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles. “Sure.”

Then, he’s on his knees, kissing your ankle like that one time on the stairs, except now, he’s taking it nice and slow. Steady. Your mind grows dizzy as he grazes his fingers gently down your skin. It sends goosebumps, seeing him like this. So…submissive.

“I never wanted you,” he whispers as he presses his pink lips onto your left ankle this time. He hums. “You were just another girl to me. My teammate’s girlfriend—that’s it.” Another kiss. “You never crossed my mind, not even once.”

And now…

Making his way up, he kisses in between your thighs, nuzzling into your warmth. You let out a weak moan, chest rising raggedly. Playing with his earlobe, you massage it gently as you try your best not to ruin this moment. Though it seems like nothing could. Not when he’s devoted to it already. And so were you.

Feeling a slight burn, you furrow your brows as you spot him sucking gently against your inner thighs. You squirm, pushing his head away as he keeps his position. “I said no marks.”

And you actually feel his smile start to spread against your skin.

“He won’t see these, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Another suck, this time harder. “Well…unless you want him to. Then that’s your decision.” Looking past his lashes, he bites down on the flesh, making you flinch. “So what? Are you gonna let him see how someone else has fucked you while he was gone?”

Pulling your panties to the side, he dips his tongue into your pussy, making your hips fly off the couch, and for him to push them back down, holding you in place. Sloppily, he kisses it—practically making out—and groans like a madman with the way you taste. Your sweet nectar makes his cock grow hard instantaneously, and he can’t help but grind against the edge of the cushion where your legs hang.

“Holy.” Whine. “Fucking.” Moan. “Shit.” Groan.

Twisting with an obscene amount of pleasure, you tangle a shaky hand through his hair, ignoring how soft it feels. The need to run away and stay is a confusing pattern, but as soon as he adds a finger, curling it just the right amount, you let out a high pitched moan.

Just like that, Oscar, just like t-that.

Adding another digit, he picks up the pace of his tongue, drawing figure eights as the knot in your stomach burns brutally. You feel a white cloud surface over your eyes as they close, screwed shut as if that might help you last longer. But he knows what your body needs, and that itself was an alarming thing to realize.

With one last mewl, you finish all over his tongue as he licks you clean, not wasting a single drop. And the way you taste—makes him not want to go back to not knowing. With a smile filled with bliss, and that familiar afterglow, you giggle, nose scrunching like a bunny as your cheeks remain as red as a rose. The sight alone makes him struggle to comprehend that this is most likely a one time thing, and not something he’ll be able to relieve whenever he wants.

At the end of the day—you're not his.

But he can still reminisce about this moment from time to time.

Mid-giggle, a flash goes through as you come to a stop. Oscar grins, shaking the green disposable, showing it off. “Beautiful. You’re absolutely beautiful.”

Your breath hitches, his words tugging at your heart strings. You haven't experienced something like that in so long. Shaking your head, you push your dress down, climbing off the couch and pushing him to sit. “I like to play fair.” Sliding down to your wobbly knees, you shoot a gentle smirk, something that makes his cock grow painfully harder. “Let me take care of you, Oscar.”

Undoing his belt, you hurriedly unzip his jeans, fighting the urge to take him completely. You don’t, though. No, you first kiss the tip, making him groan, feeling as if pushing you head down is a good idea. Then, you suck at a comfortable speed, like a baby sucking their thumb, and watch past your lashes how his chest begins to rise slowly.

“You’re huge,” you hum, pecking it. “How am I gonna fit you into my small mouth?”

Moaning, the brunette drags a hand over his tired expression, faking a smile. “You’re saying you can’t?”

You suck harder, still treating it like a lollipop. Licking his tip like a kitten licks their bowl clean. It’s starting to cut his patience thin. “I can figure it out…”

I’ve done it with Lando. How much harder can this be?

That’s it. Pushing the back of your head, he forces you to deepthroat him, keeping you in place as you drool on either side of his lap, soft gurgles coming through. You try to push off him, but it seems like that makes him shove you down twice as hard.

“Something to say, baby?” he pants under his breath, raising a brow. “What was that?”

Slapping his thigh, tapping out, you find yourself being pulled off of him, dragged onto his lap as in one swift movement, he pushes your panties to the side once again and thrusts his thick cock deep inside of you. So much happens so fast that you barely have a chance to adjust to his girth.

“Does Lando make you feel half as much as I make you feel?”

He’s not talking about sex. It hasn’t been about sex for a while now.

Moaning, you bounce up and down, your hair hanging like a curtain as you give your best to keep up with him and his rhythm. But he practically controls you, snapping his hips up with anger. At least, that’s what it feels like.

“Does he make you feel good?”

“Yes,” you sigh against his ear as you clutch an arm around his shoulder, keeping as steady as possible. “He does.”

But you make me feel better.

The sound of your praise does something to him, something inexplicable. And while he can’t quite put a name to it, he does know that you’re telling the truth. You had to be.

Again, pulling you off his swollen cock, he flips you around, having you use him as a chair as he squeezes his girth into your tight pussy, strong arms looping under your legs and spreading them open as he abuses your cunt, feeling your head fall back as you gasp.

“F-fuck,” you shriek, head bopping with each thrust, and your throat growing dry. “Fuck me—fuck me.”

“I’m trying,” he chuckles, continuing as you try your best to understand how he was able to learn that he knew how to do all this. “Look at you. Just…look at you.”

There comes a time of life where someone is meant for you, and you’ll find your way to each other, no matter what. He’d like to think that it’s true. Sure. It is. But have you ever thought that maybe it’s not?

Maybe the person you think you’re supposed to be with is busy thinking the same thing as you? Living a full life with someone else who isn’t their soulmate? Romantically, that is.

Lando and Lily. They’re both place holders. They’re nice, yeah, and they’re amazing, too—but that’s about it.

You hold his entire destiny.

He just wants to live by it.

But the way he has you—it’s temporary. And nothing good ever lasts forever. But God, he really fucking wishes it did.

Close, he hears you whisper, followed by a squeal as he holds your legs up higher, still fucking you in the same position. So, so close.

“Not. Yet.”

Hauling you off, you’re quick to whine, feeling empty as he spreads you onto the couch, admiring your glistening lips. He presses a thumb down against your bud, feeling the pulse that enlightens him to smile. You copy him, toying with your dress.

“Should I—”

“Keep it,” he says firmly. A beat. “Please. Keep it.”

When you nod, your hair only gets tangled against the cushion, but that’s the least of your worries. You frown. “You haven’t cum yet…”

“I will, don’t worry.” Silence. Pushing this thumb inside, you squirm, wincing slightly as your eyes remain on him, waiting for his next move. “Open.”

Opening your legs wider, he chuckles, shaking his head. Your mouth. You gulp, then open wide as he hums, bringing his wet finger into your mouth, making you taste yourselves. And normally, you’d be grossed out. God, you don’t let Lando even do this, but something about Oscar makes you feel okay. That, and like a pathetic freak.

“Good, no?” It’s an awkward thing to ask, you can’t help but blush against his digit, lashes fluttering. The Australian tsks, pressing his large finger against your tongue as your eyes grow wide. “Right?”

In a heartbeat, you nod because it just felt like the right thing to do. Satisfied, he smiles, taking another photo of this beautiful sight. Your eyes are round and full of life, and slightly teary, and that’s what he likes to see.

Retracting his thumb, he smirks. He makes room for both of you on this small couch, towering over you and he starts raising both your legs over your shoulders. Your stomach twists.

“I wanna see it when I fuck you.”

With your dresses scrunched up, and his cock cutting you in half, you both moan in sync as the wet sounds echo through the hall of the empty house. And this wouldn’t have happened—probably ever—if you hadn’t accepted their invitation to spend the summer in North fucking Carolina.

The number four dangles, and not only is the sounder a reminder that it’s there, but he can spot it from his peripheral vision every time he pounds into you a little harder. And he should be jealous—God knows that’s true—but surprisingly, he’s not.

Because he’s heard the way Lando fucks you. And nothing—nothing—compares to now.

It feels as if he’s practiced moves like this for a lifetime. As if he were to promise you that this could all work out, then you’d believe him.

You really would.

A sloppy thrust. “I never wanted you to begin with,” he grunts, screwing his eyes shut as your body reacts to his harsh confession. “I saw you with Lando, and I felt absolutely nothing. I had Lily to focus on. But God—what have you done to me?”

His tip seems to find your g-spot as you cry out, withering around. “I was taught to respect others. To respect what’s theirs. Whether that be a journal, or a remote control car, it didn’t matter. But you do,” he confesses, watching as you continue to whimper, probably not catching any of this anymore. “You did this to me…”

You filled me with greed.

Grabbing your ankles, he lurches them over his left shoulder as he continues to pound into your tight cunt, hearing you gasp before erupting into a string of moans.

“Now, everything he has, I want.” You whine. “I’m going after his Championship.” You whine louder, eyes opening as you watch a bead of sweat roll down his nose. “I’m going after his team.”

Oscar chuckles darkly. “And I’d love to say that I’m going after you, but hey…looks like I already have you.”

And just like that, the pit in your stomach bursts as you two clash against one another, your orgasms riding out together as your legs finally fall, but not before he makes sure to press a gentle kiss.

A flash.

“Really?” you ask, glaring.

“Stick your tongue out.”

Without any questions, where you lay, you open your mouth, watching as he stands up to tower over you, jerking his cock one last time as his drops of cum fall against your tongue, white and thick.

Your eyes flicker with excitement as he makes sure to take a picture. If he can’t have you later, or probably ever again, then he’ll make sure that he gets an angle of you that only he could ever dream of years down the line.

Pulling his pants back up, he makes sure to clean you up before making you sit, him only a few inches away, but honestly, it feels like miles. All of a sudden, he’s distant, which shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it does.

Biting down onto your wobbly lip, you comb your fingers through your hair—you’re doing your own after care.

“I know things with us won't ever be the same, but…” You wince. “Please don’t treat Lando any differently. He sees you as a brother.”

He flinches because he knows it's true. Of course it is, everybody knows it. Oscar nods in agreement. “Only if you promise to stop hating Lily.”

You snort. “Sure. Sounds fair.”

The sound of tires is what ultimately gets your two to spring up, rushing towards the window as you look onto the driveway. Laughing, you first see Lily, then Lando, then you frantically twist your heels to face the Australian who remains with a blank expression, clearly not expecting them.

“They were supposed to be here tomorrow, you said!” you hiss, rubbing your temples. “What the fuck?”

“They must’ve upgraded their tickets to get here sooner,” he shoots back, running a hand through his sweaty hair. He grimaces. “Hurry! Help me pick up the disposables from the floor!”

“Right!” you screech, running toward the living room as you fall onto your knees, picking up the cameras and tossing them back onto the couch. Oscar does the same, but with his eyes stuck in the door, waiting for a knock.

Knock! Knock!

Freezing, you two look at each other, as if debating whether to make a run for it together or not. Though, as soon as you hear Lando call out for you, you’re sure you have no chance. Taking one last glance at the pile of cameras, you huff, skipping towards the door, fixing your knot up hair as best as possible.

“Hey!” you greet, nearly over exaggerating, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he beams, grinning from ear to ear. Lando pecks your lips, lingering for a moment, making your heart drop. Because he can’t know—can he? Distancing himself, he wears a subtle frown, sort of there, sort of not, so you’re quick to smile. “I’m so happy you’re back.” You turn to face Lily, who’s stayed in the background, letting you have your moment. “That you’re both back.”

“It's nice seeing you, too,” she says before her eyes wander to a place behind you. Suddenly, her eyes twinkle as she grins at Oscar who comes closer with lips drawn into a firm line. “Look who just woke up from a nap.” Kissing his cheek swiftly, she tippy toes, fixing his messy hair into a neat comb over. “You look as if you got into some kind of bar fight.”

“Yeah,” Lando hums, looking over at you with dark eyes. “It sort of does…”

“We were fixing the outside tables—”

“We were fixing the floral arrangements—”

Lily and Lando quirk a glance at each other, then back towards you and Oscar whose faces are flushed. Oscar coughs, scratching the back of his neck. “Why don’t you guys come and check it out?”

“Yes, please!” Lily squeals, already making her way out the door, the Australian not that far behind.

Sighing, you go on to follow as well, but there’s this hold on your wrist that just won’t let go. You spin, staring at Lando who clenches his jaw.

“Did you fuck him?”

You flinch. “No—I didn’t.”

Blue eyes fill with warning as he nods, silently thinking to himself before rubbing his chin harshly. “Don’t lie to me. I know what you’re capable of.”

This physically makes you feel sick, ashamed that he knows you for being a lying cheater. “You’re one to talk,” you shoot back, wishing to take it back as soon as it comes out. He raises a brow, clearly surprised. You gulp. “You’re capable of doing the same thing as me, aren’t you? Isn’t that why we’re together?”

“We’re together because I love you.”

“Yeah, well, I love you, too. I’ve literally given up the relationship I had with my sister—for you.” Taking his hands into yours, you knit your brows together softly, and just like that, he melts. “I love you, Lando. There's no need for anyone else.”

Looking past the clear window, Oscar stares at you and the Brit, who share a hug, taking occasional loving pecks as if nothing else matters.

As if his feelings aren't worth anything.

“I love it,” Lily says, ripping his gaze from getting hurt any further. Because that’s what this has all led to —him getting hurt. She grins happily, making her way closer. “I really appreciate you two working on this together, it all looks so wonderful.”

Guilt makes his tongue trip as he tries to say something, but when all fails, he settles with a warm smile, pulling her against his chest, kissing the top of her head. “I’d do anything for you, Lily Zneimer.”

With your head resting on Lando’s shoulders, you look out to where the couple stand, in the same embrace. This makes your eyes sting, which is silly because—why do you feel so invalidated?

Despite being so far apart, you and Oscar are still able to connect, looking at each other with a certain yearning. This is not what this was supposed to be. The Australian would have never dreamt of any other girl that wasn’t Lily, so what happened?

“I love you,” Lando mumbles, securing his hold on you.

“I love you,” Lily mumbles, face pressed against his heart, feeling it thump fiercely.

You spare Oscar a smile, and Oscar spares you the same. And neither of you two can bring yourselves to lie.

So, instead, neither of you say it back.

It all comes crashing down on you one Sunday morning.

By now, Lily has graduated, summer is over, and you’re back in Monaco. And for some reason, Lando offered to help get Lily’s picture’s developed. He knew a guy who’d get him a nice discount, apparently. Film is expensive as it is, so of course the British girl accepted.

You’re sitting outside on the balcony. It’s windy today, and you should probably go back inside, but the ocean looks particularly blue today, so you decide to stay.

Curling yourself tighter with your blanket, you sigh, staring numbly, mind racing. Because this is a daily occurrence now.

All. You. Think. About. Is. Him.

Him and his obnoxious smile. Him and his warm brown eyes. Him and his chuckle that sounds dry to everyone else, but lively to you.

Just…him.

And without a doubt, Lando has figured out that something was wrong with you, but he never asked questions.

Until now.

“Hey,” he says, plopping down next to you, pressing his lips against your temple quickly before smiling. “Have you been here all day?”

You blush, shivering by the sudden breeze. “If I say no, would you believe me?”

“Yes,” he admits, clicking his tongue. “Because apparently I believe almost everything you have to say.”

Including your lies.

You hear him, but his voice is muffled by now with all that you’re feeling. He handed you an envelope, and you first opened it with curiosity, then with dread and shame when you realized what was inside.

The film.

You’re laughing, eyes shut with delight.

Your lips are wrapped around his thumb.

Around his cock, too.

Drops of cum lay flat on your tongue.

One where his head is beneath your dress.

One of his hands wrapped around your ankles, a certain number four glimmering.

All of this, and more.

Licking your lips repeatedly, you sit up, staring at him with an open mouth. “Lando—”

“I’m not mad.”

You blink.

He shrugs, taking the pictures, making you want to snatch them back and figure out what to do with them yourself. How could you and Oscar forget to set this one aside?

He can tell that you’re mortified, so he sends a reassuring smile, but it does no good. “I’m not, alright? I’m just…disappointed.” His reaction is confusing, he can tell what you’re thinking. Why is he so okay with this? “I’m not the biggest fan of you lying to me, but whatever, it’s fine.”

“And sure, I should be furious that you two went behind my back, and maybe I am—but I’m willing to let it go because I love you.” The blue eyed boy pecks your lips, you still frozen with shock. He chuckles. “This is what I get, right? This is my karma? For sleeping with you while I was still dating your sister?”

When you still don’t say anything, he nods to himself, as if this is all making sense to him, and only him. “Must be.” A beat. “I forgive you.”

“What about him?” you squeak, scared of his response.

Lando clenches his jaw before breaking into a helpless smile. “He doesn’t have to know, I know. This will just remain between you and I—just like always. He doesn’t have to know. Lily doesn’t have to know.”

You hold yourself from crying because in a way, he’s right. Out of everyone, Lily Zneimer doesn’t deserve any of this. She has been nothing but good to you, and you’re embarrassed to notice now that you ruined a perfectly good friendship. And while she may have no clue, you do, and that’s enough for you to probably wince every time you look at her from now on.

“Just don’t do it again. M’kay?”

Rubbing his thumb against your lips, it’s almost like he’s waiting for something, but when you don’t seem to do whatever he was thinking, his eyes darken, and he gets up with a bitter smile.

He takes the pictures with him and you don’t know what for.

But you don’t dare ask a single question.

It’s just you. Your thoughts.

And Oscar.

taglist: @blueflorals @starmanv @coolio2195 @lovrsm @weekendlusting @chanshintien @brune77e @myownwritings @timmychalametsstuff @milasexutoire @alesainz @c-losur3 @darleneslane @togazzo @urfavnoirette @namgification @lpab @d3kstar @anniee-mr @nebarious @notkaryna @wanderingreigns @aykxz98 @ruti26-11 @esposamultifandom @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @r0nnsblog @aeriblu @inchidentofftrack @natashaklein @rutaceae-gelato @bowielovesyou @lilypat @folklaur21 @dustie-faerie @ajordan2020 @oscobabe @briefkittenearthquake @anayaverse

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cursedthing · 1 year ago

Text

.the fics wordcount is now 2209. pretty sure that's more than 23 mc book and quill pages

#.nayways gonna stop for now to go shower. might rewrite the end as well. we'll see #.actually we might even touch up on the beginning as well because it wasn't really up to what we wanted it to be like #.very much ''okay so gonna do this um dont know what to write here so''#.not the VERY beginning but like. before the looking back #.we mean. it's fine if it stays like this! it's better than the first draft. but we sort of want to it be omre fun?#.i guess?#.just. thinks back to all the constructive criticizm on our writing in the past. dont want it to be too detached nor too familiar to be #.annyoing to say the least #.big sigh. prolly shouldnt be thinking about this too much.#mjers void choir

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bluetimeombre · 2 months ago

Text

☽｡⋆ If you need my love ｡⋆☽

. You were growing up in a house with little love, but luckily Joel Miller was living across the road and he was always there to pick up the pieces.

this is a long one, 8k but i had so much fun writing it, might do a part two. i hope you enjoy!

warnings: smut, fluff, angst. neglectful parents, obsessed Joel, needy Joel, no outbreak au, oral (f! receiving) older joel, younger reader, drinking, p in v sex (unprotected) language

When Joel opened the door to you one cold evening, your arms wrapped around yourself, you drenched in rain, he only sighed.

"Oh honey," he shook his head.

Your teeth were practically chattering. "Nobody's home and I-I don't have a k-key."

A crack of thunder sounded behind you.

Joel looked over his shoulder at your house that was cloaked in darkness. It did look deserted, like nobody had touched it in years. "C'mon in, hun." He held the door open and stirred you inside.

Even if you'd been in the house more times that you could count you still shuffled inside, as if you didn't know where his living room was.

It was a small town in Texas, everyone knew everyone. Everyone knew Joel Miller and his daughter Sarah. Joel knew everyone too. He knew Jimmy a twenty minute drive away, his farm where anyone nice enough could get the best fresh eggs.

There was Bess who ran the bakery. You could get the best fresh bread and every year Joel always got Sarah her birthday cake from her.

There was Dave, coach of Sarah's soccer team. There was Louis next door who always had a issue with his hose leaking all over his garden- even in the drought.

Then, there was you.

You lived across his street with your parents. You who'd moved in ten years ago. A few years Sarah's senior, she'd been over the moon to have another girl to hang out with.

Apparently just hanging out with her dad was becoming a lost trend.

But even though you were a few years older, probably had your own teenage things to be getting on with, you treated Sarah like a best friend.

"You don't have to you know," Joel remembered saying years ago after you'd stayed up late with her, watching movies, only for her to fall asleep with her head on your lap- trapping you.

"It's no bother."

Even Joel had offered to pay you, acting as if you were a babysitter for his kid. You'd denied, almost offended.

You'd insisted you enjoyed it, that his house was nicer than yours.

Joel didn't get it. He was always behind on laundry, hardly had any healthy food- only takeout in the fridge- and dead plants on the windows, compete to your own house.

He'd seen the way you tenderly cared after anything and everyone, it didn't make sense. He assumed you were just sweet, or too shy to say anything different.

He remembered the day he discovered just why you liked his house.

Joel had only gone over with Sarah to talk to you about a sleepover. His brother, Tommy, was taking him out of town, insisting that he needed a 'guys weekend' and that Sarah at fourteen was fine to be left alone. Joel disagreed and he'd only meant to ask if you were around, would be willing to just hang out like you had hundreds of times before.

At the door he lingered, shouts and the shattering of glass sounding behind the door.

"Dad?" Sarah looked up to him un-sure.

Joel was already pushing her down the porch. "Go back to the house."

"What is that?"

"Not our concern."

But it was. It was his concern.

The shouting dulled but there was still a harshness hidden out of sight.

Sarah made her way down the porch, back to the Miller residence and Joel was following on un-sure feet when he heard the door swing open and shut.

Joel looked just as you hurried down the porch steps, keys swinging in your hand. "Woah hey-hey."

You looked aghast, stopping in your tracks when you spot Joel in front of you, hands out and reaching for your forearms.

"Is everythin' alright?" he asked, nodding back to the house.

In the afternoon sun your cheeks turned pink, the colour creeping up to your ears and down your neck. "Yeah, yeah everything's fine." You grinned but it was like a crack in an otherwise well structured wall.

Times like that started to happen more often.

Joel would always find you leaving the house in a hurry, getting in your car and driving off like escaping a crime. Or you'd be on the porch, sitting with a cup of coffee if it was early in the morning or tea late at night. He'd watch from his bedroom window that conveniently over looked your front porch.

Some nights he'd join you, pretending he didn't know why you were hiding out, pretending he didn't hear the shouting.

He'd make up some excuse.

"Neighbourhood watch, you never know who's out here..."

"Was gonna go for a drive, fill the tank if you wanna join..."

"My coffee pots bust, spare a sip?"

It was obvious what he was doing.

Yet you always entertained him.

You were standing like a statue in Joel Miller's living room. Granted- a chattering statue. You'd started shaking sometime an hour ago and you'd yet to stop.

The living room- the entire Miller house- was bathed in a warm orange glow. The tv was on mute, some film that was Joel's favourite Sarah had told you once. Curtis and Viper.

Joel had gone up stairs shortly after he told you to 'make yourself comfortable' but you didn't want to make his couch wet. You were already dripping on his carpet.

Had you woken him? God, what if you had?

What if he'd gone to bed and just assumed you'd wait until your parents get back? If they did.

You wouldn't have knocked and asked if you weren't desperate. But you'd only gone to go grocery shopping, you'd been hardly an hour and neither your mom or dad had mentioned leaving.

You wouldn't be surprised if they'd booked a last minute trip to try to salvage whatever was left of their failing marriage. Or if one had gone to the bar and the other to the arms of another.

Either way, you left the grocery's on the step and your key inside.

You'd called and got nothing from either of them.

You would never have annoyed Joel by knocking as night drew in if you weren't desperate.

Perhaps you could huddle on the porch, eat that chocolate you'd gotten.

You were just forming a plan in your head when Joel Miller practically tripped with how quick he came down the stairs.

"Here-" there was a small pile of clothes in his arms, what looked to be black jogging bottoms and a checked shirt. "I'd offer you some of Sarah's but she's already growing out of everything." He rubbed the back of his neck as you took the clothes.

"You don't have to," you said though you held the clothes close. "I'm sure someone will be home soon."

You really weren't certain anyone would be back for the weekend approaching.

Joel looked at you sternly, his hand on yours that was cold and trembling. "Change."

His eyes raked down the clothes that stuck to you.

He must have thought you looked a mess.

"Shower. You'll probably wanna get warm, c'mon." Joel led you up the stairs, this time slow. His arm was out, ghosting your back as he showed you into his room.

The one room that you'd forbidden yourself into entering.

Joel opened the door like it was just another room of his house, not his room where he spent quiet nights, where he slept among other things.

"Sorry 'bout the mess," he chuckled dryly, kicking away a pile of clothes that looked a lot like trousers and boxers. "Here, my bathroom."

It was cleaner than his room objectively. One or two cheap colognes and a good one littered the counter. A bar of soap and a watch that you remember Sarah showing you she'd got him for his birthday.

"Let me-" Joel slowly peeled the clothes from your arms and nodded down at you. "I'll put these to heat up, you get yourself warm hun. I'll be just down stairs if you need anythin' else."

You nodded and gulped down all your objections to his kindness. "Thank you, Joel. I won't be long."

He smiled at you, a gentle smile. It was the kind you'd never seen before. "Take all the time you need, darlin'. And then some. I imagine it's been quite the night."

You scoffed and averted your gaze.

"I'll be downstairs."

You took your time in the shower. Not because he'd told you to but because you were frozen from cold and from trying to keep every small detail in your mind.

It was not right to think about Joel in his bathroom, bowing his head under the steady warm shower, naked. No matter the circumstance it wasn't right for your mind to wander what Joel looked like naked with droplets of water running down his chest, his sternum and lower.

You blamed it on the lack of sleep.

But you knew as soon as you could get back into your room you'd be dreaming about him again.

By the time you were done with the shower, condensation had covered the mirror and made the walls slick. You wrapped a fuzzy towel around you and tried not to think about other parts of Joel it had touched.

You sat yourself down on the edge of his bed, ignoring the way it dipped. You tried to calm yourself, your nerves and think of a solution. You could hop the fence, break down the back door.

Maybe you could even book a hotel for the night?

You had no doubt Joel would be gracious enough to offer you the sofa, but you didn't want to take over his kindness. You were already there as much as possible with Sarah.

You liked the kid of course, but you also liked the smiles that were always around the house, accompanied by the peace.

A gentle rattle of knuckles on the door broke you from your search of solutions.

"Hey."

Joel slowly opened the door and paused when he spotted you. On the edge of his bed, draped in his towel.

You realised, as you were drying, your hair was dripping. You were getting his bed wet. "Sorry." You got to your feet.

Joel held up his hands. "I jus' wanted to check you were alright. Needed anythin'."

"I'm good, thank you, for all this," you said, clutching your hands in front of you.

"You don't have to thank me, at all," he said, leaning on the door frame. "You saved me from a boring evening alone."

"Sarah?"

"Gone for the weekend. Tommy took her on a fishin' trip."

Your lips tilt up. "You're not a fisher?"

"No," he chuckled. "I'm afraid all that talent went to Tommy."

"Well I'm sure you're good for other things." You hadn't meant the words to hide some sort of hidden comment but as soon as you'd said it all you could think about was his 'other' talents.

Maybe Joel could tell you were being filthy, taking his hospitality for granted. He looked down and grabbed the handle. "Change. I'll be waitin'."

When the door clicked shut behind him you dropped back onto his bed, hiding your face in your hands and groaning.

What were you doing?

By the time you'd peeled the towel from yourself and folded it up, changed into what you assumed were Joel's old clothes (you'd had to roll the waistband of the joggers over several times and roll up the sleeves to) and made your way down stairs the credits were rolling on the movie.

The sofa was hidden under cushions and blankets.

Joel was leant over it, punching the pillows till they seemed fluffy enough. "C'mon, damn you."

You cleared your throat.

Joel whipped around. His lips parted, ready to speak but instead he got an eyeful of you. You in his clothes.

For a second you were delusional enough- and exhausted enough- to believe that he liked seeing you like that. Draped in him. But he was probably realising he liked that shirt and wanted it back immediately.

"You didn't have to do this, really," you said, gesturing to the makeshift bed he was making. "I don't want to put you out."

"You're doin' no such thing, I already told you. I was havin' a borin' evening."

"Well I'm glad me getting locked out and soaked amused you," you teased.

Joel's jaw ticked, his tongue running slowly over his bottom lip as his gaze fell lower. "Yeah," he hummed.

It seemed like an excruciatingly long moment that you let him stare.

Joel realised and cleared his throat. "You must be hungry," he walked by you, leaning away to avoid your touch. "Can't say I've got anythin' much good. Some pizza, maybe."

"I'm ok, thank you though."

Joel glanced back at you. "You've eaten?"

"I had lunch, i'm good."

Joel frowned at you, confused. "Lunch? It's dinner time, we'll order somethin."

"You've done too much-" you protest but Joel was already reaching for the phone and pulling at the draw of take out menu's.

"You like it plain, right?" he asked, already dialling the number and wedging the phone.

You walk to him. "At least let me pay-"

Joel held up his hand. "No, stay," his voice was low and gruff, eyes watching you darkly as you paused in place. "Good girl- hello, Jo? Yeah, it's Joel you son of a bitch."

Joel had sat down with you on the sofa and re-played Curtis and Viper while you ate pizza. He'd insisted you had to watch when you said you'd never seen it before. He'd mumbled something about not living till you had seen it, he wasn't even sure what he'd said to get you to sit and watch it with him.

It had worked.

He should have sent you to his bed, told you to rest because you were giving him challenges after challenges and you moved like you didn't even know it.

When you'd told him to come in when you were only in a towel, sitting on the edge of his bed like you didn't know what to do with the space. Wearing his clothes like you weren't giving him images that he'd keep locked up somewhere deep and dark in his mind for weeks to come.

You'd eaten pizza, asked him about every scene and slowly come out of you cold.

You'd become warm again next to him and it was driving Joel into a hot mess.

When the credits started to roll for the second time that evening Joel could tell you were struggling to keep your eyes open.

"You wanna sleep?" he asked. His arm had stretched out along the sofa, conciously to get closer to you.

You shook off your sleep. "Sorry."

"You needa stop apologising, you know," he teased, finger prodding at your shoulder.

You stretched. "Is it bad if I say sorry?"

Joel chuckled, spreading his legs out. "Right, you take my bed. Sofa's mine."

You woke up at that, all sleep gone from you. "What?"

Joel looked at you again in confusion. "Can't have you takin' the sofa after the day you've had."

You scoffed. "And I can't kick you out of your own bed."

"You ain't kicken me outta anythin', i'm tellin' you."

Joel would never be this kind to anyone else except his own kid. If any other neighbour of his found themselves in this situation he'd never have offered them his own clothes, wouldn't have sat down and watched a movie he'd seen a dozen times before.

But it was you. Joel was good at saying no to you cause you were always unfair to yourself mostly.

You were gorgeous, intelligent, kind and self-dependant. A treat dangled in front of Joel, constantly nibbiling and never taking. If he took he'd never be able to spit you back out your system.

Either you knew what you were doing with your coy smiles, gentle shuffles into him and sweet words and wanted to torture him or you didn't know and that was worse.

He couldn't pretend the idea of you in his bed wasn't driving him mad but he also could see the droop on your eyes and the slug in your body. You needed rest. You needed someone to look out for you.

Joel would kill to be that man.

"Joel, I can't," you protest.

"I'm not takin ' no for an answer, sweetheart," he said.

"The couch is more than fine- the floor even."

Joel shook his head. "C'mon, it's gettin' late. Head up."

He stretched further out, his foot now against yours.

You were watching him, brows pulled together and eyes focusing on him. "No."

Joel's brows rose. He'd perfected the stern look of a father but it didn't seem to be workin' on you. "No?"

"No, I want the sofa."

In a move he didn't anticipate, you threw yourself down, your hair fanning out on the pillow and you pulled the blanket up to your chin, kicking out your legs till they were draped over Joel's lap.

For a moment all he did was stare, his lips parted and a soft breath falling from him. You closed your eyes like you were already drifting off, un-aware the effect your cat-like stretch was having on him. His nerves had been shattering since he saw you wrapped in his towel.

You were giving his patience a good try.

Joel chucked under his breath, calling your name.

Your sly smirk did things to him, especially as you ignored him.

Joel's hand fell upon your shin, trailing up slowly as his body slowly leaned over. He'd never known anyone to have an effect on him like this. Never been so allured and so ... needy like he was a damn teenager again.

All he wanted was to press his body into yours, to kiss your hair and assure you he would look after you, no matter what, no matter where.

Your body stilled as his, heavier and larger, caged you on the sofa.

His arm stretched over your head and your eyes opened, flickering to find his gaze.

"Jus' get comfortable," he'd reached over and flicked the lamp off.

But he didn't move. No, Joel was stubborn.

Once the soft glow of the lamp had gone and he'd turned the tv off the living room was put into darkness.

Joel wedged himself in, his chest to your back, arms wrapped around himself to stop him from teasing with a touch.

"Joel what are you-"

"Shh, i'm tryin to sleep," he grumbled. He tried to push himself into the back of his couch that was falling under both your weights, rolling you into him.

He tucked his head in and closed his eyes as he felt you turn, questioning him. Heck, he was questioning himself. He'd promised some easy down time while Tommy took Sarah out, not this. Not his own battle of temptation.

"If you ain't takin' the bed then i'm not neither," he grumbled.

Your body pulled back and Joel thought he'd done in, over stepped. That the walking in on you in a towel, wearing his clothes, an arm too close around you while the film played had been too much.

Instead he felt a warmth brush over him and your body close to him.

You'd shared his blanket that was too small for the both of you.

In all of Joel's wants to take care of you, perhaps there was a bit of you that wanted to take care of him.

They weren't back.

It was the Saturday and there was still no stirring in the house, no cars outside. Not even a damn text.

You were still draped in Joel's too big clothes for you, staring at the house that was still.

The sun had risen long ago but Joel still slept on the sofa.

Where you'd both slept. You woke with his arm around you, strong and un-yielding as he held you into his chest. It had taken you a near ten minutes to free yourself from his warmth but you'd finally gotten free and his little snores continued.

Only for two minutes did you stare at him, smiling to yourself before realising it was wrong. Wrong to want him so much and wrong to wonder why he'd insisted he share the sofa.

Either he was the most stubborn man you'd ever met.

Or he wanted to be close.

You couldn't decide which was worse.

But now you were faced with small other options.

What did you do now? You couldn't stay with Joel for another day, heck you still only had your clothes that were still damp on a chair in Joel's room.

Maybe you'd go out of town yourself.

Call a friend?

There was a stirring on the sofa.

Joel woke in confusion. Not at the sleeping on the sofa. His fist was clenching at the empty space in front of him and his gaze still blurry with sleep looked for you.

When he spotted you at the window his body visibly relaxed.

And it set your body taunt.

"Morning'." His voice was hoarse, lower register than you'd ever heard.

"Hey," your arms fold over your chest.

Joel was still watching you, throwing an arm behind his head. The blanket slowly fell and his shirt rode up. "You sleep alright? Didn't snore, did I? Sarah says I do sometimes."

You smile and shake your head.

Joel huffed as he sat himself up. You still weren't moving, body his but mind elsewhere. "Everythin' alright?"

You sighed, looking down at your feet that just about peeked over the joggers. "My parents, they still aren't back."

You couldn't meet Joel's gaze as he huffed in annoyance.

"I'm sorry," you apologised. "I'll be out of your hair as soon as I can. I'll drive around, meet a friend or somethin'. I won't trouble you anymore."

"You ain't troublin' me, honey, not in the damn slightest," he grumbled.

It did nothing to settle your nerves.

You took your bottom lip between your teeth.

Joel must've noticed your hesitation, your worry that you were too much. He was moving across the room before you could register it. "Stay."

"I shouldn't, you've done so much and you were supposed to have a break this weekend. I'm already ruining it," you ramble.

Joel's hands are steady as they settle on your forearms, thumbs soothing you. "Stay."

You eyes flickered up to him. It always shocked you how stern his face could be, the wrinkles dawning at his forehead and the creases when his mouth moved, but his eyes were soft, always calm like warm coffee. "Joel-"

"Whatta do I gotta say to make you stay, huh?" he asked, smirking. "Promise of more shitty movies and even worse food? My sorry-ass company?"

You chuckled. "It wasn't a shitty film," you said. "And your company is the best i've had in months. Sarah exculded."

There was a glimmer of pure joy in Joel's eyes as he laughed. His hands squeezed your arms once before he walked to the kitchen, leaving you to look at your house once more time before following.

"So what do you say I get some coffee goin' and then we can see what groccery's of yours we can salvage?" he said.

You nodded to whatever he said because leaning on the doorway, watching his shirt ride up every time he stretched, you weren't sure you could ever listen to anything he was saying.

Tommy: So, you resting up?

Was he? Was Joel using his weekend to rest.

No, he was using his weekend like a test.

When he woke without you in his arms he was close enough to whining. Whining! It took his body seconds to grow cold without your warmth and for him to wake.

And then it took every ounce of himself not to smile when he heard your parents still weren't back.

First he wanted to yell, wanted to beg your parents home so he could give them a peace of his mind. But he quickly thought about what was presented. You. You and him for a whole un-interrupted day.

Joel thought about the things he could do. Keep you next to him, cook you breakfast- whatever you wanted even if it meant he'd have to break speeding laws to get to the shops.

You in his house, wearing more of his clothes.

After coffee he'd dismissed himself to the bathroom quickly to get filthy thoughts out of his head before they could manifest lower. You in his house, all to himself, desperate for warmth and love. Everything he could give you.

Joel had called Sarah just to distract himself.

No, Joel was not resting up.

You'd spent the day with him cleaning his kitchen, insisting you needed to do something for him.

There was plenty he thought you could do.

Then Joel showered, it was already mid day. He'd stepped out the shower and pushed his face into his towel to dry off when he inhaled and smelt you.

He groaned into the towel, diving in again, almost slobbering at the smell of you on his towel.

It drove him mad.

And it drove him back into a very cold shower.

By the time evening had dawned you insisted to leave the house. Not because his company was boring, but because you wanted to take Joel somewhere.

"I could always break in through a window to get some clothes," you suggested as you gestured to the attire you were still in. "You're in that building way of work. You can repair a window?"

"Can't glue glass back together," he said, leaning over the counter. "I'll see what Sarah's got." Maybe yesterday he'd lied just a bit about her clothes and growing out of. He'd just seen an opportunity to have you draped in him and took it.

He found some of Sarah's things, a bag of clothes that were supposed to be donated last year and left you with them.

When you came back down the stairs Joel's pulse shot.

You'd put those jeans you had on yesterday back on, but they'd been cleaned and dried and now they were snug on your hips and backside. The top you'd picked was from one of Sarah's old favourite band but it was too small on you, tight on the sleeves and showing a healthy slither of your skin.

Fuck.

Suddenly Joel regretted giving you that bag, hated that he'd promised you a night out of his house. He hated everything in him that wanted you.

How could your parents leave you? How could anyone not want to be in your company always.

"Is it ok?" you asked.

Was it ok? Everything was far from ok?

"Let's go, darlin'."

The two of you went in his truck, going to a simple bar for some cheap and good enough burgers and drinks. You were over twenty-one, just, but you'd assured Joel you were a regular at the bar. That it was the hottest place for everyone to go to.

When he walked in and the two of you got a booth, Joel wasn't so happy with the old guys staring at you. Or the younger ones too. As if he wasn't ogling you when you got the chance.

He just liked that you hardly noticed any of them, eyes only on Joel.

You'd gotten burgers and beer, talking about anything and nothing.

Joel did not broach the subject of your parents.

He watched you talk about anything you wanted, watched the way your lips moved with words he could just about make out.

"You staring at me," you laughed, nursing another beer. The burgers were half eaten, fries gone. Your body was turned into Joel's as he curled into you.

"Starin'?" he repeated with cheek. "Am I?"

"You are."

Joel hummed and let himself stare a little longer. You'd already caught him, what was the harm of anymore.

You shied under his gaze, looking away. "I don't have to stay tonight, Joel," you said. "I could get a hotel, easily. We're in town anyway."

He was already shaking his head. "Not happin'."

"You don't have to do this just to be nice."

"Who's to say i'm not gettin' anything out of this?" he said.

Your brows rose as you lifted the bottle to your lips. "Are you?"

The teasing was laid out bare on the table like a meal.

"Maybe," he said, taking a swig of his own. "You're good company."

You smiled, a small pink to your cheeks coming again.

Joel wondered what else could have you blushing like that. If he was to dip his head low and trace whispers in the skin of your neck, would he be graced by your bashful look. Or would you crane your head back for more?

His eyes drifted at the skin of your neck at the thought.

You shuffled, leaning back in your seat, edging him on.

If you knew his thoughts would you take the reigns?

"Gotta take a leak." Joel did not have to piss, he needed to give himself a stern talking to in the mirror, splash some cold water on himself and move on, shake off his want.

You had come to him for solace, not to be the victim of his pervy thoughts.

"Get it together, Joel." One weekend without his brother and kid supervision and he was reverting back to a horny teen.

By the time he'd shook himself out of it and was walking back to the booth, his seat had already been taken by a man probably his age. John. The scoundrel.

"You're very pretty mind," Joel heard him mumble, saw you look down but not smile or thank him for the compliment.

Joel's hand was clapping down on his shoulder. "Everythin' alright here, buddy?"

"Joel, man," John greeted with a grin as if he wasn't taking his seat and his girl. "Where've you been hidin this young little thing? You know, sharin' is carin'."

"Excuse me?" your voice sounded, startled and disgusted.

That was enough for Joel to pull John out the booth.

"We don't care for your business here," said Joel, standing tall on guard over the booth.

"Oh come on-" John tried.

"Out!" he yelled, gaining looks from the people around.

John scoffed, a glare in his dark and cold eyes as he still took time to scan you.

Joel was watching him go, counting his steps and assessing anyone else in the room that might want to speak to you. He'd tell them to beat it to.

It wasn't until he felt your hand on his bicep that he looked at you.

"Hey," he could hear his own voice softer than the growl he'd used with John. His arms rose, hand holding yours. "I'm sorry."

"No don't be, don't be," you said. Your eyes drifted around the bar as his were still down on you. "Can we go back to yours?"

It had been ruined. The night you'd wanted so bad crumbled. Still, Joel couldn't find it in himself to deny he didn't hate hearing you ask to go back to his.

"Course, of course, darlin'. Come on." He led you out the bar, throwing dollars on the table and leaving your half eaten food and half drunk beers.

The night air ran shivers over your skin as he escorted you to his truck, opening the passenger door for you.

You stood there, hair brushed back in the wind and arms crossed over your chest. "Thank you, for back there."

Joel rested his arm over the opened door. "Don't thank me for that. Guy like that shouldn't have been talkin' to you like that."

You nod and gulp. You took a step closer to him as Joel watched. "You've done so much for me, Joel," your voice was low, with no need to speak up. "What can I do for you, please?"

Joel's breath stuttered as he saw you come closer, close enough to touch. Close enough to kiss and grab and hold and- he cleared his throat and looked past your head. It was not a step to take tonight. Maybe ever. "Get in the truck."

The night hadn't gone as planned. Granted, none of the weekend had gone as planned.

Joel's truck pulled up in front of his house slow enough for you to catch the lights on in your house, the car back at front. Someone was home and suddenly that made your weekend all the worse.

You and Joel both got out the truck silently and walked up to his porch but both of you were looking at your house, alive.

"Someone's home."

Joel sighed heavily next to you. "Yeah."

So the weekend would be done. You'd go back to whatever new and tense atmosphere was created. There goes your time with Joel that you hadn't realised could do so much for you.

"Well," you started. "I'll get Sarah's shirt washed and dried for you and get it back. Thanks so much for putting up with me and-"

"Don't go," said Joel.

Your head rose. From the silent way he drove you both back and the way he'd been in the bar, you thought he'd push you back to your house.

Joel's tender gaze shone under the dim porch light. "I know you have shit goin on in that house and I can't stand the thought of that. Can't stand to think you're upset. I want you to stay. For tonight. For always. Just-"

You kissed Joel.

You surged up on your toes, held his cheeks and kissed him.

And his lips felt better than ever imagined. They parted under you and you got your first taste of the man you'd dreamt about. Beer on his tongue, desire on his lips and a thousand wants in the back of his throat.

Joel's arms were strong and urgent as they scooped you up and into his chest, moving until he had you pinned against the wall and his body. He surged you up, feeling into your mouth deeper, pressing his body against yours.

He pulled back, lips kissing under your jaw and trailing down your neck. "Oh baby," he cooed, peppering kisses along the skin.

"Joel," you whined, hands grasping at his shirt and pulling.

He nipped at the skin at the base of your neck and licked over the red he'd created. "Fuck. Say my name again," he muttered. He pulled his head back enough to look at you. "Say it."

"Joel."

He kissed you hard, mouth open and tongue discovering your every angle. His hands wasted no time in falling into your hair.

"Stay tonight," he mumbled against your lips as if he couldn't take himself any further away from you. "Please. Let me show you love. Let me... let me take care of you, baby."

His eyes looked at yours, his head nodding like he could coax that same nod from you. He was still mumbling under his breath, a series of please.

There was nothing in the world that could take you from that moment.

"Yes."

Joel kissed you again, face in yours, tongue finding easy triumph over yours. He kept you into his chest with one arm, the other blindly reaching out to unlock his door.

He threw it open and it banged against the wall.

Joel carried you through the threshold, arms secure around your waist. One hand cupped your ass, dragging over your thigh and encouraging you to wrap a leg around him.

He groaned when he felt the warmth of you on him.

He kicked the door close behind him and was still kissing you, was still stealing your breath when he got to the stairs.

It was slobbery, it was wet. You could only hear the ticking of a clock and the sound of your lips as Joel set you on the stairs.

"Need you," he mumbled, kissing down your neck. "Needed you so long now, you have no idea."

"I do," you moan, throwing your head back, eyes squeezed shut to focus on the heat between your two bodies. "Dreamt about this."

Joel looked up at you. "Yeah? When? When you were in my shower?" his hand dragged down your neck, watching it go. "When you were wrapped in my towel? Wearing my clothes." His hand disappeared under your shirt.

Your breath caught as you felt his rough hands drag up and cup your breast. "Joel," you gasp.

"Wanted to have you so bad, baby," he said, speaking to himself as he tugged up the top. "Smelt you on my towel and had to fist myself thinkin' 'bout you."

You mewl at his words, a needy and pathetic noise.

Joel pulled the top off you and threw it somewhere behind. Your breasts were spilling out of your bra, begging. "Shit."

There was no time for you to speak, to gage yourself as Joel hid himself in your breasts, un-clasping your bra and throwing it aside.

It was needy.

Your hands were in his hair, tugging at the roots. You could feel Joel everywhere, his lips dragging against each boob, jumping between the two as if he couldn't decide where to start. His hands were running all over you, down your hips, between your thighs, desperate to feel it all.

Your breathing was erratic, your mind foggy with only one thing. Joel, Joel, Joel.

"Don't- don't stop," you beg.

"Never, never wanna," his voice was muffled as he cupped your breasts, squeezing them together. His tongue darted out and dragged over the skin, hands squeezing.

Your leg wrapped around his hips again and pushed him into the heat between your legs.

Joel groaned.

He pulled back enough to look at you. His hand cupped your cheek, brushing your hair back. "Please... wanna treat you so good.... want you to feel."

"I do," you nod, empty without his lips.

Joel could tell, pressing a tender kiss to your cheek. At odds with the hardness that he unconsciously thrust between your legs. "Wanna treat you so good.... gonna be so good for you. Wanna show you love... let me take care of you."

You couldn't make words. The promises in mumbles was driving you mad.

Joel's hand was gentle on your neck but there enough to stir your gaze to his. "Say yes, baby. Say yes."

"Yes, Joel, yes," you weren't even sure what he was asking for. To use you, to fuck you, to take care of you? It was all a yes.

"Let me... let me do everything to show you love," said Joel. He pecked your lips. "Let me eat your pretty pussy. Let me make you tremble on my fingers. Want it. Need it."

You gasp at his words as his hands fall to your jeans, popping the button and pulling them down. "Joel, we're- we're on the stairs." Was this about to happen, your parents over the road? Was Joel gonna take you however he wanted on the stairs leading to his bedroom?

"Yeah we are baby," he said, "need you. Can't wait. Fuck, might die if I don't get your pussy on my face."

You moan aloud at the words.

Joel looked up at you, a wicked glint in his eyes. "Stand up for me, baby."

How you got onto your feet, you had no idea. But you stood steps ahead of him, wearing nothing but soaked panties and a breathless expression.

Joel knelt before you, jeans tight and strained at the front but he moved like it wasn't there. Like his own need wasn't driving him mad as his hands cupped the back of your thighs.

His eyes weren't warm coffee but a dark night as he kept his eyes on you, tongue darting out to lick a strip over your panties.

He hummed. "You're wet. You're so wet. Been needing me? Been needing attention?"

"Ye-yes," you gasp, eyes closing.

"God what a pretty sight, coulda had this, honey," said Joel. His finger followed the path his tongue created. He prodded your panties, watching the material dampen under his touch. Joel pushed it and watched your pussy take it.

"Joel!" your hands flayed, unsure were to put them.

Joel kissed over your bundle of nerves hidden from him once more. "Can you take them down for me? Please?"

You nodded and realised he'd asked you to do something.

Quickly, you slid them down your legs, exposing yourself without a second thought while Joel tore his shirt off.

Before you could throw them with the rest of your discarded clothes but Joel was quick to take them from you.

The material bunched in his fist first before he brought it up to his face. You watched in wonder, noting the quick rise and fall of your own chest, as Joel's tongue darted out and got a taste of you on your panties.

It was obscene and almost had you kneeling over.

Joel's gaze flickered back up to you, dropping your panties when he noticed your pussy weeping. His hands pulled at your thighs, groping the skin until he had you spread on his stairs. "Gonna eat you out now, ok, honey? Gonna have you trembling. Need you on my face, all over me... fuck."

Joel went in like a man starved. He practically sat himself under you legs, holding your thighs apart and spreading you open.

Your moan beat in your own ears as you braced yourself on the wall and banister.

His tongue was sloppy as he went up and down your folds, gathering your juice and swallowing it. He moaned into your pussy.

"Gonna-" he kissed over your folds, wet. "Eat you up, yeah?" he was talking to himself, or your pussy.

The pleasure was all yours as it escalated up your body, leaving you in moans and pathetic whines.

Joel took no notice of anything else but his face in between your legs. "Eat you out till you forget your name. Till you only know pleasure and want," his tongue flattened against you and slurped, drinking everything you had for him. He whined into you, lost in need. "Fuck, baby, this so good."

Your breathing was un-stable, loud. "Joel, you're-you're-"

One of his hands fell to his crotch, squeezing the thick indent of himself. "Don't try and speak baby, know you can't. Just feel. Just feel me and cum when you want. Want you to cum on my face, all over me. Know you can... Want..." his voice was lost in moans and making out with your core.

If he went anywhere to your nerves... If he so much as looked at your clit you feared you might make his wishes come true.

Like he knew your thoughts, Joel's large palm sprawled out on your sternum, thumb circling your clit as his tongue fucked up, dipping in and out of your juice.

"Joel- Joel!" you yelled, gripping the banister like it was the only thing tying you to the earth.

Joel groaned, thumb applying pressure. He knew every part of you already, knew buttons to press to get you a squirming mess. "Come, god baby, please come all over my mouth. Let me... need it," he begged.

He pushed his face flush into you, nose nudging your clit even more as he moaned into you.

You were screaming out as you finished, thighs shaking so hard Joel had to hold them as he took what you gave him, all of it, licking up the mess and cleaning your thighs only to smear more of it over his face.

"So good..."

"Baby, your pussy the best thing I ever had..."

"Feel good, honey, I feel so good. So damn happy right now..."

He was still talking to himself by the time your eyes had opened.

You found his hand down his own trousers, the tip of his cock flush and pink and weeping. You leaned over him, desperate for your own touch.

"No, baby, no." Joel grabbed your wrist and stirred your wanting fingers into his mouth.

He sucked on them (just how you wanted to on his cock) he took them like it was his own favourite treat. He was still moaning, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat he'd created from his own need.

"Wanna.... want your cock, Joel," you whined.

Joel looked up to you, taking your fingers from his mouth with a trail of saliva. "I know baby, he wants you too. God, does he want your mouth."

Joel got to his feet, tugging your still shaking body into his. He kissed you, open-mouthed, tongue licking in. "But I wanna take care of you more than anythin'."

It took a while to get to his room. He carried you up, had your body on his and he couldn't have his lips without yours for more than a second before he was chasing after you for more.

It was like being a teen all over again. It was like tasting the first forbidden fruit, it was like a drug that you never wanted to quit.

It was enough to kill you, but have you living in bliss.

Joel flicked his light on in his room and closed the door behind him. "Gonna fuck you now, ok baby?"

His hand cupped your cheek, coaxing you to look at him.

You nodded, head brushing his.

"I'll be gentle, I will, but I need you open, I need you ready," he kissed you. "Need to fuck you into my bed. Want your body indented there. Want to smell you on my sheets for weeks in case."

In case he never got it again.

You cupped his cheek, fingers ablaze from the feel of stubble. You implored him to look at you. "Won't be the last time."

"No?" his eyes lit up like a boy on Christmas.

Your tongue darted out, flicking his lips. "Gonna need you, always."

"Always," Joel repeated.

While distracted, you slid to your knees, dropping down with a thud.

You didn't even bother freeing Joel from his trousers and boxers, you just wet him over it with your mouth. You dragged it up, tasting the denim but feeling the twitch of satisfaction he gave you.

Joel groaned, hands hovering in the air around you as you made quick work. "Baby, no, what did I... fuck... what did I say?"

You moan against the denim, hand on his thigh to steady yourself. "But want you, Joel, want to feel you."

"Arg- you will baby," he grunted, jaw clenching. "Go on then, play a bit."

You smiled and pulled down his jeans and boxers in one. His cock sprang out, beads of pre-cum already trailing down.

He had length but it was the thickness that had you swallowing. The veins that had you reaching out with spit on your hand to work him up and down.

You tried to go slow, you really did, quickly you picked up the pace as Joel moaned.

You kissed his tip and then around it before your tongue licked around him, collecting his pre-cum and savouring the taste. It was so him.

"Oh baby, enough to bring a man to his knees."

You sensed you didn't have much time, darting your head low to engulf his balls in your mouth- or at least one of them. It was heavy on your tongue, warm with him.

As suspected, Joel groaned loudly before dragging you up.

He tossed you down on the bed, stepping out of his pants.

You expected to feel his cock trace your entrance, to be prepared for the burning and passion inside of you.

Joel had gone in with his tongue again fist. He really was on his knees, holding your thighs open and licking up and down, getting your taste again like he'd forgotten it in the time it took to get to his room.

Your hand flew to his hair, tugging at the roots. "Joel!"

"Whatever you want, baby," he mumbled, kissing at your thigh.

"Fuck me! Fuck me, please!"

His tongue left you alone and you felt the bed dip as he crawled over you. Your legs fell flat and wide, accommodating him. He hovered over you enough so you wouldn't feel him. "You want it?"

"I do," your eyes stung, you were close enough to tears.

"Want all of me splitting you open?" he asked, "once you have me baby, that's it. You can't have anyone else."

"Don't want anyone else, just please."

Joel tested himself on top of you, head in the crook of your neck, nipping and licking. "Gonna fill you up, make you feel.... so good!" He broke off in a groan as he led his cock into you. "Shit! You're so ... so tight."

Your nails dug into his shoulder blades as he slowly inched himself in more and more. "Joel..."

He brushed your hair out the way, still over you. "This ok? You feelin' me? Feelin' all of me."

Your eyes screwed shut at the initial burn but your own need pulsed and had you begging for more.

"Don't wanna hurt you, my pretty girl," he mumbled.

You shook your head. "Won't. Just move!"

Joel could never say no to you.

His hips rocked slowly, until all of him was sunk in. He was still a moment longer, panting above you.

"Joel, move, please," you begged, holding onto him.

"Baby if I move now i'm coming inside of you and i'm spent," he chuckled. "Trying to make it good. Trying to make it last."

There was earnest in his voice. A true desire that went beyond touching, that went beyond proving he could love you and take care of you.

He wanted you. All of you. Forever.

Your hand cupped him, thumb tracing over his bottom lip as his eyes opened to yours. "It's perfect."

Neither of you blinked. Neither of you dared look away to where he slowly sank in and out of you. You looked at each others eyes, watched every wince and flicker of pleasure. Watched the darkest of desires and the purest of desires flicker with every twitch and move of him.

It grew to more.

Joel's hands went from your neck to your hips to rock you into him, to guide each thrust. Every time he slowly left you he entered you with force, needing to stabilise you.

He wasn't just talking when he said he'd fuck you into the bed.

Soon enough he was bottoming out in you with every thrust and you could only hear the slapping of skin and the words tumbling out his mouth.

"Made for me. My god, where you made for me..."

"Pussy feels just as good as it tastes... can't believe it...."

"Gonna finish inside of you, and you're gonna finish on my cock. This is it. It's us now, ain't nobody ever takin you from me..."

"Yours," you moan, nails scratching down his skin. "Oh, i'm all yours."

"Prove it to me," he all but growled as his thrusts became quick and hard. "Come on my cock and show him how good it feels. He needs it, he wants it. Needs.... wants..."

"Joel I- mmh- want you to come."

"So kind baby," he chuckled. "But I will, god will I. But only once you've come. My cock needs it now, baby, now!"

You didn't think it could get better, that his thrusts could get harder and stir you into a craze but he proved you wrong.

As you mouth hung open in a moan, Joel held your jaw open and had his fingers in there, gathering your saliva before he moved those fingers down your body and onto your clit.

The deftness of his fingers and the quick thrusts had you finishing and pulsing on his cock, screaming his name until the whole damn street could hear.

Your walls were wet, your pussy clenching around Joel until his hips were stuttering with his groans.

"Oh i'm gonna cum.... oh, i'm gonna... fuck- fuck!" his words trailed away into groans from hell as he hit one last thrust, balls against you.

You were still riding your high when you felt his warmth inside you, marking you, becoming you. Both of you climaxed and moaned, every twitch and touch sending trembles through you.

Every little pulse had more of Joel spluttering inside of you until he had nothing left.

He fell on top of you, cock twitching. He kissed your skin, licked away the sweat rolling down your temples until he could find it to move out of you.

Joel rolled onto his side, pulling the covers over you as you both caught your breath.

Once you had enough air in your lungs, you turned to Joel. He was already scanning you like he was ready for round two.

"Thank you," you didn't know why you said it. All you knew was you'd never felt so cared and loved before.

Joel smiled. "You're so welcome, baby. But don't think i'm done takin care of you yet."

2K notes · View notes

dollfacefantasy · 10 days ago

Note

omg okay.. imagine clark x superman fangirl reader where she has no idea about his real identity and she’s always blabbering on abt how much she admires superman and clark is always so turned on over this

clark kent x fem!reader a/n: this idea is so fucking cute. i might have written it fluffier than you wanted, but thank you so much for sending omg <3 just for context, reader also works at the daily planet

your hand is interlaced with his, swinging back and forth as you walk along the dark metropolis sidewalk. stars shine in the sky above your heads as a gentle breeze blows over your shoulders.

the two of you are reaching the end of your third date. a date which, by clark's standards, went perfectly. he just has to stick the landing; finish walking you home and kiss you goodnight. it should be easy enough. you're in a good mood and your apartment is only another block away.

but then you let out a little sigh and look up towards the vast array of constellations. "you're so lucky, clark," you say.

he gives your hand a small squeeze. "and why's that? because i get to spend my evening with you?" he asks, that charming smile of his accompanying the statement.

you playfully scoff and swat his arm. "no, dummy. it's cause you get to interview superman."

"ah. superman," he says. he tries his best to hide how his smile becomes smug.

"yeah, superman," you pout. "you get to interview him like all the time. what do i get at work? school board meetings. budget proposals. it's all so boringgggg."

he laughs softly, tugging you a little closer by the hand. "that stuff is important, you know."

"it's lame!" you insist.

you drag your feet while walking to display your frustration, tilt your head even further towards the sky as if that's where the more interesting story would be. and really, if he wasn't on this date with you right now, it actually would be there.

"i don't care about that stuff," you continue. "no one wants to read about it. everyone wants to read about superman! and i wanna read about superman. i wanna write about him and interview him and talk to him..."

"careful," clark cuts in. "you keep talking like that, and i'll start to think you're wishing he was on this date instead of me."

you roll your eyes and step even closer, tucking yourself under his big arm against his side.

"i'd never wish that," you say softly. "he's just... he's like larger than life, you know? he's the biggest story of our time and he's just out of my reach. it drives me crazyyyy."

you are driving clark crazy. this isn't the first time he's heard one of your little super-tangents, but it is the first time he's found it this alluring. it's almost as if he's seeing himself through another pair of eyes. an adoring pair at that.

it's a good thing your apartment is in view. if things continued like this for much longer, it'd be hard for clark to leave you for the night.

"well if it means that much to you, i'll put in a good word," he says.

"would you really?!" you say, looking up at him as though he'd just promised you a million dollars.

"yeah really. it's no big deal," he says.

and now you're looking at clark as if he's wearing the red and blue right before your eyes. you squeeze him even tighter, mumbling "you're the best" against his dress shirt.

a few paces later, the pair of you have reached the steps of your building. you smile up at him, all twinkling eyes and sparkly lipgloss.

"i had fun tonight," he tells you quietly.

"me too," you say in return.

and then you kiss him. you rise onto your toes and wrap your arm around his neck and kiss him. it feels like a reward, and it probably is at least a little. a thank you for his kindness about superman. if only you knew how easy that was for him.

but you would know, he promised himself that. you would know, probably sooner rather than later. for someone as into superman as you were, all it would take was one look at him without his glasses. and at this rate, if you kept acting so sweet, it wouldn't take too much longer for you to see him like that.

#ch: clark kent 💌#clark kent x reader #clark kent x you #clark kent imagine #clark kent fluff #superman x reader #superman fluff #superman x you #dc x reader #dc imagine #dc fluff

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littlcdarlin · 11 days ago

Text

Your Sweet Divine

summary: The only cardio you enjoy is sex with Joel, and even if it's not quite what the doctor ordered, he'll oblige to keep his little girl healthy. warnings: dd/lg, reader calls Joel Dad, incest play (explicitly stated they're not related), big age gap (50s & 20s), discussion of body image, reader has a strained relationship with her physique, Joel is patient and sweet but stern, Joel calls reader kiddo, praise kink, orgasm delay, shy reader, please read the author's note bc I do not have the energy to get cancelled

note: hey, so. I don't know what the fuck this is, but I dedicate it to the girls who got picked last every single time when the kids were choosing teams in P.E. class...just please be aware that although reader's body type isn't technically being described (except for her having long-ish hair), I don't know how to write for another body type than mine, and I'm super scrawny in the non-athletic, 9 year old boy way, so if that might not be relatable or even triggering, it's okay to skip this one! There'll be more stories soon, including these kinds of kinks. If you're not into calling Joel Dad, that's understandable and probably very sane of you, but no reason to insult any of the people who are <3 now, enjoy reading!

"I don’t wanna go."

Joel furrows his brows at your petulance and crosses his arms in front of his broad chest. You wrap your arms around your legs and dig your toes into the soft sofa cushions. It would be so easy to just stay on the couch all day and make Joel watch some shitty reality tv show with you.

"The doctor said twice a week minimum."

You huff and don’t meet his eye.

"Sweetheart?"

You can’t help it, your eyes flicker upwards at the pet name, and although Joel’s expression is stern, you detect gentleness, too.

"I just…I hate running."

Joel walks over to you and squats down in front of you, his face still almost the same height as yours. He wraps his fingers around your ankles and massages you gently with his thumbs.

"’N why’s that?"

You shrug, look away, rest your chin on your knees, look at Joel again. He’s waiting patiently for an answer.

"I’m not…you’ve never seen me do sports. I’m awful at it."

Joel hums, and presses a kiss to your knee.

"You’re not s’posed to run a marathon, baby, just get your lungs up to speed again."

Of course Joel Miller wouldn’t get it, not with a biceps and frame like his. There is no way he was ever picked last to be on a volleyball team. Or soccer. Or softball.

"It’s embarrassing," you admit, "I don’t want people to see me. And I really really hate it. It’s no fun at all, just makes me ache all over and feel like a...like a weakling or a grandma."

You words are childish and you know it. It’s not supposed to be fun, it’s supposed to expand the volume of your lungs again after a bad case of pneumonia struck you down during the summer. What you should do is grit your teeth and start training like any responsible adult, but you just can’t bring yourself to feel like you did at twelve years old, embarrassed for your chest to be aching so much sooner than anybody else’s while running. Joel’s eyes are watchful, and you sigh.

"Fine," you mumble, "fine, fine, fine, fine. I’ll fucking go run, and then proceed to feel bad about myself for three to four weeks."

But Joel’s hands are unrelenting and don’t slip from your ankles, don’t allow you to put your feet on the floor like you intended.

"Want me to come with you? ’M not as fit as I used to be either. You can laugh at me ’f ya want."

He’s so sweet about it, you almost smile, but the idea is still mortifying.

"I could never look you in the eye again if you saw me all sweaty and out of breath."

Joel cocks an eyebrow.

"I enjoy seein’ you sweaty and out of breath, kiddo."

There seems to be a palpable shift in the air between you, and your breath hitches slightly.

"I-that’s…it’s different."

You can tell Joel is slightly amused now, and the way he rubs your ankles seems to be with slightly more intent, a little more sensual than before.

"No difference at all, baby. ’S both cardio."

That makes you smile against your will, and Joel is visibly satisfied by your bad mood lifting.

"If it’s both cardio, why do I have to go running? Might as well…"

Your voice trails off. Even after all this time with Joel, all the filthy things he has had you say and do, you can’t bring yourself to call what you two do fucking, not in casual conversation.

Joel considers you for a moment, your propped up knees to keep the world at bay, your slightly pink cheeks, the petulant way your arms are crossed.

"Alright," he says, "no runnin’. But you’re doin’ all the work, baby, ’s not supposed to be a picnic."

You frown at him – you might enjoy getting on your knees for his pleasure whenever he wants you to, but you’ve never liked being on top – he calls you babydoll, doesn’t he? Might as well treat you like one.

"Your choice, kid."

You mumble something incoherent that Joel would chastise you for if he had caught it, then take a deep breath and nod.

"Fine," you agree, "but only if–"

"I don’t think you’re in any position to bargain, sweetheart. What d’you think the doctor’s gonna tell me if you’re still having problems at your next appointment, hm?"

He knows his words make your insides twist with want, you can see it in his eyes. The doctor wouldn’t tell Joel anything at all, and you both know it – but you enjoy this game just as much as Joel does, this play-pretending of him being more of a guardian than most people would deem morally right. Whenever you think about it too hard, the tingle in your stomach turns into guilt, but now, with Joel hovering over you, broad and sure and old enough to really be that guardian, you only feel the familiar flame of desire starting to lick at your insides. Joel clocks the way your legs shift slightly, and he smiles.

"There we go, sweetheart. You gonna talk back again?"

"No, Dad."

There it is, that name that would make anyone faint if they listened in. Already, you feel your stomach start to pull tight. Joel gets up and pushes your knees down gently, so that your feet are planted on the floor. You reluctantly obey his touch, still not entirely convinced of this plan. Still, you let him pull you to your feet, his eyes drifting over your form, half assessing, half hungry. You like the clothes you’re wearing, but they’re distinctly un-sporty. Lace and bows and buttons.

"Don’t look at me like that," you grumble, all of a sudden irrationally worried Joel is doing this to shape you into someone he deems more desirable, but his fingers under your chin are gentle when he lifts it up to have you look at him.

"You’re as pretty as they come," he says in that gentle way of his that simultaneously feels so stern, "’s not about looks, sweet girl. You gotta work those little lungs of yours, and when you’re all healthy again, we’ll find you a sport you enjoy, hm? I’ll take ya horseback ridin’, or swimming’. Whatever you’d like."

That thought cheers you up slightly. You don’t enjoy flying balls and angry teammates, but floating through nothingness on your own or having a horse let you guide it is something you think you can get behind. Much more than any of the things the doctor recommended.

"Okay," you agree, and finally you can’t hear that terrible attitude you were giving Joel in your voice anymore, finally you’re back to being the sweet girl he likes you to be. Your stomach flutters looking up into his warm face lined with wrinkles, both from sorrow and joy you never got to see, because you had not been born yet. The thought shouldn’t be arousing. This game you play isn’t really about pretending to be related, it’s not even about control or a discrepancy of power. It’s about a certain lack of conditions that comes with loving Joel, and him loving you. The way you’re able to let him hold your fears and worries for you, and trust him to turn them into something else.

"Up," Joel says softly, and you lift your arms, eyes not moving from his face as he starts to pull your top over your head. Even after all this time, you still get a little insecure whenever Joel sees you naked. You know he likes the way you look, he makes sure to tell you as often as possible, but there is a well of hate for your own body inside of you, fostered in your teenage years, that you never quite managed to get rid of. You think that every girl might feel like this, might be made to feel like it, as if this body isn’t what has carried you through your life for more than two decades now.

You once whispered your confession of insecurity into Joel’s ear, sitting on his lap not long after he first swept you off your feet, and his genuine surprise was more healing than any words of affirmation could have been, though he offered them to you more than willingly. Joel didn’t understand how you could hate something that was your home, your vessel, and this inherently and sweetly masculine naivety was what made you really question your outlook on yourself for the first time. That Joel could love your body simply because it was yours, that this mere fact was enough for him to groan and get hard whenever you blinked right and played with the shoulder-strap of your top – it felt so paternal. That night you called him that name for the first time, and there was the same surprise on his face, as he came so hard inside of you, you don’t know how he didn’t knock you up to this day.

After that it was an easy dynamic to sink into, you letting him take care of you, him reveling in the trust and intimacy. Nobody knew about it, or your relationship would have been picked apart even more than it already was. But here, on Joel’s couch, under Joel’s palms, you get to let all pretenses fall, and bare yourself to Joel in any way he’ll have you, just as much as he does for you.

So you let out a shaky breath when he smoothes his palms over your ribcage, his hands so large it feels like everything alive inside of you fits into them. You watch him smile when goose pimples erupt on your skin, always pleased by the effect he has on you. The tips of his fingers slip under the strap of your cotton bra, just to tease, just to hint at getting it off, but then he slides them down and over your hips.

"Let’s get this pretty skirt off, hm? ’S no outfit to work out in."

You move your head in agreement, something between a nod and a head-shake, and Joel pulls the fabric down and over your thighs, exposing your soft skin and panties. A twinge of insecurity twists your stomach, being so bare and exposed in front of a completely clothed Joel, who you’re sure never once had to struggle with how sporty he is. Not when his muscles are bulging like that, not when he seems to love how much you love his belly. You envy him for it, and wish he could transfer some of his security right into your veins. Until then, you’ll have to make do by borrowing it from him whenever he has you split on his cock, letting the doubts seep from your mind when he calls you pretty as you fall apart.

He unclasps your bra, slides down your panties and you step out of them, completely naked in front of him.

"Christ," he mumbles, "if ya didn’t need to exercise your lungs, I’d fuck you right into that couch."

You feel your cheeks heat up, and look down, which earns you a rumbly chuckle.

"Oh sweetheart, ’s just me. Don’t gotta be embarrassed."

"Okay," you say softly, meeting his eye again, "okay, Dad."

Joel’s pupils dilate just slightly.

"That’s right, angel," he mumbles, and moves to unclasp his belt, "’s just your old man. Just Dad."

It’s like you can feel yourself get wet in time with his words, watching him slide his jeans over his prominent bulge. He doesn’t take them off all the way, just enough to be able to pull himself out of his boxers and pump his fist over himself a couple of times.

"You know, kiddo, when you’re done with your workout, I’ll make us the biggest hot fudge sundae you’ve ever seen. ’S all about balance."

Your lips twitch with a smile, and Joel smiles back, sitting down on the sofa in front of you.

"Come on, sweetheart, the quicker you start, the sooner you’re done."

Your belly aches with want, and you wish he would just turn you around, press your head into the cushions and fuck you deeply, but his words make it more than clear that it’s not technically about your pleasure, at least not primarily. The softness in his eyes tells you it’s all part of the game, all part of a distraction from not wanting to let him see you work out, so when you sit down on his knee, your hands on his shoulders, it doesn’t feel embarrassing anymore. You swallow, waiting for Joel’s hands on your hips, but he just puts them behind his head, looking down at you expectantly.

"You waitin’ for somethin’?"

He always helps you. He always guides your movement, because he knows it shuts off your mind to know you’re doing it the way he likes. But he’s quiet now, watching you all relaxed and expectant. You swallow, and his eyes track the movement of your throat.

"You want me to help you?"

"Yes please, Dad" you say softly, feeling the muscles of his thigh contract against your core. Almost involuntarily, your hips twitch towards him. Joel hums, as if contemplating your request, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"I’ll talk you through it," he decides after a beat, "but you’re movin’ on your own, princess. ’S still a workout."

Your eyes are wide, but you don’t argue.

"Start movin’ your hips, sweetheart, gotta get you wet first. Any athlete knows to warm up first."

You clench at his words, the practical way he describes what you’re doing, and start rolling your hips against his thigh, the rough denim dragging deliciously against your clit. Joel’s cock twitches when a soft groan escapes your mouth, and he drags his eyes down your body.

"That’s good, baby, just like that. Don’t mind the spot, I’ll do the laundry later."

The fact that you’re ruining Joel’s jeans didn’t even cross your mind, you’re entirely focused on the feeling of him right under you, the tips of your fingers digging into his shoulders.

"Good job, baby, keep goin’."

Even though you’re moving on your own, it’s easier with Joel coaching you trough it, tracking your movement and encouraging you whenever he can sense your reluctance. You know you’re soaking his thigh, that he must surely be able to feel your heat and wetness even through the fabric, and the thought makes you move your hips a little more frantically, as your head droops towards Joel’s shoulder.

"Upright, baby, think of your posture," Joel says, though he sounds a little strained himself.

"Da-ad," you whine, "’m close."

"Hold it off, we ain’t done yet."

You could disobey him. Joel wouldn’t get angry, though he wouldn’t let you off the hook either, but something about the authoritative way he’s instructing you makes you incapable of going through with it. So you slow your hips, revel in his consequential praise, and wish he would kiss you. But you’re working out, not making out, so you look up at him expectantly, and he nods.

"Go ahead, sweetheart, sit on it."

You wrap your hand around his cock, red and hot and so hard, and move so that you’re kneeling over him, aligning your entrance with the tip. You stare right into his eyes when you sink down, and Joel smiles when he sees the way your brows furrow in a mix of concentration and pain.

"That’s it, biiiig stretch, baby," he say with a groan, his eyes moving down to where you’re slowly being impaled by his cock. It’s a lot to take even when he eats you out or gives you his fingers first, but now the feeling is so overwhelming you close your eyes for a moment. You keep going, though, until you’re entirely full, and Joel lets out another breathy groan. His biceps is twitching with restraint, his fingers tugging just slightly at his own hair, but his hips stay where they are. You know on any other day, he would have flipped you around by now and given it to you himself, and you marvel at his self restraint.

"Start movin’," Joel orders, and you lift your hips upwards again, rolling them just slightly, the drag of his cock inside you overwhelmingly delicious. Little whines and groans escape you as you bounce up and down, eyes wide and on Joel, holding onto him for support.

"Feels so good, Dad," you mumble, and Joel smiles, giving you one thrust of his hips that makes your eyes roll back, but then he’s still again, only his chest is heaving.

"Look at you," he praises, his voice rough and low, "riding me like a champ. Pity I can’t enroll you in competitions for this, you’d win your Dad some medals."

Your hips stutter at his words, and Joel groans at the way you clench in response to his dirty talk, always so receptive.

"You’d like that, hm? Makin’ your old man proud?"

You nod and vaguely register a dull pain in your lower lip, as your teeth sink into it.

"Yeah," you breathe, bouncing up and down on Joel’s cock, your thighs starting to ache. Joel chuckles, and tucks a lose strand of hair behind your ear, and you wish he’d touch you properly, put his hands on your tits or hips or throat, but he just rests his arm on the back of the sofa.

"Tell you secret, angel, I’m always prouda you. ’S not about winnin’, just about feelin’ good in in your pretty little body."

You keep moving, ignoring the ache in your legs and stomach best as you can, but after a while of heavy breathing and a film of sweat building on your forehead and neck, you subconsciously slow down.

"Keep goin’," Joel says when he notices, "you can do it."

So you speed up your movements again, lips parted and air rushing through them quickly.

"Good girl," Joel praises you, his eyes trained on the place he is disappearing inside of you. A sticky white ring has started building at the base of his cock, a mixture of both your arousal. You lift your hips again, eyes unfocused.

"Dad," you whine, "I can’t–"

"Yeah you can, baby, sure you can. Know it’s uncomfortable, but you’ll feel so good when you’re all done. Keep goin’."

You remember this feeling of pushing yourself from p.e. class, but it was always mixed with shame instead of pleasure, and now, with Joel’s eyes on your body, watching your muscles contract appreciatively, you don’t have it in you to feel anything else but the pleasure – except for maybe exhaustion. You keep going as long as you can, breathing heavily and forcing yourself to continue anyways, your hands clawing at Joel’s plaid shirt.

"Please," you mumble after a while, your thighs burning with effort now, the squelching noise of Joel’s body entering yours so obscene it almost makes you come.

"Can you do five more minutes, baby? Five more for Dad?"

For Dad? Sure – you keep bouncing, your hands on Joel’s shoulder pushing you upwards, your breathing going even faster now, your heart hammering against you ribcage.

"That’s it, baby. Doin’ so good. Feel that ache in your legs?"

You nod, bouncing up and down.

"They’ll be a little sore, so I’ll do all the work tomorrow. You think you can do this twice a week?"

"No," you breathe, and Joel chuckles.

"No? Want to go runnin’ instead?"

"No, Dad," you whine and frown at him, "want you to fuck me."

Joel’s eyes are amused but kind, as he watches you ride him all on your own.

"Oh, I’ll fuck you, little girl. Don’t gotta do without anythin’, I’ll still fuck you each night. We’ll add this twice a week, hm?"

That makes you perk up. Joel meets your every need, fucks you however you want him to, every day, even though you know at his age he could go without it longer than you. On the rare occasions that it doesn’t work, no matter how hard you suck and stroke, he eats you out until you see stars, then keeps going until you fall asleep, but you rarely find the time to do it more than once a day. And even though he leaves you entirely satisfied, you like the idea of coming on Joel’s cock more than he already has you do, even if you’re the one who has to put in the work.

"Okay," you mumble, and drop your forehead onto his shoulder in exhaustion, your hips still lifting and sinking down on him, though with less energy. "Okay, Dad."

And finally Joel reaches out for you, finally he grabs your waist, his fingers digging into your flesh, as he starts lifting you up and down on his cock. He does it so effortlessly, muscles bulging when you open your eyes to watch him, and he speeds up, his hips snapping upwards as his arms force you up and down.

"Good girl," Joel mumbles, lost in pleasure himself now, "always so stubborn till my cock fixes you, hm?"

Your cheeks heat up, but he’s not wrong, and when he slams you down particularly forcefully, you mewl.

"You go ahead and come for me, kiddo. Did so good."

And that’s all it takes for your earth to shatter, stomach pulling tight and your muscles cramping up. You hear Joel groan over the sound of your blood pumping in your ears, and register his cock twitching against your cervix, spilling into you so much you feel like you’re being flooded with cum. Your breathing is quick, your insides still twitching and Joel finally catches your slack mouth in a kiss. You sigh into his mouth as both of your hips still, and he pulls you against his chest, cock still buried inside of you. You go limp, panting into the fabric of his shirt, and his hands start to stroke your naked back. A button of his shirt presses into your cheek, but you’re too exhausted to move your head away.

"You still with me, sweetheart?"

You hum contentedly, and Joel laughs quietly. He adjusts your body, but doesn’t slip out of you, just presses his lips to your jaw. You play with the hair at the back of his neck, mind blissfully lost in your exhaustion, and Joel’s hands move to your thighs. He starts to massage them gently, strong hands digging into your sore muscles, and you let out an involuntary moan. Joel kisses the side of your neck, his tongue chasing and catching your beads of sweat, sucking a hickey into your red and pulsing neck.

You try to pull away, but Joel nips your skin warningly.

"Told ya I like ya sweaty ’n out of breath, didn’t I?"

And you don’t have it in you to argue or feel embarrassed about it. You melt into him further, and shift your hips just slightly. Joel’s spent cock twitches inside of you, and you feel a bit of his cum leak out at the side. You sigh at the feeling, and kiss Joel’s throat.

"Thank God for my vasectomy, can’t have ya gettin’ pregnant with your Dad’s baby now, can we?"

You cheeks burn bright red and you hide your face in Joel’s shoulder.

"Stop it," you mumble, and Joel chuckles.

"No, you stop it, kiddo. There’s nothin’ you should feel embarrassed about with me, you hear me?"

You nod, but Joel isn’t satisfied.

"You hear me?"

"Yes," you mumble, "I hear you, Dad."

"Good."

You sit like that for a while, Joel’s hands drifting over your sweat-sticky skin and massaging your sore muscles.

"You sure you’re still up to me fuckin’ you tonight, baby?" Joel asks when you yawn. You smile into his shirt.

"I’m sure."

Joel kisses the top of your head.

"Promised my little athlete a hot fudge sundae before that, though."

"Not yet, Dad. Want you to stay inside me."

Joel tangles his hand into your hair and pulls gently so that you’re forced to crane your neck. He kisses you, his beard scratching your sweaty skin, and you sigh when he licks into your mouth surprisingly territorially. He’s gentle with you, but already you can tell he’s thinking about fucking you again by the way his cock twitches with every sound you make.

"Perfect girl," he mumbles, "my perfect girl."

#joel x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #my writing #dad!joel #dad!joel miller #tlou #the last of us

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lavandulawrites · 24 days ago

Note

could you write honkai star rail men with an escaped darling just like the genshin one but hsr version?💗

Yandere HSR Men with an Escaped Darling

Characters: Anaxa, Argenti, Aventurine, Blade, Boothill, Caelus, Dan Heng, Dr. Ratio, Gallagher, Gepard, Jiaoqiu, Jing Yuan, Luocha, Moze, Mr. Reca, Mydei, Phainon, Sampo, Sugilite, Sunday, Welt (all separate)

I had already started on this when you sent me the request anon:) This was so fun to write:) Yandere hsr scenario requests are open. Though I can’t promise I will do all the characters. If you want to be a part of my taglist, let me know!<3

Masterlist

Genshin Impact version

Warnings: imprisonment, abduction, murder, violence, gore (only in Blade and Boothill’s part), threats, drugging, manipulation, stalking, delusional behaviour, Stockholm syndrome, some yanderes are more unhinged than others, mind break, female reader (though only briefly mentioned in some parts), some parts are longer than others

Word count: 9646

Anaxa

The summer breeze welcomed you with a warm embrace as you set foot outside of Anaxagoras’ home. You were finally free. You let out a silent, but gleeful laughter. Finally. After all this time. Had you told yourself from a few months ago that you would manage to escape the professor a few months later, you would have thought you had gone mad. Maybe you had? Though that hardly mattered. All the things you could do flooded your mind and your nerves buzzed with adrenaline and excitement. The possibilities were endless. First you would have to lay low as you found a way out of the city. Going under the radar of the most intelligent person on Amphoreus was no easy feat, but you would have to think of something. You would have to scrape together enough money and you would have to change your appearance, get new clothes and maybe change your hairstyle. It would be extremely difficult, but you had no other choice.

You stretched your legs out in big steps as you stepped down from the stairs that led up to his home. The stone was cold underneath your bare feet, but you didn’t care. When you reached the bottom of the stairs, the sound of someone clearing their throat broke the tranquil silence. You shot your gaze towards the sound and let out a strangled gasp. There by the iron gates, stood Anaxagoras. His posture was rigid and his hands slightly clenched before they relaxed.

You both started at each other’s for a while, before he broke out into long strides towards you.

“What are you doing?” it wasn’t really a question as one could easily see that you clearly had attempted to escape. It was obvious he just wanted to hear you admit it. Admitting your misdeeds was something he found important (especially when it came to you). He eyed you up and down with a narrow eye, clearly displeased.

When your voice failed you and you only managed to let out a tiny sound, he sighed. “Get back inside. Now” he commanded. “It seems like I might have to teach you a lesson” he clicked his tongue. “A pity really. Here I thought that you already understood that stepping a foot outside is prohibited” he guided you inside with one hand on your lower back. He locked the door with the other hand. “This will have grave consequences. You truly don’t understand how dangerous Amphoreus has become.”

“Go to my study, I will be there in a few minutes.”

Argenti

The petals of a thousand red roses rained down upon you, covering you in their embrace almost choking you. They were a sign of love, a type of love you did not want. The little stream had turned a frightened red colour and if you stared long enough into the murky surface, you were sure you could see the souls of the people he had slain with his lance. For a Knight of Beauty he could be rather ferocious towards those he deemed a threat to your beauty. They never saw it coming as even as he started at them with hatred, his words still sounded like beautiful poetry one could find in ancient texts. Argenti was delusional and his delusions clouded his judgment. Your complains and cries fell on deaf ears as he continued to shield you from the ugliness of the universe. When it came to you, he saw you through his rose coloured glasses and everything he didn’t agree with he ignored. Ignorance was bliss they said and it was some truth in that. You hated yourself for falling for his carefully crafted compliments and his romantic style. You had fallen into his web and it was all too late to get out. You were stuck.

He called your name with his melodic voice, your name sounding like a prayer. You were the closest thing he could get to Idrilla and he was convinced the goddess had personally blessed you themselves. “Oh, my love. Why won’t you respond to me pleas? Why won’t you show yourself? The world is so bleak without you. All colours have drained and the flowers have withered into nothing but ash” his desperation was like no other. Had he not forcefully taken you away from your home in the name of love, your heart would have ached for him.

You sunk down into the stream, the water cold against your skin. Your white clothing soaked up the red like a sponge and you looked more like a ghost than a living person. You had no energy left nor hope. You were but a shell from your former self. All you could do was wait for him to come with his white horse, saving you like he always did.

The rose petals clung to your skin just like he did. The thorns were scattered across your form, changing you in.

He kneeled before you with a hand over his heart. Devotion was clear in his action and his emerald eyes filled with the horrible thing that was love. Argenti would rather burry the world in roses than loose his hold on you. This was true love.

Aventurine

“Please please please! I beg of you! Don’t kill me! I will do anything you ask of and more! Just- just don’t kill me!” the man kneeled before the Stoneheart whose face was cold and devoid of emotion. He was like nothing you had ever seen, his usual self gone and replaced with something sinister. Something more akin to a monster than a human. His blonde hair still looked as soft as it always did, but you could almost see two horns sprouting from beneath the locks. The more you watched him, the more you realised that the rumours you had heard about the Ten Stonehearts were true. They were devils.

You cowered behind the divan in the hotel room. Fearing for what’s about to come. “Aventurine, please” you pleaded. You didn’t want anyone to die because of you. You shifted your gaze from Aventurine to the man who had helped you escape. He was a kind middle-aged man. He would never harm you, though Aventurine didn’t believe that. He had said that he knew men way better than you and he knew how vile their thoughts were. Your pleads fell on deaf ears as Aventurine stalked towards the man. His beautiful multicoloured eyes narrowed and his jaw tight.

“He will pay for his misdeeds. Betraying me like this. How dare you” he sneered through gritted teeth.

“I just wanted to help her! Keeping her locked up is wrong! Please you must understand this!” the man cried bowing his head as fat tears rolled down from his eyes and plopped onto the ground. “I have a wife and kids! My daughter’s weeding is next week! I can’t miss it!” his voice broke into ragged sobs. His eyes flickered up to meet yours in a silent plea. Your heart tightened and sorrow consumed you. You were just about to open your mouth when Aventurine shoved his sleek dark brown designer shoe in the man’s face.

“Don’t look at her” his usually collected tone was fiery and deadly. He turned to you as he slipped his hand in his dress jacket pocket. “Close your eyes” magenta and blue eyes softened for a second before they turned away.

“No! Don’t!” you rushed forward from behind the divan and grabbed his arm.

He only shook your grasp off him as he said “Close your eyes. Now.”

Tears were overflowing your eyes and you were shaking so violently you thought you would pass out. You sunk down to the wooden floor as you tugged at his pant leg. “Please. He doesn’t deserve this!”

“Nonsense” you couldn’t see anything through your tears, but you could hear the sound of Aventurine loading his gun. The sound was sickening. “I will make sure to send your daughter your remains.”

The bang was piercing and you could feel it in your heart. You sobbed uncontrollably as you heaved for air. You weren’t the one who was shot, yet you felt like you were dying. Aventurine crouched down and pulled you into his arms. He shushed your sobs as he gently stroked your hair. “You are okay, I promise” he whispered. Your tears soaked his expensive shirt, but you didn’t care. The only thing you felt was guilt and you were certain it would kill you.

Blade

Many thought that the Stellaron Hunter when mara struck was the most frightening version of him, but you begged to differ. The most terrifying version of Blade was when he was his usual self. His lucidity was far more disturbing than when he was clouded with the need to destroy. Blade was a man that was near impossible to negotiate with, his stubbornness unyielding. When he had made up his mind there was absolutely nothing that could change it. You had long lost count of all those who had died because of him, because of you. He was a ticking time bomb.

The air was filled with the thick and heady scent of blood and rot. The grounds were filled with more corpses than you could count. The harbour on the foreign planet was painted in red, the blood still warm. Screams were everywhere and it made it difficult to orientate yourself. With the sounds of hell ringing in your ears, you made your way towards what you thought was the way towards a ferry. Nausea washed over you in waves with every inhale and you had to force yourself to not vomit.

Something shattered underneath your sole and you gulped before hesitantly looking down. Up stared the blank eyes of a man. The left side of his skull was completely shattered and your foot was inside the hollowness were his intact brain once was. His mouth was forever frozen in a silent scream, most likely a plead to spare his life that had undoubtedly fallen upon deaf ears. It was straight from your nightmares and you wondered for a second if you had died and found yourself in hell. The rest of his body was mangled to such a degree you wouldn’t have known it was a human body unless you had seen his head. You let out a shirking scream before you quickly scrambled to the side, clutching your stomach. You head was swimming and tears flowed freely from your eyes. You looked down at your shoe that was covered in brains, blood and some skull fragments.

You ran as fast as you could. He had by no doubt heard your scream and was right behind you. You couldn’t see him in the darkness of the night, but you could hear his maniacal laughter. Blade was getting closer and closer and you felt as if you were a helpless lamb getting chased by a vicious beast.

You stumbled over a severed arm and your body came into contact with the cold ground. Your head had smashed against a slab of cement in the process, causing it to crack slightly open. Warm blood ran down your skin and down onto your hands. It hurt and you were dizzy.

Bandaged fingers reached for you and you could feel yourself sinking into the abyss of hell. Like a venomous snake they wrapped around you, forever binding you to him. Wherever you went, death were sure to follow unless you accepted his deadly love.

Boothill

The gunslinger had kept you by his side as he moved from place to place. He was madly in love and even though his flirtation gave you butterflies and his silly romantic gestures played at your heartstrings, you still wanted to get far away from him. Boothill was a man who wore his heart on his sleeves, he had been through a lot and you almost felt bad when you snuck away.

Your guilt was short loved when wherever you went, you were met with corpses with more bullet holes that you could count. The sight was horrifying and disgusting, but it followed you no matter what you did. It was clear that Boothill was not pleased with your escape and took up it out on anyone he deemed deserving.

The music that was playing in the worn down bar was a romantic jazz song. The singer sung with yearning, in a way that reminded you of the cowboy. The lyrics were desperate and pleading, a classic that was well known throughout the cosmos. You sighed as you sipped the drink in your hand. Cheap red wine. The taste wasn’t satisfactory, but you didn’t care. You didn’t really like alcohol, but you needed to get your mind of things.

You knew he was the one who entered without looking behind you. The warmth of the alcohol turned into fire in your mouth as you braced for the worst.

“Hello darlin’” his voice breathy. “Duck” was all he said. Despite being slightly confused, you did as he said. After you ducked your head against the countertop, a gunshot could be heard. It echoed through your skull and you let out a yelp. A loud thud came from in front of you and you slowly looked up. The bartender who had been previously cleaning some glasses were now slumping against the countertop, a bullet hole had pierced straight through his skull, causing his brain matter to paint the cabinets behind him. The colourful bottles were now covered in red and pink-ish grime. You froze as you tried to scream, but no word came out.

“Sorry ‘bout that. Just can’t have men looking at what’s mine” he blew the smoke from the barrel of his revolver. “Let’s get goin’. We have a long way ahead of us.”

Caelus

“Come back! [Name] I love you!” Caelus screamed somewhere behind you. You had lost your sight of him as you quickly manoeuvred through the labyrinth like hallways of the hotel. You had to quick, lest the crazed Nameless would get his hold on you.

You pushed your legs as hard as you could and you ran faster than you had ever before.

Images of the nights you had spent together and the sweet memories you had made with him flashed through your mind. You tried to shake them away. Now was not the time to go down memory lane.

A foot came out from around the corner and tripped you. You watched in slow motion as the floor came closer and closer. A hand came under your midriff and pulled you up, just in time.

He pulled you into his embrace and his arms snaked around your waist tightly as he burrowed his head in your hair.

“Don’t ever run away from me. It’s dangerous. You will get hurt” he rambled frantically against your hair. “To think I almost lost you.”

You were completely frozen as the young man continued to go on and on about all the dangers of the universe. You were so tired and you couldn’t help the few tears of exhaustion that welled up in your eyes. Unsurprisingly, Caelus mistook your tears for anxiety of caused by all the frightening stories he had told you and he began to hush you.

“Shush, it’s okay. I got you. I will never let any harm happen to you. I promise” he gently stroked up and down your back in a soothing manner.

“I love you, I love you, I love you” his mantra echoed through your skull and you couldn’t help but feel defeated. You would never escape from him, all you could do was lose yourself to the sweet dreams that came to you at night.

Dan Heng

The water was akin to a black void as it swallowed everything except the pale moonlight. The waves were harsh as they crashed into the shore, splashing water everywhere. The smell of saltwater strong as you walked against the waves. The sand stuck to your bare feet, but you did not care. You were exhausted after days of running. You had managed to escape Dan Heng’s clutches as you had stopped on a foreign planet. You had decided for a midnight walk as you looked for your next shelter. Your muscles were aching and screaming for you to rest, but you couldn’t risk getting captured. You could only imagine his light cyan eyes filled with worry as he turned the entire planet upside down looking for you. You wanted to laugh at the image, but you couldn’t muster up the energy.

You thought back at all the time you had spent together with the Nameless and your heart ached. It fluttered within your chest like a dying star and you clutched your hand over it as if to comfort it. You couldn’t let your emotions take the steering wheel. Not now. A lone seagull flew over the shore as it looked for a place to rest its wings. Your eyes wandered from the bird and onto the dark night sky. The stars were endless and you envied them as they gazed down at you, carefree and free. You could almost hear his voice as he told you about all the constellations.

“That’s the Orion’s Belt. Beautiful is it not?”

Your eyes widened at the sound. Your imagination was good, but it could not possibly be that good. “Dan Heng…?” you called out with a smaller voice than you had intended.

He didn’t answer for a while as he continued to stargaze. Horns adorned his head and his hair gently swayed in the wind. “I found you. Finally” he sighed. He sounded exhausted and you almost felt bad.

“How?” you asked.

He turned his face towards you. “Your necklace” was all he said as his gorgeous eyes flickered down to the silver necklace that rested against the upper part of your sternum. Of course. Of course he had installed a tracker in your necklace. How could you be so foolish?

“Oh.” “Why did it take you so long?” you returned your gaze to the stars. It was almost as they pitted you as they blinked down at you.

“I suppose I wanted you to know how dangerous it is without me. And considering your bruises and cuts, I succeeded” Dan Heng’s voice was as gentle as the breeze that carried the scent of the sea. It gently ruffled your hair and stroked your cheek.

“I suppose you did” you admitted defeated. There was no point fighting it.

Dr. Ratio

The famed genius was away on a seminar which had left you with the opportunity to escape from his elegant home. You had managed to break the intricate locks on the heavy front doors with the help of some good old technological malfunction. Your heart was hammering so fast against your ribs as you swung the doors open that you thought you would die from heart attack (though the doctor would without no doubt bring you back to life). You knew the security cameras would get you on film, but you did not care. Not when you were so close to getting your old life back.

Oh how you missed your boring lazy days by the window of your living room, just lazing the day away with a silly romance manga and a stupid movie on in the background. You missed the days that Veritas had called unproductive and a waste of time and brain power. There was a time you had pinned for him from the distance at the small cozy cafe you both had frequently visited. You had been over the moon when the handsome man had taken a seat at your table and struck up a conversation about the classic you were reading. He had told you it was one of his favourite for years (however you weren’t sure if that was a lie or not).

You cast a glance back at the empty manor, the newly polished hard floors reflected the orange light of the soft afternoon sun. The same colour as his beautiful eyes. The eyes that always saw through you. Should you really run?

No! How could you think such things? You shook your head as you took off in a run. You had to be quick. He would be back. You knew that the location where the seminar took place was not far away from his home. Your home, but not anymore. Your lungs screamed as you ran. The sun was warm against your bare arms. The wind played with your hair like a lover would, raking its fingers gently through your strands. It reminded you of him. You clenched your teeth together. Now was not the time for reminiscing.

You don’t know how long you ran for, but it had to be hours. Your legs were aching so much they were shaking. Blood were rushing through your head so fast you could only hear the stream off blood. Your face had reddened and cold sweat stuck your t-shirt to your skin. Your vision was blurry and your breathing shortened as you wheezed. You had only gotten so far. Ratio’s house was on the outskirts of the city and you weren’t familiar with the area. You had ran in circles and despair had started to bloom in your chest. It was an ugly feeling and you wanted nothing more to throw it up together with your lunch. You contemplated to back home, but then he would by no doubt strengthen the security. But maybe you could convince him to give you freer rains? You groaned out loud as your thoughts were at war with each other’s.

You didn’t know how you found yourself before the gates of Ratio’s estate, but there you where. He was standing in the door way, his muscular arms crossed and his handsome face unreadable. With a bowed head you made your way over the gravel and up the small steps to him: your captor. You were nothing but defeated and you wanted to turn away and run, but for some reason found yourself unable to. Something was wrong with you, that was for sure. When you were only an arm’s length away from him, his arms uncrossed and he reached on off them out.

“I am glad you took to logic and returned home to where you belong. I was worried about you” his deep voice had softened and you felt sick. “Stay with me and I will keep you safe from everything” Veritas pulled you into an embrace “I love you [Name]. Remember that. Everything I do is for you.” You however missed the smug smile that tugged on his lips.

Gallagher

Gallagher was an enigma. Everything about him was a mystery that you could only hope to unravel. His past was a puzzle with pieces you couldn’t piece together. Why you became his subject of his obsession was nothing but a mystery. He had treated you kindly, but when you voiced that you wished to return to reality, his face had turned uncharacteristically hard, his warm red eyes turned cold and dark and his lips turned into a strained line. He had only said “no” with such finality you were taken aback. After that you had spent days planning your escape. Gallagher was a smart man and despite his supposedly carelessness he was always watching.

You had managed to slip through the cracks of the window and down onto the cold ground of the Dreamflux Reef. You were wearing soft slippers in order to make as little sound as possible. You slipped past the streets quietly, making sure none of the residents saw you. Everyone knew each others and everyone trusted Gallagher, if they saw you they would without doubt tell him and bring you back to his arms. You were still unfamiliar with the streets of the Dreamflux Reef and you tried to orientate yourself as you made your way towards where you thought the lift to where the “surface” might be. You passed multiple black hound statues and you tried to shake of the unease they gave you.

You let out a sigh of relief as you reached the elevator. The lift was nowhere to be seen and you could only wait for it to come back down. The shaft was empty and you stared down at the gaping abyss. The minutes ticked by and cold sweat had begin to coat your temples. The hinges started to screech as the lift slowly but surely made its way down. You cast a look over your shoulders to be sure you were all alone. Time was running out. The lift let out a soft ding and you turned your head back towards it.

Your blood froze and your eyes widened as a pair of blood red eyes stared back at yours. Fuck. You tried to turn on your heel and make a run for it, but the gate of the lift opened and out sprung a strong hand. He pulled you back and held you still with such strength that shouldn’t be possible for a human. “Where do you think you are going?” his tone was cold and hard. Gallagher’s usually sleazy voice was completely gone. “You are not leaving me. Ever” strong arms caged you in and all you could smell, see and feel was him.

Gepard

The snowy landscape of Beloborg was unbearable. Your boots sunk into the snow making walking hard and running near impossible. The harsh wind whipped against your cheeks. Your eyes were teary due to the cold weather. Thick snowflakes fell down from the grey skies enveloping everything in a thick white blanket. It was impossible to see more than a few meters in front of you.

A yell came from somewhere behind you in the dense snowfall. You could recognise the raw and desperate voice anywhere. The captain of the Silvermane Guards, Gepard. The same man who held you imprisoned in his home for your protection.

Cold air gripped your lungs in a searing hold every time you inhaled as you started to sprint. The snow was like the quicksand in the ancient books you had read in the library when you were younger. Your earlobes were raw and icy and you were sure they would fall off. The tip of your fingers were pale and under other circumstances, you would have been worried, but now was not the time.

You rounded a corner of an abandoned house with smashed windows. A figure appeared out of the snow storm in front of you. The silhouette leaped forward and dragged you closer by your hand.

“Why on earth are you running away? Don’t you know how dangerous it is out here?!” Gepard’s voice was loud and laced with panic. His blue eyes were wide as the quickly raked over you, looking for any injuries. “You could have been killed! Do you understand?” his voice died down as he pulled you into a tight huge. “You are going back home with me. It seems like I will have to upgrade the locks” he whispered against your hair as he kissed your head. “I love you.”

Jiaoqiu

The foxian was a cunning man who was overly cautious regarding you. He had experienced much pain and suffering, which explained why he treated you like porcelain doll and why he refused you to leave his home. He had put in a lot of thought when it came to preventing your escape. He had however, not thought of the possibility that you would smash the living room window and climb out.

The sharp edges of the broken glass had pierced through your forearms and sliced them open, causing warm red rivers to run down your skin and soil your clothes. You clenched your jaw tightly shut as you jumped out and landed rather graceless on the soft grass underneath. You should stop the bleeding, but freedom was calling. A call that you couldn’t ignore.

Your legs ran as fast as they could and the pain in your arms had dulled to nothing but a sting in the back of your mind. Your eyes were wide as you scanned your surroundings for the familiar pink hair. Being caught now would by no doubt bring you more punishments than you had ever experienced and that was something you wished to avoid (naturally). Your traditional Xianzhou- style slippers slapped against the cobblestone as you rounded corner after corner. You needed to either find a Cloud Knight or a Starskiff. You abruptly stopped in your tracks as you heard the approaching footsteps coming from around the corner of the alleyway. The hairs on the back of your neck rose and you knew who was approaching. You spun on your heal and were about to take off when you heard the all too familiar gentle voice.

“Where do you think you are going?” his tender voice had a biting edge to it. You didn’t need to turn around to know he was furious. All your resistance vanished and your feet were stuck to the ground. Fury and disappointment was oozing from the foxian behind you.

You slowly turned around. His handsome face was twisted into a deranged smile. His ears were slightly pinned back and his fangs barred. You gulped at the sight.

“Not going to explain yourself?” He tilted his head slightly. His smile widened further as he took a step forward and reached for your arm. Even though he was unable to see you expression, he was able to hear your frantic heartbeat. “I won’t ever let any harm fall upon you. Ever. I cannot bear to lose you. You understand, don’t you? You wouldn’t let an old man like me suffer again, am I right?” his arms wrapped around your arms, trapping you. He inhaled your scent like a ravenous beast and you felt like those who had had the misfortune of being his prey and suffered the strike of his butcher knife. You were trapped.

Jing Yuan

People were going to die for this. People were going to die because of you. Blood would be on your hands. You would have to live with it for the rest of your life and there was nothing you could do about it. It was too late. It was too late when you had stepped foot out of the sanctuary you and the general shared. The general who was so in love with you it made him mad. He was a dangerous man.

You could hear the blood splattering in the not-so-far distance. He was close, almost breathing down your neck. You regretted ever asking for directions. You regretted escaping. The screams grew louder and the sickening sound of a claymore slicing through flesh became more audible. You prayed to whatever Aeon that might listen that he wouldn’t find you. You had hid behind a closed kiosk in the rather empty and forgotten street. You closed your eyes tightly together as you tried to steady your breathing. The cries stopped and the air fell eerily silent. Your hairs stood on end and your instincts told you to run. But where could you run? The alley was a dead end.

“[Name]. I know you are there. Please come out. I won’t hurt you.” Jing Yuan. He sounded oddly calm and it only made you more anxious.

“You are safe. I promise. You know I keep my promises, don’t you” no he didn’t. He hadn’t kept his promise when he told you, you would be able to roam freely outside of the house and away from him. It was all a lie, a lie he had crafted in the name of protecting you.

You didn’t scream, you didn’t hide and you didn’t run when he crossed the corner of the kiosk where you were crouched behind. He gently smiled down at you, revealing his charming dimples. “There you are my love. Let’s get you home” if he was angry, he didn’t show it. Jing Yuan’s soft white hair was speckled with crimson and his clothes stuck to his form soaked with blood. The scent of iron clung to him, but he didn’t seem to care. He noticed your frightened expression as your eyes raked over him and his face softened. “My apologies, you shouldn’t see me like this. How tactless of me” he scooped you up in his arms like you weighed nothing, and to him you probably did. “Let’s take a nice bath, shall we?” he kissed your cheek, blood smearing your skin and tainting you.

Luocha

Your eyes raked over the blackboard menu. The cafe had a great variety of tea and coffee and a lots of different cakes that looked mouthwatering. What to pick. You ended up with getting a cup of apple and cinnamon tea and a slice of chocolate cake. You found a table in to corner of the restaurant, hidden away but with clear view of the entrance. In case he decided to show up. You lifted the beautiful tea cup up to your lips. It’s floral design pink and red with hints of green. You tried to take a sip from the steaming hot tea, but your lips burned and you hissed out in pain. You gave it a few blows before enough sat it down again in order for it to cool. Your attention turned to the cake. It wasn’t too big nor was it too small. It was just right in size. The buttercream was fluffy and the cake spongy. You pushed the fork into your moth and sighed at the taste. It was truly delicious. You needed this. You deserved this after all the days you had been on the run from the travelling merchant.

You needed to unwind, only if just slightly. Your muscles were stiff from all the anxiety that constantly ran through your veins. If Luocha had been there he would have made your soreness disappear. He would take care of you, but that wasn’t enough. You wanted to be free, not chained to a man whose line of work was even more enigmatic than Mythus themselves. You were young, with dreams and a future ahead of you.

You held the tea had cooled down slightly and you lifted it to your lips once more. The sweet and round aroma of apple and cinnamon filled your nose as you inhaled. You took a big sip of the tea. It was just as good as you had imagined. You leaned slightly back in the vintage sofa as you continued to sip your tea. After a while you cake was finished and your tea cup empty. You decide to sit for a while to let the food digest. The minutes flew by and your eyes grew blurry. Your head started to drop, but you weren’t tired. Your arms had lost most of their strength and you struggled to grip the table as you tried to steady yourself. The cafe and the guests in, it all blurred together and all sound muffled.

In your hazy state you didn’t notice the approaching figure nor did you pick up on what he said.

“Thank you. This favour will be remembered.”

The footsteps came to an halt by your table. Your eyes were open, but your mind was somewhere far away. You had been drugged. Despite your weakened state, panic had taken over you and your breathing had turned rapid.

“Are you feeling sleepy, darling?” a soft chuckle followed. Cold long fingers brushed away a few strands from your damp and feverish forehead.

You let out a strangled whine. “You drugged me.”

“No no, I didn’t. It was the lady who owns this lovely cafe” he shushed you. Your eyelids pulled back slightly as you took in his face. He was akin to an angle, whose beauty made your heart ache. His green eyes sparkled like emeralds as he gazed down at you. “I have been following you since your little escape” he kissed your forehead, seemingly uncaring about your sweat. “You are so adorable. Sweet dreams” he kissed you one last time before he gathered you up in his strong arms. His soft hair gently tickling your cheekbones. Sleep awaited you and you could feel yourself slipping away slowly but surely, you could only dread what you would wake up to.

Moze

The shadows reached for you with boney hands. They were hungry for your flesh. You could feel him, even though you couldn’t see him. Just like he wanted. He was stalking you like a hungry wolf stalked a helpless lamb. You had rented a little flat. It was rather shabby with wires sticking out from the ceiling where lamps had hung before the landlord decided to take them down for whatever reason. The floor was creaky and you got splinters if you walked on it barefoot. It was a hellhole, but everything was better than being held prisoner by the assassin. He said it was for your own good, for your protection, but you found it hard to believe him. You weren’t anyone special so you doubted the dangerous men he spoke off would be after you.

Walking alone at night had always been dangerous (with Moze in your life or not). The Mara struck, gang members and men with evil intentions were all something to be cautious of. Though now you had to worry about the grey haired man. The streets were dark and the lamps flickered slightly. It was a shady place, one that you happened to live by. It was idiotic to be walking alone at night, but you had no choice. You were terribly hungry and all your food in the fridge had turned bad so you had no choice to take a trip to the only store that was open at this hour.

Footsteps sounded from the other end of the street, in the direction of the store. A heavy lump in your stomach formed at the sight of four haggard staggering men. The were all bigger and appalled than you and could without quickly overpower you should they want to. They had spotted you and one of them let out a low teasing whistle. It made bile rise up in your throat and fear spread through you. You had to act fast or this would be the end of you. However, before you even got to make the decision to fight or flee, a mist of black and purple appeared before you.

Faster than what your eyes could pick up, he had leaped forward and slashed through the men. Crimson blood spurted from their necks like a fountain and it rain down on Moze like warm summer rain. The sight made you sick and you had to bite your tongue in order to not throw up. He turned to face you with a determined expression. His hands were soaked with blood and the red coating coat the dim light in its reflection.

Suddenly he was in front of you. He gripped your face with his hands, for once not caring about the mess. “It’s dangerous without me” was all he said as he dragged you home. You should have known better. You would never escape him.

Mr. Reca

Escaping a Memokeeper was nigh impossible, but you would be damned should you not give it a try. It was no secret that the famed director Mr. Reca was insane. However, it was not known how far his insanity ran. He was nothing if not obsessive and his obsession with documenting memories was nothing like the obsession he had for you. Though he didn’t seem intimidating, save for his crazed eyes and unhinged behaviour, he was far from harmless. Even after all those long months of knowing him, you did not know about the true extent of his powers. Therefore you had to be extremely cautious when coming up with an escape plan. He had access to your memories and he could alter them at will (though he seemed to prefer not to as he wanted you to be just yourself, which was something you appreciated).

Your breath was ragged as you ran across the streets. You ran over the crosswalks without looking and you nearly ran multiple people over. You didn’t have time to look back. Not when freedom was waiting for you with open arms. Before you knew it you found yourself in an ally that led to a dead end. The sudden sound of a camera shutter going off sliced through the silence like a sharp blade.

“Brilliant! Truly magnificent! You are beautiful even utterly helpless! Oh am I glad I got this on camera” the energetic voice of the brown haired director made your blood freeze. In the blink of an eye he was in front of you, showing a black vintage camera in your face. “Smile darling! You are on video!” The shutter went off with the speed of lightning. “I shall call this documentary: “The Failed Escape Attempt”! What do you think my love? Isn’t that fitting?”

Mydei

The roars of the crown prince of Castrum Kremnos echoed across the ruins. The moon hung high in the black night sky, watching over you. You wanted to reach towards it, to feel her feather light touches. You envied her freedom.

Another battle cry sounded through the ruins and you picked up your pace. You had to get out of Kremnos before Mydei found you. You were running out of time, Mydei was after all a demigod whose strength far surpassed any human. He was fast, extremely so, and if he found you he would reach you before you even managed to blink.

Screams of dying titankin was getting closer, meaning your pursuer was hot on your tail. Your lungs were screaming at you to stop and the taste of blood filled your mouth. You jumped over lose stones and broken walls and you ducked between openings in the broken façade.

A red crystal appeared before you like a spear sent from the heavens above, stoping you in your tracks. You spun on your heels to run the other direction, but you collided in the hard chest that belonged to no other than Mydei. His hands were quick to take a hold onto your shoulders. The talons of his gauntlets burrowing in your flesh. You hissed out in pain as you tried to escape his grasp. He looked down at you with a deadly stare. His eyebrows were furrowed and the corners of his mouth pulled downwards in a frown. To say he was mad was an understatement. You could feel the fury radiate from his toned body, choking you in its intensity.

He didn’t say a word as he dragged you back to the room where he kept you. He steps were long and determined and you had to jog in order to keep up with his long legs. His back was tense and his muscles were strained. Multiple veins were popping out from his neck and arms, but he still controlled his grip on your forearms so it wasn’t too hard. Bruised had already started to form and it didn’t seem he noticed (or cared for that matter).

He flung the door open and threw you in. Mydei just stared at you silently before he closed the door. The lock clicked signalling the end of your short lived freedom.

Phainon

“Please come out” a twig snapped “I know you are there!”

You shrunk further into the bush. You hoped that the big boulder would be able to conceal you. Your ears were on alert and they picked up every little sound. You eyelids were peeled far back as they scanned your surroundings.

“[Name]! Where are you?” his was getting closer. His voice was loud and frantic. You could clearly hear his worry that bled through his words. You knew he would stop at absolutely nothing in order to get back what was his.

Phainon was a possessive man and his possession spiralled further out of control for each day that passed. His sweet caring façade had started to crack and underneath lurked a madman. He was still overly sweet, so much so that it suffocated you. His overprotective behaviour was overwhelming and you felt as if he was breathing down your neck every second off your waken moment, always making sure you were alright. You were confined to his home in Okhema, the holy city. His house were rather spacious, yet you felt the walls creeping in, squeezing you against their weight.

The boulder that cowered the bush was thrown away with enough force that it shattered. Deranged icy blue eyes stared unblinking down at your pitiful form. His clothes were ripped from running through the dense woods and his face was littered in small cuts. Though it didn’t seem he had noticed them. For his attention was only on you. As it always was. For Phainon it was always you. No one else could even hope to rival the intense love he held for you. His nostrils were flared as he inhaled and exhaled fast. He leaned down and kneeled in front of you. He mad himself smaller as he reached a hand out towards you as if you were a scared animal (though there was some truth in that).

“I won’t hurt you” Phainon’s voice was soft. A small smile tugged on his lips when you hesitantly took his hand. “Good girl” he gently stroked the back of your hand.

You stared down at your hand in his much bigger one, and you could see the chains tightening around your interlocked hands, forever chaining you to him.

“Let’s run us a nice hot bath. We can use your favourite soap if you would like” he spoke to you, but his words went unregistered by you. You could only watch as your freedom became further and further away from your out stretched hand.

Sampo

“Oh how I have missed you my dear!” arms leaped out from the shadows, knocking the air out of you. Your throat ran dry. How did he manage to find you in Penacony? You had left Jarilo-IV as soon as the planet opened up for interstellar travel. You had thought you would be safe. Safe from this lunatic.

You tried to wriggle out of his hold, but he was way too strong. “Let me go” you sneered.

“Nah ah! No can do! Not when I finally have you in my arms again” Sampo tightened his hold on you like a snake and he buried his head in your hair and inhaled. He let out a moan like the freak he was. Anger boiled within you.

“Let. Me. Go. Now!” you sneered louder this time. He only tsk-ed as he placed a kiss on your cheek.

“You’re so adorable when you’re angry” he snickered. He let go of you with one of arms as he reached up and pinched your cheek. “So cute!”

“I told you I never wanted to see you again. Why can’t you get that into your thick skull?!” you pulled back from his grip.

At your harsh words his smile fell and his expression hardened. His usually bright and mischievous eyes narrowed and the hand that been pinching you fell to his side. He swallowed slowly “Oh really? Is that so…” His eyes flickered from yours down to his feet and up. “You really should be kinder to good ol’ Sampo.”

“And why should I? You kidnapped me! You fucking psychopath!” you hissed through gritted teeth.

“Because your family is still in Belobog. I know where they live. I mean, of course I do, I know everything about you after all” his voice were more serious than what it usually was. He lowered his tone “It would be a shame if anything were to happen to them.”

Colour drained from your face as you stared up at him in horror.

“Just kidding! Haha you should have seen your face!” he gave you another kiss, this time longer lasting and more possessive. “But seriously though, don’t do anything stupid” he whispered.

Sugilite

The maid walked with hurried steps as she dragged you through the magnificent hallways of the mansion that belonged to one of the Ten Stonehearts. Her hold on your wrist was tight and it would by no doubt leave bruises. Her heels clicked against the dark mahogany flooring and it was a stark contrast to your hushed steps. Your socks were slippery against the newly polished floor and you had to concentrate in order to not slip and fall. Your heart was drumming against your chest.

She said nothing as she pulled you closer and closer to the awaiting wolf. The wolf who didn’t seem to ever get enough of you. He was a monster. A true beast that took on the skin of a human and lived along side them. Sugilite was a man many feared and that with good reason. He took pleasure in ruining people’s lives and he often told you about those instances over dinner (much to your dismay).

She swung the tall doors open that lead to the main living room. She bowed deeply before she fully entered. “Here she is, my Lord.”

She yanked your hand and you followed her inside. The room was dimly lit by only candles and a violet lamp that stood by the corner. The curtains of large windows that overlooked the garden was drawn open, letting the pale moonlight through. The master of the house himself was sitting comfortably in a deep velvet arm chair. His tapped his fingers against the deep purple armrest as he looked up at you. His legs were crossed and he reminded you of a king sitting upon his throne.

“Running away?” he chuckled “Not the wisest decision really…” He turned to the maid. “You are dismissed” he waved his hand.

With a bow she hurried out of the room as fast as she could without running. Sugilite’s attention was yet again on you. “Did she drag you?”

You swallowed before you shook your head. “No” you muttered. The maid had been nasty, but you didn’t want her to face any consequences. Not by the hands of someone as eager as Sugilite.

“Oh yeah? Then why is your hand all red?” he rose his brow.

Your mouth ran dry “It’s nothing.” You quickly hid it behind your back.

“I don’t believe you. Not that it matters. I needed some new staff anyway. Consider this you doing me a favour” a grin spread across his face. “Aww don’t look so beat up. You got yourself to worry about, no need to worry about her”. “I won’t take your little stunt so lightly. I have spoiled you too much” at your fearful expression he laughed. “Take a good look at the outside, because it’s going to be a long time till you will see it again.”

Sunday

You were strapped to a sky blue embroidered chair. It was antique and looked like it belonged in a museum. “You have wounded me” Sunday’s melodic voice sounded from your left. He was behind you, slightly leaning down. His hands were clasped behind his back, his back straight. You tried to tug on your restraints, but the white fabric only dug into your skin, making it red with irritation. The pleasant scent of his refined cologne (one that without doubt cost more than what you had earned in a month when you were still allowed to work) filled your nose as you breathed short breaths. The normally calming scent had now turned into nothing more than the stench of impending doom. The feathers of his wing gently brushing against your cheek and you were once again reminded of the tale of the helpless bird he had saved when he was a child. He had often referred you to said bird and he often mused over your likeness.

He had kept you in a gilded cage (both metaphorical and literally), but he had understood the need for you to stretch your legs. Boredom was the killer of the mind. Sunday had preached to you about the paradise he was building he promised you that you would get the best treatment of all. Everyday he drilled into you the dangerous of the outside world, the weak could not survive on their own after all, and for each day that passed by, the more you believed him.

Had it not been for a careless newly employed servant who had left the door open by a mistake, it would not be certain that you would ever try to escape. You had been terrified, but the allure of the outside world was too strong. You had only gotten a few hundred meters from the Dewlight Pavilion, when the familiar feeling of being watched crept over you.

It had all happened so fast. Rainbow shapes flooded your vision and something familiar yet foreign invaded your mind, taking control like one would a puppet. His voice echoed from within your mind, speaking words you could not understand. Then blackness took over and your body fell into his arms.

“I have been perfectly clear that wandering outside of the walls off the estate it strictly forbidden. Any transgressions against this rule will be punished” you couldn’t see him, but you could feel his presence like the blade of an executioner. You had been clinging to your sanity for so long, but you could now feel it slowly slipping between your grasp. An invisible blade pierced through your mind and thoughts alike, making you whine in agony. The pain was unbearable and breathing became difficult. You slumped forward as much as the bindings let you, the fabric cutting into your chest like a knife.

“It’s time you learn your place. I have shown you so much kindness, yet I get nothing back in return” Sunday was now in front of you with his hands folded in front of him. The dim lighting of the office made his face eerily beautiful. You tried to say something, but your words got stuck in your throat. His brows furrowed as if he had heard your protests (and knowing him he probably could). His mouth flattened into a thin line. “I have been nothing but mercifully, but you have ignorantly ignored it and only given me coldness in return. It is only in due time that I do this” his voice was icy and completely devoid of humanity. “Relax and the pain will be brief. I am doing this because I love you.” The familiar darkness swept over you once again.

Welt

The scent of coffee from the small coffee shop you and found yourself in was overwhelming. You had been quick to escape the Express after it had stopped on a small planet for some errands. Your eyes scanned the soundings for your captor and you sighed in relief when he was nowhere to be seen. The familiar sight of red hair made you pause. Himeko? Hope washed over you and you made your way towards her with quick steps. She was sitting at a corner table, sipping a cup of black coffee. Her eyes widened when they spotted you and she waved you over.

“[Name]?” she tilted her head in confusion. “What are you doing here?”

“Himeko! You’ve got to help me! It’s Welt. He has gone absolutely mad!” the words had already spilled from your lips before you had blinked.

“Mad? I don’t think I understand…” she rose her eyebrow.

“No please believe me! He has held me captive in his room for all this time! He is fucking insane!” you took a seat upside of her and spoke with a frantic hushed tone. You looked over your shoulder from time to time, looking for the familiar brown eyes.

She sighed. “[Name], it’s Welt we are talking about. I want to believe you, but he is the kindest man I have ever met. He is my best friend and I doubt he would ever do such thing.”

Why didn’t she believe you? You blinked at her with disbelief. “I swear I am telling the truth! You have to help me!” you plead. Tears stung behind your eyes, but you refused to let them fall.

She chuckled defeatedly like a mother would when her child told her about their imaginary monsters. She gently patted your hand that was curled into a fist in the table. “Don’t worry too much, Welt is a good man.”

“Listen to me! I swear I am telling you the truth!” you cried out in anger and frustration.

Her golden eyes flickered up at something behind you before they flickered back down at you.

“Thank you Himeko. I owe you one” a deep baritone rattled through your chest. Cold sweat coated at your neck and you couldn’t get yourself to turn around. If you did it would all be too real.

A big hand rested on your shoulder.

“Of course. This is the least I could do. I am sorry [Name], but I can’t help you” Himeko gave you a pitiful look.

Filled with betrayal you glared at Himeko. “How could you” you sneered though it was no more than a broken whisper. Despite your hurtful tone, she only softened her gaze.

The hand on your shoulder gave you a gentle squeeze as his thumb drew circles. “Let’s go back, love. You have had enough adventure for today” a soft kiss was pressed to your cheek.

You glanced back at Himeko as Welt led you out of the cafe. His arm was secure around your waist as if he was afraid you would fly away with the autumn wind.

Taglist:

@dimestrella @hoo-hoo @yae-yu127 @deathrespect @1mlilith @pinkvoidfishcash @justboredforreal

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em1i2a3 · 2 months ago

Note

If you take requests or suggestions, i believe that you would execute a bob reynolds fic with this plot ✨perfectly✨

I literally LOVE all of your bob fics. They’re my comfort reads before i go to bed at night!

Body Paint

Pairing: Bob.Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: You are trying to find the best smudge proof lipstick for the upcoming gala that the team needs to attend tomorrow, and you have found the perfect test subject for the swatches.

Warnings: Pure and utter fluff, and there’s quite a bit of sexual tension. The reader and Bob both have feelings for each other and they’re both well aware of the mutual interest (secretly of course), she takes this as an opportunity to tease.

Author’s Note: I loved this request so much and I immediately started writing it because I was so excited to give it a go! So So Fun! Thank you for the submission! :) (also credit to the artist who made the drawing too because it’s fantastic)

Word Count: 3,362

You gave every drug store lipstick display a run for its money with the collection you had laid out across the bathroom sink. An entire rainbow of tubes was scattered in a controlled type of chaos–organized first by shade, then grouped meticulously by brand. Reds on the left, mauves and berries in the middle, and neutrals off to the right like a little modest army. You had even gone so far as to lay a folded white towel beneath the lineup like a staging mat, saving yourself from scrubbing stains off the marble countertop. The air smelled faintly of your makeup remover wipes–sweet and sterile–and your forearm was streaked with half-dried swatches, but it just wasn’t good enough.

This was all in the name of finding the lipstick. The one that not only matched the dress you were wearing to the PR gala tomorrow, but one that was also smudge-proof. You didn’t want feathering, or fading, and you certainly didn’t want it transferring onto napkins, glasses or people.

You wanted security.

You knew you should’ve started this task earlier in the week, but between back-to-back recon debriefs, endless intel meetings, and mediating three separate team arguments that nearly ended in Walker and Yelena actually strangling each other, the lipstick trials had fallen to the bottom of your to-do list.

Now there was less than twenty-four hours to go, and you were elbows-deep in swatches and stress.

You capped one more tube with a dissatisfied sigh and reached for the next–

Only to pause at the sound of a soft knock on the bathroom door.

“Y-Y/N?” Came Bob’s voice–muffled, hesitant and laced with that familiar nervous warmth. “I-I need to come in and get my brush. I forgot it after my s-shower…” You froze, mid-reach, one hand hovering over a berry toned satin finish tube. Your lips curled into a slow smile.

Perfect timing. For you, anyway. For Bob? That remained to be seen. You crossed the small tiled room in a few barefoot steps and swung the door open with a grin.

“Excellent! You’re just who I need.” Bob blinked at you like a deer caught in LED headlights. His shirt–black, baggy, and soft–was damp around the collar, clinging to his skin and chest in a way that made it impossible not to look. His light brown hair curled at in little waves at the ends, still damp from his shower that was still kissing the walls, and the navy sweatpants sitting low on his hips were hugging him far too well for a man who clearly didn’t see himself in the way you were seeing him in.

”…Wh-What?” He asked, brows furrowed, gaze daring from your eyes to the mess of tubes on the counter.

“Come in,” You said smoothly, reaching out and tugging him gently by the wrist, guiding him over the threshold with ease, “Sit on the toilet lid, and hurry up with the hair brushing…I need a test subject.” He obeyed-but only in the way someone might follow a siren calling them to certain doom. He moved like he wasn’t sure if he’d stepped into a trap or a daydream.

”L-Last time I heard the words ‘test s-subject’ I ended up getting injected with a sun god…” He mumbled, grabbing the brush from the hanging organizer on the shower door. You laughed, warm and low at the comment.

“Relax. I’m not injecting you with anything. You’re perfectly safe with me.” Bob sat down slowly, brush limp in his hand as his gaze swept across the counter again, scanning over the contents that you had lined up with such care.

”S-So what is all of t-this?” You turned slightly towards him, unscrewing a velvet-matte red as you spoke.

“I’m trying to find the perfect lipstick for the gala tomorrow,” You said matter-of-factly, swiping the colour gently across your bottom lip, “It has to match my dress and it has to be smudge-proof.”

Bob tilted his head, watching your quick movements intently, “Smudge-proof?”

“Yes. I don’t want to be constantly running to the bathroom to check for fading or fix transfer stains. I want to actually enjoy the night. Have a drink. Maybe dance. You know…Breathe.” He gave a thoughtful little nod, bringing the brush through his damp hair.

”D-Didn’t really think about that, a-actually…” You turned away from your reflection to look at him, a coy smile peeling onto your lips.

“Most guys don’t.” But Bob wasn’t most guys of course, and as expected, a beat later he added to the conversation again…

”…W-Wait…Why does it have to be completely smudge-proof though? I mean if you’re just–“ You shrugged, letting your gaze flick toward the mirror, while your lips pressed together, transferring the color over to the bare one above.

”You never know,” You said casually, “I might be planning on kissing someone.” Bob froze like someone had yanked all the oxygen out of the room. His cheeks–already pink from the post-shower warmth–turned a deeper, rosier red in seconds. It bloomed across his cheekbones, dusting the tips of his ears, and spread like a sunburn. His mouth opened slightly like he meant to say something, but all he managed to get out was:

”O-Oh…” He choked, swallowing the lump of nerves in his throat. The brush in his hand was still mid-motion through his damp locks, but it had stopped moving entirely. You smiled at him.

”Alright,” You started, twisting the lipstick down and putting the cap back on with a soft click, “First one. You ready?” He nodded slowly, like he couldn’t trust his voice. His eyes tracked you as you stepped forward–deliberate and unhurried–until you were standing directly between his legs.

His brush lowered slightly, and then the wave of your scent hit his nose.

Your perfume was warm, and sweet, with a hint of plum riding off of the tail end of each inhale he took. Beneath the main notes there was something tropical–maybe coconut from your makeup remover, or the vanilla-tinged balms you always wore when your lips were bare.

But now your lips weren’t bare at all. They were red, and bold, and smooth, just like fresh velvet. He looked up slowly, through his lashes, and found you were already staring down at him. You tilted your head, smiling, the curve of your mouth smug in a way that made something tighten in his chest.

You didn’t say anything as you reached forward–fingers brushing gently along the side of his jaw, your thumb just beneath the hinge of it. He let you tilt his head more toward you like he was made of clay and you were the ceramicist.

He dropped the brush into his lap, forgetting about it completely.

Your face hovered near his and he could feel his breath hitch audibly. You leaned in slow enough that he swore he could hear his own heartbeat ringing through the room.

Then your lips pressed to his cheek.

Warm, firm and lingering. It wasn’t a quick peck either. Not an innocent brush. It was a kiss.

You lingered just long enough for him to feel the curve of your mouth, and the faint stick of product with the pressure of intention behind it. He could smell the stain now–berries and heat, sharp pigment and your sweet breath that had a faint scent of strawberries from the gum you chewed on. If he was a sailor and you were the siren…He would be dead at sea.

When you pulled away, he swore the room was spinning a little. You cocked your head to the side and looked at the mark you had left just above the apple of his cheek. A bright, undeniable red, plastered on his pale tone.

“Hmm,” You said thoughtfully, “Definitely transferred.” Bob sat in stunned silence, skin still tingling from where your mouth had been–he didn’t know whether it was because he was allergic to the ingredients or because it was just him buzzing from all the adrenaline, though he would find out in due time. You dabbed at your own lips with a tissue saturated in make-up remover, wiping the colour clean.

“Not a keeper,” You mumbled, “It’s a shame–it was a really good match.” He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t find words, nor could he find a way to breathe. He didn’t even know how he was still alive at this point, all he knew was he saw you reach out again.

You selected the next shade carefully.

A sultry plum–deep, and elegant, with just enough bite to stand out. You rolled the colour across your lips in smooth, practiced strokes, then blotted once on a folded tissue before turning back to him.

Bob still hadn’t moved an inch. He was still sitting frozen on the seat, brush limp in his lap, his shimmering blue eyes flickering between your mouth and the floor. The cheek you had kissed was flushed a bit deeper now.

“Test two,” You announced gently, stepping into his space again, until the hem of your t-shirt brushed against his thigh and he had nowhere left to look that wouldn’t betray him in some way. Your hand came up to his jaw again–just two fingers this time, soft and easy, tilting his face the opposite way.

His lashes fluttered under the feeling of your breath brushing over them as you kissed him again. This time it was just below his temple, closer to the hinge of his jaw–closer to where his pulse was throbbing faintly beneath his skin. You pressed a little firmer this time, letting your breath fan against his ear.

Bob inhaled a quiet breath through his nose, attempting to keep himself calm, but in reality he was gripping the fabric of his sweatpants between his fingers like it was the only thing holding him back from collapsing. When you pulled away, you didn’t look at him, you just kept your focus on the mark.

”…Transferred,” You murmured, brushing your thumb lightly over the stain–making sure it was more of a caress than a swipe. You didn’t move back this time, you just grabbed another makeup wipe and removed the color before reaching for another.

It was a dusty rose this time, it was softer, and much more muted than any of the other colors he had seen you in.

Once you had applied it, you leaned in–closer now–and kissed the slope of his cheekbone, just beneath the curve of his eye. Your lips barely grazed the skin there–it was as if you did it to see if he would flinch or move.

Bob’s jaw tensed under your touch, and you were hyper aware of his breath hitting your skin in short, warm bursts, his chest lifting against you. He hadn’t said a word–but his hands had now left his lap and were gripping the edge of the counter, white-knuckled in anticipation.

You reached for the next tube–something far more delicate than the dusty rose before it. A pink so faint it was almost nothing at all. A whisper of colour. You applied it, blotted it, then turned again. Bob had somehow managed to get a handle on his breathing in the moments you were applying the next colour, but it was too controlled. You could practically feel the storm building beneath his skin, golden and humming, and desperate to stay still.

Your thighs brushed the inside of his knees as you tilted his head up to yours again, looking at the way his skin was flushed and warm, beneath the shades of pinks and reds…A gradient of restraint. You leaned in, and this time your kiss landed just beside the corner of his mouth, not touching it, but close enough to tease.

Bob made a sound. It was barely audible. A sof, helpless little nnnnh in the back of his throat–like a gasp that had gotten stuck on the way out. You didn’t say anything. You only bit back a knowing smile, and pretended not to hear it. You just wiped your lips again and moved on to the next shade–a creamy nude gloss, with just a hint of peach.

You came back in and kissed beneath his jaw, where the stubble was soft and patchy and tender. The spot made him twitch, his throat working under the weight of the kiss, like he was trying to swallow air.

His breathing changed then and became heavier and shallower.

And when you came close to him again, in a different shade–this time pressing your lips right onto his Adam’s apple–Bob’s head tipped back instinctively.

Like he was offering himself up to you–surrendering himself completely.

You continued to kiss him, moving progressively lower, marking him up with various shades. Then suddenly you found yourself at the hollow of his throat, just between the lines of his collarbones. His chest was rising faster now, with flush traveling beneath his shirt, like it was echoing the trail your mouth had carved against his skin.

You pulled back slowly, lips hovering about the damp collar of his shirt, bringing your hand up to brush over the fabric.

”Oops…” You murmured softly, putting on a teasing tone beneath your words, “I think I’m running out of room.” Bob looked down at you with eyes that were no longer blue. You hadn’t even noticed he had his eyes closed tightly for the majority of this until now.

There was gold flickering at the edges. Sentry was just barely cresting the surface–quiet, curious, and turned-on by the proximity. He was enamoured by what was happening, and Bob was allowing him to watch through his eyes because he was too focused on trying to keep himself together. The air around Bob was shimmering faintly, vibrating with tension like he was lighting up the room.

The sensation of your lips had done this…You had done this, and you were proud of it.

Your nails dragged gently down the front of his shirt, tracing a circle around the fabric.

”I think you may need to take this off…To give me more space of course.” You whispered, watching as his brain seemed to short-circuit. His eyes were still half-lidded, heavy with heat and something distant and flickering gold. But when they opened fully they met yours with the softest, most terrified kind of care, glancing down at your mouth just as your bottom lip slipped between your teeth…And that’s what did it for him. That was the punch of encouragement to the gut.

He gave you a small nod, then reached for the hem of his shirt. His hands trembled slightly from the kind of overstimulated shyness that lived just under the surface of his flesh, in the space between ‘I want this’ and ‘I don’t know what to do with all of it.’ He peeled the black shirt up slowly, exposing inch after inch of pale skin, dusted with freckles and pure heat. There were a few scars here and there. A mole right near the dip of his sternum. A faint sheen of sweat that bloomed across his chest and shoulders from the heat in the room–or from the heat of your lips…Possibly both.

The fabric came over his head, messing up his semi-brushed hair in the process, and he folded it carefully in his lap like he was going to get up to put it on display or something. You let yourself stare.

At the freckles on his collarbones, the ones on his biceps. The soft stretch marks that feathered under his arms and the little curve of his ribs as they flared gently with each nervous breath he took. You wanted to map everything with your mouth.

So you did.

You leaned in again, with a fresh colour on your lips–deep pink this time, and kissed just beneath his collarbone, then a little to the right, then down the slope of his chest–right over where his heart was pulsating beneath its shield of flesh.

Bob made a quiet sound, something soft and strangled that never made it fully out of his throat. His hands were still in his lap, his thumbs gripping the hem of the shirt like it was the only thing keeping him from grabbing yours. Every part of him was vibrating–his jaw clenched, chest rising, shoulders tense–and still he let you do it, staying perfectly still.

You changed shades, kissing higher, then lower.

A sheer gloss that glimmered under the light as you kissed just below the curve of his pec. A matte brick red as you moved toward the center of his chest. Then you put on something soft again, something nude and barely there, as you pressed your hands against his thighs for a bit of leverage while your lips found the inside slope of his ribcage. You could’ve sworn you felt his knees buckle under your hands.

By the time you reached the underside of his pectoral muscle, you heard the faintest breath catch in his lungs, like he couldn’t even take full breaths anymore. And then you kissed just above it.

One final, perfect kiss.

You pressed your lips down and held them there–longer, slower, firmer–fighting back the urge to mark the skin with something that wasn’t lipstick. You felt the flutter of his pulse beneath it. And when you finally pulled away, you let your lips ghost against him, your eyes trailing down to where you had kissed.

“Ooooh. This one’s good…I think we found it. No transfer!” You announced, looking up at Bob, seeing the ruined look plastered on his face.

His eyes were heavy, shot through with blue and gold. His mouth parted. His skin was flushed a deep red and marked in soft lip stains, all across his chest, neck, jaw, and face. The air shimmered around him like static clinging to the atmosphere, and he was breathless. He let out a sigh.

”P-Perfect,” He whimpered, so dazed his words barely had shape to them. His body shifted, like he was meaning to stand–maybe to retreat, maybe to run cold water over his steaming body, maybe just to breathe–

But you didn’t let him.

Before he could even try to get up, you surged forward and kissed him on the lips. Hungry, wet, and deep. You kissed him like it was the conclusion to a story you had been telling in colour across his skin. Bob let out a muffled, desperate little moan into your mouth, as his hands found your waist, then your back, then your hips–grabbing, pulling, and holding. He crushed you to him, allowing all his restraint to unravel all at once, letting what little control he had slip through his fingers.

You kissed him like you had wanted to from the very start. Like all the kisses around his whole body led to this one final one–this overwhelming, messy, and utterly perfect one.

He kissed you back with awe. With the kind of pressure that said ‘thank you, please don’t stop, I’ve been waiting.’

You pulled back just enough to breathe–barely. Your foreheads bumped, and the air between you was heat, electricity, and trembling silence.

Bob’s lips were swollen now. Kiss-bitten, and wet. But when you looked…

The colour on your lips hadn’t transferred onto his. You smirked, and reached up, gently swiping the faintest trail of spit off his swollen bottom lip with your thumb, tilting your head to the side.

”Fantastic,” You whispered, leaning forward just a bit, “It’s definitely kiss-proof.”

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