#i think that was the first time i ever got something from that shop

[loverboysturn]

⸝⸝ the triplets, lucky & birdie all go on a road trip ꒱ a soulmate au mini series — part one of four.

OR birdie is late, chris is stressing, nick just wants to get on the road, matt is driving, and lucky loves him.

warnings: mentions of bad nightmares & swearing. think that’s it :)

notes: this part is written from lucky's perspective. i’ve wanted to write the soulmate au going on a trip for so long, but friday’s video gave me the inspo to finally do it :) i also had too many ideas for said road trip so decided to turn it into a mini series. enjoy !

“i love her, but she’s always fuckin’ late.”

matt mutters, leaning against the side of the car next to you. his sunglasses placed on the top of his head, pushing his hair back, the early morning sun a little too bright as you all wait for birdie’s arrival. 

he stretches his arms up over his head, letting out a yawn, and you can’t help the way your eyes flick to the way his white t shirt lifts slightly, causing the band of his boxers to peak above his grey sweats. you quickly glance back down to your phone, pretending to scroll so he doesn’t catch you staring. he looks ridiculously good, considering how early it is. 

you’re sat sideways in the passenger seat, legs dangling out of the open door as you glance over to him now, a slight smirk on your lips. “c’mon, this is birdie we’re talking about.” you giggle, “we should’ve just told her to get here for six am, instead of six thirty.” 

matt scoffs a little, rolling his eyes. “dad said we could only road trip it if we stuck to a schedule, and we’re already behind.” you know that he wouldn’t normally care, but you also know that because he’s the one driving you all, he’s the one who got the lecture last night from their parents about how important it is to all of your families that you all show up on time to this event tomorrow evening.

“we’ve got an eight hour drive today, a stay over tonight, and a three hour drive tomorrow.” you reassure him, “we’ve got more than enough time.”

the reason for the road trip is that the triplets’ parents are opening a new branch of their business in another city, and the official launch for it is tomorrow night. all of your families are flying in together, but you’d all come up collectively with the idea that the five of you should road trip it down instead. something you’ve never done before, despite being best friends forever. 

nick’s sprawled out on the curb directly opposite you, leaning back on his palms, hoodie up and sunglasses on. “i’m not bein’ the one to answer the phone to dad when he calls any minute now asking if we’ve hit the road yet.” he groans. “just sayin’”

“shut up, nick.” chris mutters, nudging nick’s side lightly with the top of his shoe. he’s stood up next to him but hasn’t stopped fidgeting this whole time, “she’ll be here.” he says, pulling his phone out of his pocket again, the fourth time in maybe two minutes. “she told me she left like twenty minutes ago.”

he’s got that look in his eye, the one he only ever gets when it’s about birdie. you can tell that he knows exactly why she’s late. she called him at three am, in tears from a nightmare she’d had. her first really bad one in a while. she’d apologised for waking him and told him she was just going to attempt to go back to sleep, and that he should try too considering the group were meeting in a few hours. she never does, though. not after a nightmare.

“she’s coming, stop stressing” you say to the three of them, but it’s directed mostly at chris, and then almost as if on que, you see birdie running through the entrance of the parking lot, a drink from your favourite coffee shop in hand. “see.”

she’s got her iced coffee in one hand and a suitcase trailing behind her that’s far too big for a two day trip, classic birdie. she has a zipped up dress bag slung over one shoulder, probably with multiple options inside for tomorrow’s event.

she’s wearing one of chris’s hoodies, sunglasses perched on her head to hold her hair back. she looks tired, but not just because you all agreed to set off this early, but more so a restless, mind in over drive, didn’t get a second of sleep last night kind of tired. 

chris is already moving over to her, almost instantly meeting her halfway. 

you watch them from the car as he brushes a loose strand of hair from her face and tucks it behind her ear. then he cups her face in both hands, thumbs brushing her cheeks as he nods along to what she’s saying to him. he presses two kisses to each of her cheeks and finally one to her lips, gentle but it lingers a little.

when they finally pull apart, chris lifts her suitcase with one hand and calls out in your direction, “matt, open the boot please?”

matt walks round to the back of the car, lifting it open as the two of them approach it. birdie gives him a hug to say hello, one arm wrapping round his middle as she mumbles something to him that makes him grin, shaking his head at whatever it was before he walks round to the drivers side of the car, finally getting in.

“she had a nightmare.” nick mutters, now standing beside you as he brushes himself off. 

“yeah, i figured.” 

“you can tell from the way chris is holding her like she’s literally made of glass.” he adds, a very subtle tone of worry in his voice. “she also sent me an instagram reel at like four am. she’s never awake at four am” 

you nod, watching as nick walks over to her and takes the dress bag from her shoulder. he steals a sip of her iced coffee before attempting to place both her bag and case gently into the boot of matt’s defender, but of course.. the suitcase doesn’t fit.

“i love you, but did you really need to bring your whole wardrobe?” nick laughs, as he tries to shove it in a different way.

“not my whole wardrobe,” she grins at him, “i just needed options, nicolas.” 

you shut the door, facing forward in the passenger side while matt still sits beside you on his phone in the drivers side. chris, birdie and nick are still hovering around the boot, reshuffling bags and bickering playfully about how to re-arrange all your bags better, and from where you’re sitting, you hear birdie giggle, loudly, and a sense of relief washes over you at the sound coming from your best friend.

matt glances back at them, then at you, then back one more time before he leans over, hand now resting lightly on your thigh. “quickly,” he says under his breath, checking out the window once more to make sure the three of them out there are all still distracted, they are. “kiss me.” 

you giggle, leaning in to brush a kiss to his lips. it’s slow but deepens fast, as always, like the two of you have both been wanting to kiss each other since you first made eye contact in the parking lot this morning. 

two seconds later, the boot slams shut and you both pull away faster than you had leant in to each other. 

“sorted.” nick announces, jumping in. “can we fuckin’ go now?”

birdie climbs in the other side to the middle seat, chris following behind her, shutting the door behind him. all five of you now finally in the car, and all bags (and one suitcase) are secure.

she buckles her seatbelt, catching your eye in the rearview mirror, a grin creeping onto her lips.

“so, who’s ready for a road trip?” 

[gretavangroupie]

Petrichor - III

Pairing: Jake Kiszka x Reader

Word Count: 10.5k

Warnings: Cursing, Alcohol, Angst, Touching, Kissing, Graphic Sexual Content, Oral Sex, Unprotected Sex, and More.

Listen to the Playlist: Apple Music

A/N: Thank you. More soon.

It starts with a headline.

You’re in line at a coffee shop in the East Village, airpods in, scarf knotted high against the February wind, when you glance at the TV mounted in the corner above the espresso machine. The sound is off, but the words stop you cold.

Greta Van Fleet to Perform on Fallon — Live from NYC This Week

The camera cuts to a clip from an old performance, Josh wailing into the mic, Danny and Sam holding down the rhythm, and Jake. Jake in black, hair wild, eyes narrowed, fingers flying across the fretboard like he’s trying to conjure lightning.

Your chest goes tight.

He’s here.

In the city.

For a second, your first instinct is to text him. You even pull your phone out of your coat pocket. But what would you say? ‘Hey, saw you on TV. Want to meet up between soundcheck and fame?’

Still, something in you stirs. Something louder than pride. You send the message.

Saw the announcement. You’re in New York?

He doesn’t reply right away. But he does reply.

Yeah. Flew in last night. Filming tonight.

Your heart thuds hard. You bite your lip. Then type.

Want to get coffee? Or something.

The typing dots appear. Then disappear. Then come back.

Yeah. I want to.

You stare at the screen, hopeful as he types.

But it’s chaos. Label stuff, press junkets, rehearsal. They’ve got us back-to-back until the taping. I’m sorry.

You stare at the message for a long time. Then reply.

It’s okay. I get it.

But the ache in your chest says otherwise. 

Later that night, curled up on your couch in your small Brooklyn apartment, you flip the channel and watch the performance. He’s dazzling.

Confident. Electric. Everything you knew him to be when no one else was watching. But now everyone is watching. And none of them know what his voice sounds like first thing in the morning. How he sleeps with one arm flung over his eyes. How he holds you tighter when it rains. You tell yourself this is what it was always going to be, two lives orbiting too close to avoid the pull, but too far to ever settle.

Still, when he steps forward during the solo, head thrown back, hair falling in his eyes, you swear, just for a second, he looks right into the camera.

And it feels like looking at you.

—

You’re still half-awake when the phone rings.

2:07 AM.

Your first thought is, Emergency.

Your second is, Jake.

You fumble for your phone on the nightstand, heart already pounding. And when you see his name on the screen, it doesn’t stop.

You hesitate, then swipe to answer.

“Hello?”

There’s a pause on the other end. You hear street noise, distant laughter. A car door slamming. Wind through the receiver.

“Hey.”

His voice is quiet. Hoarse. Like he’s been yelling over loud music or smoking too much. Or both.

“Jake,” you breathe, sitting up. “Is everything okay?”

Another pause.

“Yeah. I mean… no. I don’t know.”

You close your eyes. “Where are you?”

“Somewhere in Midtown. Just left the after party.”

You picture him walking the streets in his stage clothes, hair tousled from the lights and sweat, eyeliner still smudged beneath his eyes. Alone.

“I should’ve called you earlier,” he says, words rushing now. “I wanted to. I meant to. I kept thinking I’d have time. But it was all cameras and handlers and meetings and they kept pulling me in different directions. And I just…” He trails off.

You sit in the dark, waiting.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally. “I should’ve asked to see you the second the plane landed.”

The ache behind your ribs pulses. “I wanted to see you too,” you admit softly.

He exhales. “I figured you did. But I didn’t want to assume. I didn’t want to make it harder.”

“Holding back made it harder.”

There’s silence for a long moment. The kind that hums with everything neither of you is saying.

“I’m only in town for today,” he says eventually. “We fly to Toronto tomorrow morning. I—I don’t even know what I’m asking. I just didn’t want to leave without hearing your voice.”

You close your eyes. His voice wraps around you like a thread being pulled tight.

“I’m glad you called,” you say, and it’s the truth.

He swallows. “Can I see you?”

Your breath hitches. “Now?”

“Yeah. I mean, unless you’re asleep or it’s too late or—fuck. It’s too late, isn’t it?”

You should say yes. It is too late. But your hand is already reaching for your sweater.

“I’m awake,” you murmur. “Text me the address.”

Another heartbeat. 

“Okay.”

And just like that, the call ends. A second later, your screen lights up with a location pin. You stare at it, pulse thrumming in your throat. Then you stand. You brush your hair back and pull on jeans and a jacket. You tell yourself this doesn’t mean anything. But it does.

You’re already halfway to the door when you realize you didn’t even put on shoes.

—

The car drops you off in front of the kind of hotel you wouldn’t normally walk into unless you were meeting someone famous, or running straight into your past.

You stand there for a second under the awning, watching the city reflect off the gold trimmed glass doors. Your stomach twists. You haven’t seen him in almost a year. You told yourself you were over it, over him, but suddenly it all feels too close again. Too unfinished.

The lobby is quiet, just a pair of night staff at the front desk and a security guard by the elevators. It smells like clean linen and wood polish, and the marble floors echo with every cautious step you take.

You text him when you reach the elevator.

I’m here.

The elevator dings open a second later, and you step in alone. Floor 23.

You keep your eyes on the glowing numbers as they climb, heart rattling behind your ribs. When the doors finally slide open, the hallway is silent. 

His door is cracked.

Not enough to invite you in, but just enough to say he’s watching. Waiting. You lift your hand and push it open and there he is.

Jake.

Barefoot, in black jeans and a white t-shirt, hair longer than it was the last time you saw him, but cleaner somehow, neater, like he gave up trying to look like he didn’t care. There’s a small hoop in each ear you don’t remember. A few new rings. A line of muscle down his forearm that wasn’t there before. He looks grown in a way that hurts.

And the moment his eyes land on you, something in his expression flickers. Like relief or maybe disbelief. Like he’s seeing a ghost that he used to touch.

“You…” he starts, but it trails off.

You shift under his gaze, suddenly aware of everything you changed about yourself since you saw him last. Your hair, your posture, the way you carry yourself now like a person who wrote something real and put it out into the world. He takes it all in, and his throat moves like he’s trying to swallow a sentence. Neither of you moves.

Then, he takes a step forward. You do too.

He pulls you in, arms wrapping around your back like he never plans to let go. Your fingers fist into the soft cotton of his shirt. He smells like clean skin and expensive hotel soap, and something beneath it that hasn’t changed. Something familiar. Something Jake.

You stay like that for a long time, both of you silent, breathing each other in. Then he murmurs into your hair, “You cut it.”

You lean back just slightly, enough to see him. “You grew yours out.”

His lips quirk at one corner, but there’s something hesitant in his eyes. “You look incredible.”

“You too,” you say, a little hoarse. “You look… tired.”

He chuckles, low and embarrassed. “That obvious?”

You shrug. “I know what late nights and afterparties do to you.”

That makes him laugh softly. “You’re still you, aren’t you…”

You arch a brow. “You still playing the martyr?”

He groans and pulls you back into him. “God, I missed your mouth.”

There’s tension still, humming under the reunion. Not just sexual, though that’s there too, but emotional. He feels different under your hands, but he’s still him. The way his chest moves when he breathes. The warmth of his hands on your back. You know this and it terrifies you.

“I didn’t know if you’d actually come,” he admits.

“I didn’t know if I’d want to,” you reply.

His hand slides down your arm, fingers brushing yours. “Do you?”

You hesitate. “I don’t know.”

“Fair.”

You look up at him. His eyes are softer than you remember. Or maybe just more vulnerable.

“I didn’t call you for a second chance, Y/N,” he says. “I just didn’t want to leave this city without… seeing you again. With my own eyes.”

Your throat tightens. You nod, eyes stinging with unshed tears.

“Can I offer you a drink you won’t finish and a hotel room you won’t stay in?” he asks, lips twitching in that familiar half grin.

You laugh, wiping your cheek. “You got any bad wine?”

“Only the worst,” he deadpans, backing toward the minibar.

You follow, but slower. The distance between you has changed, but the gravity hasn’t. It’s still pulling you in. It’s only a matter of time before one of you lets it happen.

—

The wine sits unopened on the table between you.

You’re perched at the edge of the hotel’s oversized couch, legs tucked under you, jacket still on. Jake is beside you, one arm draped across the back cushion, fingers idly curling and uncurling like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

The silence between you is familiar. Not comfortable exactly, but intimate. The kind that’s heavy with everything that hasn’t been said yet.

“You’ve been quiet,” you say softly.

“So have you.”

“I think I’m scared to talk too much,” you admit, eyes fixed on the rim of your glass. “Like I might ruin the fact that we’re actually sitting in the same room again.”

Jake leans forward a little, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re not going to ruin it.”

You glance at him, searching his face. “I don’t know what this is. What it’s supposed to be.”

“Neither do I.”

“But it still feels like something.”

He nods, slowly. “Yeah. It does.”

There’s a long beat of silence. Then he turns his head, eyes locked to yours, and asks quietly, “Are you seeing anyone?”

The question is so direct it makes your breath catch.

You shake your head. “No. I’ve been… focused. Busy. And maybe a little ruined, if I’m being honest.”

He swallows. “Same.”

You study him. The quiet behind his eyes. The weight of his voice.

“Are you sure?” you ask, your tone delicate. “Because if there’s someone—”

“There isn’t,” he says, sharper than intended. Then softens. “There hasn’t been anyone since you.”

Your heart twists. “Jake…”

He reaches for your hand, brushes his thumb across your knuckles. “I didn’t come here to confuse you. I just—”

“You just couldn’t not.”

His mouth lifts slightly. “Yeah.”

The room stills around you. And then, with a slow, careful shift, he closes the distance. He doesn’t lunge, doesn’t pull you in, he just moves closer, breath grazing your cheek.

“Is this okay?” he asks, voice low, almost hoarse.

You nod. “Yes. Just… slow.”

“Of course.” His hand rises, tentative, brushing your jaw with the backs of his fingers. You lean into the touch before you even realize it, eyes fluttering shut. His thumb skims the corner of your mouth.

Then finally, he kisses you.

You shift, rising up on your knees so your body presses more fully to his. His hands slide under your jacket, fingertips grazing your waist through the thin fabric of your shirt. When he pulls back to look at you, his eyes are dark and unreadable, searching yours.

“We don’t have to,” he says, voice rough. “If this is just…”

But you shake your head, silencing him with a kiss, firmer this time.

“I want to.”

“Yeah?”

“I haven’t stopped wanting to.”

Then Jake rises, hands curling around your thighs, and pulls you gently into his lap. You straddle him on the couch, your knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips, your hands braced on his shoulders. Your foreheads touch again, breath mingling in the small space between you.

“This okay?” he murmurs, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“It’s perfect,” you whisper.

His hands slide up your back, slow and steady. He peels off your jacket, your shirt, baring inch by inch. 

“You’re even more beautiful now,” he says.

“You’re biased.”

“I may be,” he corrects, smiling faintly. “But not blind.”

You laugh softly, leaning forward to kiss him again. The tension melts, gives way to something deeper. The kind of warmth that spreads low and slow, winding through your veins like heat in the winter.

You feel him growing hard beneath you as your hips begin to move, slow and deliberate. The friction makes both of you gasp quietly. But neither of you rushes it. This is a reintroduction. This is a promise not to forget how it felt to be close.

“Still want to go slow?” Jake breathes against your throat, kissing the soft skin there.

You smile. “I want to feel everything.”

“Then let me give you everything.”

You nod, and as your hands tug at the hem of his shirt, you realize something important. This isn’t the beginning. It’s not the end, either.

“God, I missed this,” he murmurs into your neck, voice husky. “Missed you.”

You grind your hips down, slow, letting him feel just how warm and ready you are, even through the layers of denim. He groans low in his throat, head dropping to your collarbone.

“I think about this more than I should,” you whisper, fingertips slipping under the hem of his shirt, dragging it up his torso. “More than’s probably healthy.”

“Tell me,” he says, leaning back so you can lift his shirt over his head. “What do you think about?”

You bite your lip, pretending to consider as you rake your eyes down his chest. “How your hands felt on me. That first morning in the cabin. How you looked when you were buried inside me, like nothing else in the world existed.”

Jake exhales sharply, his grip tightening on your hips. “Fuck.”

“You said you haven’t been with anyone since,” you say, brushing your lips along his jaw.

He turns into your mouth, kisses you harder. “I haven’t. Couldn’t. No one’s you.”

Your hand slides down his chest to the waistband of his jeans. “So you’ve just been waiting?”

“For this,” he says, meeting your gaze. “For you.”

You roll your hips again, slower this time, teasing. “You gonna make it worth the wait?”

He smiles, all heat and hunger. “Take your pants off and find out.”

You stand slowly, unbuttoning your jeans, not breaking eye contact. His gaze tracks every movement, languid and hungry. You slide them down your hips, underwear with them, and toss them to the side. Jake’s tongue slips over his bottom lip, and he groans.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You step between his knees and tug at his jeans. “Lie back.”

He does, reclined against the plush hotel couch, arms behind his head like he’s surrendering. You pull his jeans off, leaving him in nothing but his black briefs, and even through the fabric, he’s hard, impossibly so.

You straddle him again, letting the heat of your bare center press against him. His eyes flutter shut.

“Please,” he whispers, breath catching.

You grind again, slow, lazy, slick against the cotton of his briefs. He curses under his breath and grips your hips like he’s holding back from flipping you over right there.

You lean down, lips grazing his ear. “Still want slow?”

His eyes open. “Want you. Any way I can have you.”

You reach between your bodies, slide your hand under the waistband, and wrap your fingers around him. He’s hot, thick, and pulsing in your grip. His jaw clenches hard.

“Take ‘em off,” you murmur, already moving to kiss his neck.

He shoves the briefs down and kicks them off. You settle back into his lap, lining him up, teasing the head of him against your entrance.

Jake looks up at you, completely undone. “Don’t tease me.”

“You deserve it.”

“I deserve you.” His voice is rough now. “So let me have you.”

You sink down slowly, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated inside you. You both go still, breathing hard, eyes locked.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, thighs trembling.

His hands slide up your body, cupping your breasts, brushing his thumbs over your nipples. “You feel so good. Better than I remembered.”

You start to move, rolling your hips, and his head falls back against the cushion. “Fuck, just like that,” he growls. “Keep going. Let me watch you.”

You ride him slow, then faster, your fingers digging into his shoulders, his hands guiding your rhythm. Every movement sends sparks up your spine, your body already burning.

“You’re perfect like this,” he murmurs. “Look at you, fuck. You’re mine like this.”

You moan and lean down to kiss him, hot and wet, tongues sliding together. He thrusts up into you now, deeper, harder, hitting exactly where you need it. You break the kiss with a cry.

“Jake, don’t stop–”

“I won’t,” he growls, gripping your ass and driving up into you again. “You’re so close. I can feel you clenching around me. Let go, baby.”

Your body arches, the orgasm ripping through you hard enough to shake. You cry out, grinding against him, clutching his chest like you’re afraid you might shatter.

Jake watches, awe in his eyes. “That’s it. Fuck. You’re so beautiful.”

He flips you then, gently, but quickly, laying you back against the couch, still inside you. He kisses your neck, your collarbone, your jaw. “Can I come inside you?” he whispers. “Please.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please, Jake.”

It only takes a few more thrusts before he groans, spilling into you, hips grinding deep, mouth pressed to your shoulder. His entire body trembles with the force of it, and for a moment, everything stills.

Just breath. Just skin. Just you and him. He collapses beside you, one hand finding yours between the couch cushions. Neither of you speaks for a long time.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

He turns his head to face you. “I never stopped.”

You thread your fingers through his. “What now?”

Jake’s eyes search yours. “I don’t know. But this… this isn’t over. Not if I have any say in it.”

And in that quiet space, wrapped in each other’s warmth, you believe him.

Even if morning still looms.

—

You’re wrapped in a cocoon of hotel sheets when you feel a hand stroke gently down your back.

Then the softest whisper against your shoulder. “Hey. Wake up.”

You make a low sound of protest, burying your face into the pillow.

He chuckles softly and presses a kiss between your shoulder blades. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me leave without a proper goodbye.”

That gets your attention. You blink your eyes open, still heavy with sleep, the room barely lit by the gray of early morning. Jake is leaning over you, shirtless, hair still a little damp from a quick shower, already dressed in jeans and his favorite boots.

Your stomach twists. “What time is it?” you murmur, sitting up slowly, the sheet slipping from your bare chest.

He lets his eyes drag over you one last time and exhales through his nose, like it physically hurts to pull away.

“Too early. My flight to Toronto leaves in a couple hours. Van’s downstairs.”

You nod, trying to swallow the ache in your throat. “Right.”

Jake reaches out, and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. His hand lingers at your jaw, his  thumb brushing your cheek.

“I didn’t want to leave without seeing you awake,” he says softly.

You lean into his touch, eyes searching his. “This feels unfair.”

“I know.” His voice cracks a little. “It’s not what I want either.”

There’s a soft knock at the door. Three sharp raps.

Jake sighs and stands. “That’s my brother.”

You blink. “Josh?”

“Yeah.” He glances back at you, smiling faintly. “He’s been waiting in the hallway for ten minutes. Refused to come in.”

“You told him?”

Jake hesitates at the foot of the bed. “Not everything. Just that I had someone I needed to see while we were here. He figured it out.”

You nod, pulling the sheet tighter around you as he leans in and kisses your forehead.

“You’re amazing,” he whispers. “Don’t ever doubt that.”

You catch his wrist before he can turn. “Will you call me?”

He hesitates. Just for a second. Then nods. “Yes.”

“Will you mean it?”

His lips part, but the words don’t come right away. You see the uncertainty in his eyes. The ache. The reality. The world he has to get back to.

“I’ll try.”

You nod. That’s all you can ask for. 

One last kiss. Deep, and slow, with the promise of something neither of you can name.

Then he slips out the door. And just like that, he’s gone.

—

You hear from him, at first. Not often. But just enough to make it worse.

The messages come at odd hours, late, fleeting things that land with a thud in your chest.

Toronto’s a blur. Miss the quiet.

I saw something today that reminded me of you. Thought I should tell you.

I’ve been writing again.

You reply, sometimes. You try not to say too much. You fail.

It’s raining here. I miss the cabin.

The story’s stuck. I think maybe I am too.

I can’t stop thinking, either.

But slowly, the space grows. The pauses between texts stretch further. Days. Then weeks.

You follow his tour without meaning to, secondhand glimpses on fan accounts and tagged videos, stage lights flaring off his guitar, his face caught in grainy filters and screaming crowds.

He’s dazzling. Distant. Untouchable again.

Your lives start to feel like radio signals out of sync. You tell yourself not to wait. You stop checking your phone so often. You almost believe yourself.

Then, months later, a headline catches your eye.

Greta Van Fleet to perform on the Tonight Show

Your breath hitches. You type his name into the search bar. You shouldn’t. But you do.

There he is, hair a little shorter, face sharper, confidence humming beneath his movements. A ghost and a stranger, all at once.

You don’t text him. 

But he does, the clock reading 2:14AM.

Are you awake?

Three words. That’s all. But they fracture something. You stare at them too long. 

You almost reply. You almost don’t.

I am now.

You wait as he types.

Then, he stops.

Nothing.

The silence feels familiar now. Like an old bruise. Or a closed door. And somewhere in that soft, aching pause, between the messages, the airports, the missed calls, and maybe next times, you start to wonder if timing was the only thing that ever went wrong.

—

You don’t hear from him after that.

Not for a while.

And still, he’s everywhere.

You catch pieces of him in places you wish you didn’t. In the secondhand buzz of a stage clip you weren’t looking for. In the way your chest tightens when you pass someone in the airport wearing a Greta Van Fleet hoodie. In the opening notes of a song you don’t let yourself skip anymore.

You don’t know what you’re expecting. An apology? An explanation? An invitation?

You never get one.

And still, you write. Not about him. Not directly.

But he’s there, always, between the lines. In the cadence of your sentences. In the way your main character hesitates before speaking. In the quiet spaces between chapters, where longing lurks.

You finish the book. Somehow.

It’s better than the first one. Everyone says so. Your agent cries. Your editor calls it your best work yet. They talk film rights. National tour. Glossy press. Late-night appearances.

Everyone asks what inspired it.

You never tell them.

—

You move through the next few months in a blur of airports and microphones, bookstores and tiny hotel soaps. Your calendar fills and your inbox floods. You’re grateful. Exhausted. Lonely in a way you can’t quite name.

Every so often, you open your phone and stare at the messages you never deleted and you wonder if he’s doing the same. You wonder if he regrets it, letting go without ever really saying goodbye.

Maybe he does.

Or maybe he meant to text you back, and the moment passed. Maybe the timing really was just off. Or maybe he said everything he had to say in a cabin in the woods with rain on the windows and your name still fresh on his lips.

—

It’s nearly a year later when you find yourself in Nashville. A stop on your book tour. A signing. You’ve got a sharpie in your hand and a line out the door. Your photo’s on a poster out front, a stack of hardcovers stacked beside you. You’re answering questions, thanking strangers, smiling through the ache of long days. 

You’ve done a dozen of these signings by now.

Different cities, different bookstores, different faces. But they all blur together in the same rhythm. Fluorescent lighting, stacks of books, the soft murmur of pages being opened and closed. Sharpies uncapped. Your name written again and again until it barely looks like yours anymore.

Still, Nashville feels different.

Maybe it’s the heat outside, heavy and humid, curling your hair at the edges and sticking your dress to the backs of your knees. Maybe it’s something else.

You smile through it.

You thank people for coming, for reading, for caring. You laugh when they ask where you got your inspiration. You sidestep it gracefully. You’ve gotten good at that.

They ask if it was based on a true story.

You tell them the characters are fictional, but the emotions are real.

That’s enough truth for now.

The crowd moves steadily. Readers approach with sticky notes on their pages and kind eyes. Some are nervous. A few gush. One woman cries and you try not to cry with her.

Your handler refills your water. Someone adjusts the stack of hardcovers to your right. The smell of fresh coffee wafts in from the café around the corner, and for a second, you’re back in Dunhaven, barefoot on a kitchen floor, watching rain collect on a windowpane while someone moves quietly behind you.

You blink it away.

“Who should I make this one out to?” you ask the next person in line, voice steady.

“Brooke,” she says. “And could you write something about holding on, even when it’s hard?”

You nod. “Of course.”

You write, ‘Hold on, even when it hurts. Especially then’ above your name.

There’s a lull after that. The line stretches toward the back of the store, but something shifts. You take a breath. Stretch your fingers. Glance toward the door. And that’s when you feel it.

Not recognition, not yet.

Just… a static pull. The sense of something arriving. A presence before it becomes a shape. You glance down again, try to ground yourself. But your chest tightens, suddenly too full. Your ears ring faintly, your heartbeat rushing in. Then you look up, and there he is.

Your heart stutters. Time folds in on itself.

At first, your brain doesn’t register it. Just another face in the crowd, another person waiting patiently, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. But something in you stills. The air changes.

It’s not until your eyes settle on his, those familiar, gold-threaded eyes, that your stomach drops.

Jake.

He’s standing in line. At your book signing. Your heart lurches like it’s trying to catch up to the moment. Like it’s forgotten how to beat for anyone else. You blink, unsure if you’re imagining him, some ghost your brain conjured from exhaustion and longing. But no, he’s real. Solid. Just a few feet away now.

He looks… different. Not completely, but noticeably. His hair is a little shorter, tucked behind his ears. He’s wearing a dark jacket over a soft gray t-shirt, something effortless but intentional. A few days’ worth of scruff covers his chin and upper lip. He looks older. Sharper. Softer, too.

He’s holding your book. He’s in your line.

You’re pretty sure your name is being called, someone trying to hand you the next copy to sign, but you can’t look away. Because he’s still beautiful. 

And now he’s here, in front of you, in a space where you never thought you’d see him.

Where you are the one behind the table. And he is the one waiting.

You tear your gaze away before he notices you staring too long. Or maybe he already has.

You look down, fast. Your hands are shaking slightly, so you press your palms to your thighs beneath the table. Breathe in. Out. Again.

You can feel your face flushing, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. The book in front of you blurs. Someone says your name, twice, but it takes a second for the words to register. You manage a smile, scribble your signature and say thank you. Your voice doesn’t crack, but it feels like a miracle.

Don’t look back up.

Don’t scan the line again.

Don’t—

You do.

He hasn’t moved much. Just a few steps forward now. Still holding your book. Still watching you.

Your breath catches. It’s been so long since you’ve seen him like this. Not through a screen, not filtered through foggy memories or stage lights or imagination,but here. Tangible. You wonder if he can hear how loud your pulse is from across the room.

You wonder what he’s thinking. And somewhere in the rush of it, beneath the nerves, the confusion, the low hum of fear, you feel something else spark to life.

Hope. Stubborn and unreasonable, fragile as glass.

But still, hope.

The line moves forward.

And then he’s there. Right in front of you.

Up close, he looks even more like himself than you remembered. Not the version you saw onstage or in grainy videos. Not the one that lived in your drafts or under your skin. But him. The man who brought you coffee in the rain. Who kissed you like it was a promise. Who held you like he didn’t want to let go.

He clears his throat, just barely. “Would you sign it?”

His voice is lower than you remembered. Rougher. Like he hasn’t used it much lately.

You look down at the book. Your book. The one he’s holding. You nod slowly, trying to will your hand to work, to lift the pen, to stop shaking. “Sure,” you manage, fingers curling around the Sharpie like it’s a lifeline.

“Who should I make it out to?” you ask before you can stop yourself. It’s a reflex. A joke, maybe. 

Jake huffs a quiet laugh, one you feel more than hear. “Surprise me.”

You don’t write at first, you just look at him. His eyes are softer now, like whatever he’s carried this past year has worn him down in some places and made others glow.

“You look good,” you say before you can stop it. It slips out. Honest. 

“So do you,” he replies. He looks at you like he means it. Like it guts him a little to say it out loud. The silence stretches on again, thick with everything you’re not saying.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” you whisper.

“I didn’t either,” he says. “Not until this morning.”

You press your lips together to keep them from trembling. Your pen finally touches the page.

To Jake,We never really said goodbye, did we?-Y/N

You slide the book toward him, and your fingers graze. He doesn’t pull away. He takes the book from your hands gently, his thumb brushing the edge of the page where you wrote his name. Where you told the truth in the smallest, safest way you could. You meet his eyes, and for a moment, neither of you says a word.

Then he clears his throat. “No. We didn’t,” he pauses, “You’ve got a line.”

You glance over his shoulder, more readers waiting, polite but curious. You nod slowly.

“I do.”

Jake steps back, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “I’ll be around. If you want.”

Your heart stutters.

“Yeah,” you manage, the word sticking to your tongue like honey. “I do.”

He moves away quietly, slipping between shelves and toward the back of the shop, giving you space to finish. The rest of the signing passes in a blur.

You smile and thank people and scrawl your name across copies of Petrichor, but your mind drifts constantly to the man in the back of the store, tucked just out of sight. You feel him there like a magnetic field, pulling at the corner of your attention, at the thrum in your chest.

You don’t know how much time has passed when the last person finally steps away and your handler announces you're done for the evening. You cap your Sharpie, flex your aching fingers, and glance toward the quiet corner of the shop.

He’s still there.

Leaning casually against the end of a shelf, book tucked under his arm, watching you with a softness that turns you to dust. You walk toward him slowly, heart in your throat. The room feels quieter now.

He doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches you, like he’s trying to remember everything all at once.

“You stayed,” you murmur, a little breathless.

Jake shrugs one shoulder. “Didn’t want to interrupt the show.”

You smile, tired and warm. “It wasn’t the same kind of stage.”

“No,” he says, voice low. “But you still stole it.”

You laugh then, more from nerves than anything else. “You want to get out of here?”

Jake’s smile returns, slow and sure. “Thought you’d never ask.”

—

The air outside is soft with the kind of warmth that settles in your skin. Not quite summer, not quite fall, just that in-between sweetness Nashville holds close in the evenings. The streetlights flicker on one by one as you step onto the sidewalk beside Jake, the hum of traffic and distant music bleeding into the background. For a few moments, you just walk.

Neither of you rushes. There’s a quiet comfort in the silence, the shared awareness that something is happening, even if neither of you has named it yet.

Jake slips his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “So,” he says finally, glancing sideways at you. “Famous author now?”

You smile, soft and a little shy. “Something like that.”

“I read it,” he adds after a beat.

Your breath catches. “You did?”

He nods. “Twice.”

You look over at him, surprised. “Why?”

Jake’s mouth tilts in that way it does when he’s being honest and doesn’t quite know what to do with it. “Because the first time hurt too much. And the second time felt like coming home.”

The words hit you squarely in the chest. You don’t say anything for a minute, afraid of unraveling too soon.

Instead, you ask, “Was it weird? Reading it?”

Jake huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. A little. I didn’t expect to be in a bookstore in Cleveland and see your name on the damn front table.”

You glance over at him. “Cleveland?”

He nods. “Tour stop. Middle of the night. Couldn’t sleep. Found a 24-hour book store near the hotel and there it was. Just sitting there. You, just… sitting there.”

You exhale a shaky breath, smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “And you bought it?”

“Of course I bought it. It’s a signed copy now,” he says, patting the book under his arm. “Collector’s item.”

You shake your head, laughing.

He nudges your shoulder gently with his. “You really did it, you know.”

Your voice is quieter now. “So did you.”

He looks at you and something in your chest flares bright and hot. The way he looks at you has always undone you. Even now, with a city between the past and present, he still sees the softest parts of you.

“I missed this,” he says.

“What?”

“You. The walking. The talking. The…” He trails off, mouth twitching. “The pretending we’re not both completely broken.”

You smile, even though it aches.

“Me too.”

A few more steps in silence. Then:

“You hungry?” he asks.

You glance over. “Are you offering to feed me again?”

Jake smirks. “I’m offering to catch up properly. Not a bar. Somewhere quiet. Or—” he pauses, rubbing the back of his neck, “—we could just go back to my place. If that’s not too weird.”

Your heart kicks and you nod. “It’s not weird.”

“You’ve never been there.”

“No,” you say, “but I want to be.”

His eyes flicker over you for a beat, full of something that feels a lot like relief.

“Alright then,” he says, unlocking the same old Jeep you remember from Dunhaven. “Let’s go home.”

The doors shut with that familiar clunk, sturdy, and little too loud in the still of the evening. He starts the engine, and the Jeep hums to life, headlights casting long beams down the quiet street.

It smells the same. Like old leather, rain-damp flannel, and something faintly woodsy that’s probably been baked into the seats from years of campouts and late-night drives. You settle into the passenger seat, watching his hands as they grip the wheel, loose and capable, a silver ring catching the light every time he turns.

Jake glances over. “You cold?”

You shake your head. “Just… thinking.”

“Risky,” he says, smirking.

You let out a soft laugh. “You have no idea.”

The windows are cracked just enough to let the air move. Nashville glows outside, neon reflections off puddles, the faint sound of a guitar spilling out of a bar as you pass. You wonder if anyone in that bar knows who’s driving the Jeep. You wonder if Jake likes being recognized.

“You live far?” you ask, more to fill the silence than anything else.

“Not really. Just over the river,” he says. “It’s quiet. Got a little backyard, lotta trees.”

You nod. “That sounds nice.”

“It is.” A beat passes. “I wrote a lot there. After everything. When you left I couldn't bring myself to stay.”

You glance over, watching the side of his face in the soft glow from the dash. “Lyrics?”

Jake shrugs. “Eh, I tried. Josh still does most of that. I have notebooks full of half-thoughts and melodies I can’t let go of.”

You smile faintly. “Sounds like a familiar problem.”

He chuckles, then goes quiet again. The kind of quiet that feels like he’s working up to something.

“I almost texted you a hundred times.”

You look at him. “You did. A few.”

“Yeah, but I mean really texted you. Called you. Shown up.” He rubs a hand over his jaw. “I didn’t know what I’d say.”

“I didn’t either,” you admit. “Still don’t.”

He turns onto a quieter street. The houses here are close, dark windows throughout. His voice drops a little lower, more thoughtful. “Sometimes I’d start a message and delete it before I finished the first sentence.”

You nod. “I started writing you letters. I never sent them.”

“You still have them?”

You glance out the window, lips twitching. “Maybe.”

He smiles, the air between you hums with old warmth and fresh nerves. Then he exhales, low and soft, like he’s letting go of something heavy.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, just above a whisper.

He pulls into a gravel driveway. The headlights sweep across a modest house tucked beneath tall trees, the front porch lit by a single bulb. Cozy and quiet. He parks and cuts the engine.

Neither of you moves for a second, then he looks at you, one hand still on the gear shift.

“You ready?”

You nod, heart already racing. “Yeah. I am.”

The door creaks as he opens it, just wide enough to gesture you through.

“Watch the step,” Jake murmurs, hand resting lightly on the small of your back as you step over the threshold.

His house is dim, lit mostly by the porch light spilling through the windows and a small lamp in the corner. It smells like cedar and clean laundry and something vaguely herbal, like he lit incense hours ago and forgot about it. You catch a faint undertone of coffee and the smell of sage. Definitely him.

It’s not what you expected. And somehow it’s exactly what you expected.

Vinyl records are stacked neatly on a shelf. Guitars are resting in stands along the far wall. A heavy bookshelf is lined with fiction, old notebooks, and something that looks suspiciously like your book, dog-eared and well-loved. A worn leather couch, a throw blanket draped carelessly over one arm. Mugs left out. A flannel tossed over the back of a chair. It feels lived-in. Soft around the edges. Like him.

You turn slowly, taking it all in. “This is… really nice.”

Jake shrugs out of his jacket. “It’s quiet.”

“You said that already.”

“I meant it both times.” He smiles a little, padding into the space like it’s nothing, barefoot now, sleeves pushed to his elbows. “I like quiet. You know that.”

You nod, stepping further in. “It suits you.”

He disappears into the kitchen for a moment and returns with two glasses of water, handing you one without a word. The silence is different now. No longer unfamiliar. More like a conversation.

You sip and let your eyes roam again. “You have my book on the shelf, too.”

Jake follows your gaze, then shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I’ve got a few copies.”

You lift a brow.

“There’s also one in the bedroom,” he adds, which makes your stomach twist in a way that feels both dangerous and electric. You look at him, standing in the soft glow of his own living room, and suddenly the past year collapses in on itself.

Jake watches you for a beat. “You okay?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Just… adjusting.”

He sets his glass down on the edge of the bookshelf and steps closer. You feel his warmth before you feel his hand, fingers ghosting along your wrist, your forearm. 

“I don’t want to rush this,” he says, voice low. “I know it’s a lot. I just—” He exhales. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

You look up at him.

“Me too.”

His thumb brushes your knuckles, featherlight.

Then: “You want to sit with me for a bit?”

You nod. “Yeah. I do.”

And when you both sink into the worn leather couch, closer than strangers, not quite lovers again, you know it’s only a matter of time. Something is still burning here. But for now, it’s a slow, quiet fire.

You both settle in, and it’s quieter than it should be for two people who haven’t spoken face-to-face in nearly a year. The silence isn’t heavy, but it is full. Of everything you left unsaid. Everything you wrote around. Everything you thought time might erase but didn’t.

Jake stretches his arm along the back of the couch, close but not touching you, like he’s giving you space to lean in if you want to. He stares ahead for a moment, at nothing in particular, then glances over.

“You still write in the mornings?”

You smile. “When I can. I still forget to eat, too.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “Some things never change.”

You turn to him slightly, tucking your legs beneath you. “And you? Still staying up too late and drinking too much coffee?”

He shrugs. “Some nights. Depends what I’m trying to avoid.”

You tilt your head. “What are you avoiding now?”

His gaze meets yours for a beat too long. “Letting go of things I probably should’ve let go of by now.”

The words hang there. They don’t sting. But they land. “Did you ever… think about reaching out? Like really reaching out?”

He looks down at his hands. “Every damn week.”

You swallow. “Then why didn’t you?”

Jake leans back, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Because I didn’t know if I’d be pulling you back into something you were finally free of. I told myself I was being respectful. Giving you space. But I think—” he pauses, then meets your eyes again—“I think I was just scared you’d moved on.”

You shake your head. “I never really did.”

He’s quiet. “I read Petrichor and thought, God, she wrote me into every page and still doesn’t want to call.”

You laugh once, a breathy, broken thing. “I thought if I heard your voice again, I’d come undone.”

Jake nods like he knows exactly what you mean. Because maybe he does. The old lamp buzzes softly in the corner. Outside, the street is still. You can feel the moment starting to shift.

You watch him for a second. His jaw. The slope of his shoulder. The way his thumb taps absentmindedly on his knee. It’s all familiar. But it’s not the past.

It’s now.

You lean your head on the back of the couch, closer to his shoulder. “I missed this.”

His eyes flicker to you. “I missed you.”

He pauses, “Are you seeing anyone?”

You look up at him. “No. You?”

He shakes his head. “Not even close.”

The air crackles again. Like something’s about to give.

“I don’t know what this is,” you whisper, “but I think I want to find out.”

Jake’s thumb brushes the side of your hand, slow and sure, the way someone might coax a shy animal out of hiding.

“Then stay,” he says softly. “At least tonight.”

You’re quiet for a moment. The words settle between you like dust in sunlight. Your throat tightens.

“I want to,” you whisper. “I do. But…”

Jake’s eyes flicker to yours. He hears it. The fear beneath it. The scar tissue. The part of you still at the cabin, watching him fade in the rearview mirror.

“But what?” he asks, voice low.

You shake your head, not sure how to say it without falling apart. “I don’t know if I can survive leaving again.”

He exhales slowly, his jaw ticking once before he answers. “Then don’t.”

Your eyes snap to his.

“Don’t leave like that again,” he says, a little more sure now. “Not unless you have to. And even if you do, I’m not gonna disappear on you this time. I’m not gonna be another person who drifts out just because the timing sucks.”

You blink, and he leans in, closer, voice softer now. “I’ve done a lot of waiting, but I’m done pretending I’m okay with letting you go. I want you here. I want this. Not the memory of it. Not the what-if version.”

He pauses, and takes a breath. “You’re the one thing that never stopped feeling real.”

Your chest cracks open like a thundercloud.

“I’m scared,” you say, small.

“So am I,” Jake says, brushing your hair back, eyes steady on yours. “But I’d rather be scared with you than safe without you.”

You’re already moving before you realize it, reaching for him, the decision spilling out of you like a dam finally breaking.

“Okay,” you murmur against his mouth. “Okay.”

When he kisses you, it’s not tentative. It’s everything you both meant to say months ago. Every word that died on a screen. Every flight not taken. Every door left closed. It’s the kind of kiss that feels like a beginning wrapped in the warmth of a memory. The kind you don’t walk away from.

His lips move against yours with more purpose now, less hesitancy, more heat. The tension that’s lived between you for nearly a year finally finds a shape, pressed into the way he grips your hips, the way your fingers sink into his shoulders.

You shift in his lap, and he groans into your mouth. It’s instinct to chase the friction, but something about the way he stills your hips tells you he’s not in a rush.

“Wait,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to look at you. His chest rises and falls under your palms. “Not here.”

Your breath hitches. “No?”

Jake’s hands glide slowly up your back. “I want you in my bed.”

The room stills around those words. You nod, lips parted, pulse roaring in your ears. “Okay.”

He kisses you once more, then shifts you gently off his lap and stands, offering his hand.

The hallway is dim, lit only by the warm spill of light from the kitchen. You follow him barefoot, your fingertips grazing the hem of his shirt, the soft cotton of his sleeve. The air between you buzzes with a quiet that feels sacred.

Jake opens the door to his bedroom and steps aside for you to enter first. The space is simple, dark walls, low light, unmade sheets in charcoal gray. A few books stacked on the nightstand, one of them yours. A guitar in the corner. A window cracked open just enough to let in the hum of crickets and distant traffic. It smells like him.

He closes the door behind you and leans against it for a beat, watching you in the low light. Then he speaks, voice rough, “You have no idea how many times I’ve pictured this.”

You walk to the edge of the bed and turn to face him. “Then show me.”

He crosses the room in a few slow steps, and suddenly his hands are on your face again, thumbs stroking your cheekbones, mouth capturing yours in a kiss that sears straight through the center of you.

This one is messier. Hungrier. Full of everything unsaid. You reach for the hem of your shirt, but Jake gently stills your hands.

"Can I take this off?" he murmurs.

You nod, and he peels your shirt over your head, eyes dragging over every inch of newly revealed skin like its treasure. His hands follow, thumbs grazing the curve of your breasts, then sliding down to the soft swell of your hips.

You let out a breath. “You always look at me like that.”

Jake hums. “Like what?”

“Like I’m made of something rare.”

He leans in, mouth brushing your jaw. “That’s because you are.”

He undresses you with the kind of patience that makes you ache. Every zipper, every button, every inch of skin unveiled is met with his hands, his mouth, his whisper. He drops soft kisses along your ribs, the curve of your stomach, the inside of your wrist. His fingertips trail down the curve of your waist, slipping between your thighs as if to test the heat there, groaning softly when he feels how wet you are for him.

When you reach for his shirt, he lets you pull it over his head. His body is warm under your palms, broad shoulders, a strong chest, the soft dip beneath his sternum, the trail of hair that disappears below his waistband. You run your hands over the lines of muscle, the firm curve of his hips, and he shudders beneath your touch.

“Lie back for me,” he says, voice low.

He crawls over you with the kind of focus that feels holy. He kisses the inside of your knee, your hip, your belly, working his way up with deliberate slowness until you’re trembling. His hand presses your thigh open gently as his mouth dips lower, lips brushing against your center. He moans as he tastes you, one hand splayed across your stomach to steady you while his tongue moves in slow, intentional strokes.

You arch, breath catching, hands tangling in his hair. His name falls from your lips, breathy and desperate.

He murmurs things between kisses, your name, sweet nonsense, fragments of feelings too big to name. And when you come apart beneath him, thighs quivering, body slick with sweat and pleasure, he holds you through it, kissing your thighs like they’re holy ground.

You pull him up, lips crashing into his. “I need you. Now.”

He groans. “You have me. You always have.”

When he finally pushes into you, your breath shudders out of you. He’s thick, hot, and the stretch is everything. You feel every inch of him, the slow, deliberate way he slides inside, bottoming out with a deep moan that curls through your spine.

"God, you feel so good," he rasps, burying his face against your neck. "So fucking tight. You always take me so well."

You whimper, clinging to his shoulders. “You’re so deep. I forgot—”

He kisses your throat. “I know, baby. I know. I missed this. Missed you.”

He sets a rhythm that’s unhurried and powerful, grinding deep with each thrust, making sure you feel every long drag of his cock inside you. The way he moves is reverent, precise—his hips rocking into yours with a delicious grind that keeps your nerves lit and needy.

“Look at me,” he whispers, brushing your hair back. “I need to see you come for me.”

Your eyes flutter open and his gaze locks with yours. It undoes you.

“You’re so beautiful like this," he breathes. “So perfect.”

You’re moaning his name with every breath now, your body wound so tight you’re seconds from breaking again. He shifts, angling his hips just right, and you cry out.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Right there, isn’t it? You love that. I can feel it.”

You nod, trembling. “Please don’t stop.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, kissing you hard.

You fall over the edge together, mouths open, breath stuttering, bodies slick with sweat and heat. He groans as he comes inside you, hips grinding deeper, slower, as if trying to make it last. You pulse around him, gripping him tight, your own orgasm rippling through you in waves. Neither of you moves. Not yet. His forehead rests against yours, your breath mingling.

You whisper, “I don’t want this to end.”

He brushes a kiss against your lips. “Then don’t let it.”

You stay like that for a while, wrapped up in the quiet aftermath, your head resting on his chest, his fingers running slow patterns along your spine. His heart beats steady beneath your cheek, grounding you in the kind of calm you haven’t known in ages.

He speaks first, his voice a whisper in the dark. “I kept your book in my suitcase.”

You lift your head slightly, brows drawing together. “You did?”

He nods, eyes on the ceiling. “Every hotel, every flight. I couldn’t leave it behind. I read it on planes. On tour buses. When I couldn’t sleep. When I missed you.”

You swallow. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

His mouth pulls into a tired, rueful smile. “Because I didn’t know how to talk to you without saying too much. Without falling apart. I thought if I said the wrong thing, you’d pull away again.”

Your hand finds his, threads your fingers through his. “You should’ve said it anyway.”

“I know.” He looks at you now, really looks. “You said the new story was stuck. You were right. Because it wasn’t finished. Not until now.”

You blink, tears blurring your vision.

He reaches up to brush them away. “I never stopped thinking about you. About us. I tried to write you out of my system. I really did.”

“And?”

Jake’s thumb drifts over your cheekbone. “Didn’t work. You were in everything I came up with.”

You lie there in silence, your body still warm from him, your heart full to the point of ache. It’s quiet for a long time, the kind of silence that says more than either of you can manage out loud.

Finally, he speaks again. “I think I’ve been waiting for this night since the last time I saw you. Since New York.”

You press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. “Then let’s not waste it.”

He takes a deep breath, voice lower now, hesitant. “There’s something else I should probably tell you.”

You lift your head. “What?”

Jake hesitates, rubbing a hand over his mouth “The cabin. In Dunhaven...”

“Yeah,” You blink. “What about it?”

“I um, I own it,” he says, eyes searching yours. “Actually, I own all three of them. Privately. I use a property manager in town to handle the bookings. Kept my name out of it. The idea was that it would be a private retreat for me and the guys. Josh’s is the one you stayed in. Sam’s was supposed to be the other. But…” He pauses, mouth twisting into something bittersweet. “They never really used them. I was the only one who kept going back.”

You stare at him, stunned. “You—you own them? Wait, you–you’re the landlord?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah. I didn’t want you to know. Not right away anyway. I was going to tell you, but…everything happened and then I felt– I thought… if you knew, it would change something. Or worse, you’d leave.”

You sit up slightly. “So you had a key the whole time?”

Jake’s expression softens. “I did. Still do.”

“So when you went out in the rain to try and unlock my door…You said you couldn’t get it. That it was stuck.”

“I lied.” 

You narrow your eyes slightly, “Why?”

His expression shifts, softens. “Because I was drawn to you the second I saw you. I didn’t want to just be the guy who opened the door and walked away. After we talked I wanted… more. And some part of me, some selfish, stupid part, hoped that if I let it play out, if I just let the moment breathe...”

You’re quiet, lips parted slightly in surprise.

He looks away. “I know it’s messed up. I should’ve just opened the damn door.”

You touch his arm gently. “But instead, you invited me in.”

Jake nods, meeting your eyes. “I did. And by the time you walked through that door… I knew I wasn’t going to be able to let you go.”

The silence that follows is thick and full, suspended between guilt and grace.

You reach for him, your hand sliding over his chest. “You should’ve told me.”

“I know,” he whispers. “I was afraid it would change how you saw me.”

You tilt your head, eyes soft. “It does. But not in the way you think.”

Jake swallows hard. “So… you’re not mad?”

You lean in and kiss his shoulder. “No. A little surprised. A little overwhelmed. But… not mad.”

A breath of relief leaves him, and he wraps his arms around you again, drawing you in close.

You shift slightly in his arms, forehead pressed to his collarbone, and murmur, “So this means we can go back?”

Jake tilts his head, looking down at you with a slow, unreadable smile. "Do you want to?"

You hesitate, your fingers brushing softly over his chest. "I don’t know. Part of me is scared it won’t feel the same. That going back will undo all of this."

He pulls you in closer, presses a kiss to the top of your head. "It will. It’ll feel better. Because we’re not who we were then. And I don’t want Dunhaven without you."

You shift again to look at him, eyes searching his face. "Really?"

Jake nods. "I’m not going back without you. I can’t."

Your breath catches. "So we’d go back… together?"

"Together," he echoes, voice a soft vow. "Whenever you’re ready. When your book tour is done, when my tour is done, when life slows down a little. I’ll be waiting. I want that place to be ours."

You press your hand to his cheek, overwhelmed by how easy it is to believe him now. How deeply you want it, too.

And then you whisper, "Then let's make it ours."

He kisses you again, slow, and lingering, and neither of you says anything more, because there’s nothing left to prove. Just promises made in whispers and warmth, with the quiet faith that this time, you'll get it right.

You fall asleep not long after, curled into each other beneath the hush of the sheets and the hum of the city outside. The sound of his breathing lulls you into something peaceful, something that feels like safety.

When you wake, the light is soft and gold across the bed. Jake’s still there, one arm slung over your waist, his hair a messy halo across the pillow.

He stirs when you shift. Eyes opening slowly, smile lazy and warm. "Morning."

You trace the curve of his shoulder. "We’re really doing this, huh?"

Jake nods, sleep still in his voice. "We are. Finally."

And for the first time in what feels like forever, there’s no ache, no hesitation. Just two people, choosing each other again.

This time, for good. 

I turn the last page and stare down at it for a long time. The words blur a little, not from tears exactly, but from something heavier. Something harder to name. The room around me is quiet. The New York hums outside the windows, distant and unbothered, but I’m frozen in place, still half inside the world I wrote. Or maybe the one I remembered.

Petrichor.

There it is. My name stamped beneath the title. Black ink, neat and final. A thing that’s finished.

But it doesn’t feel finished.

Because it was never just fiction.

It was ours.

Every line, every pause. Every breath between scenes. I lived it. I bled it. I folded us into the pages in ways no one else could see, at least, not fully. But I think he’ll recognize it. If he ever reads it.

I think he’ll feel the moment I walked into the cabin that night. I think he’ll know the way his voice sounds in chapter two is exactly the way he spoke to me when he was half-asleep and honest. I think he’ll see what I couldn’t say out loud.

I wrote him into permanence.

And now, someone else, maybe you, has read it too.

You think it’s just a story.

But it’s not.

It’s a map.

A love letter.

A key.

To the place where it rained, and I got locked out, and he didn’t open the door. To the night I found him anyway.

To the version of us that dared to try again. 

And again.

I close the cover gently, hands trembling just a little.

Outside, thunder rolls across the city, soft and slow. The scent of petrichor rises from the pavement like memory.

And I wonder, wherever he is, if he feels it too. 

Taglist: @wetkleenex-gvf @joshym @farfromthehomelands @sacredstarcatcher @britney-gvf @stardustjake @jakesmustache @starshine-wagner @mweasley19 @emsfallingsky @joopsenthusiast @ageofbajabule @ladywhimsymoon @vanfleeter @myleftsock @joshskittytickler @ageoflou @freefallthoughts @ohgodthefeeling-gvf @literal-dead-leaf @welllauragvf @writingcold @bizzielisteningtogreta @neptune2324 @itsafullmoon @violet-hayes @gvfmarge @demonrat444 @mybussyinchrist @cl0ver-j4de @earthgrlsreasy @what-i-read-home-of-reblogs-mama @mama-likes72 @lenagvf @laurngvf @racheljuneeee @farfromthehomelands @cat3rpillarbaby @cassiesgreta @jarmonicasweat@ghostly--photography @josh-iamyour-mama @raviolilegs @gvfmarge @milkgemini @jaketlove @watchingover-hypegirl @ageoflou @cl0ver-j4de @takenbythemadness @lightmyloverry

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[emojunkdog]

desperately want mochi these days and not just any mochi but that specific weird oblong lilac ones with weird dark filling reminding cooked potatos by taste or texture i once got from a shop with asian snacks bc they were cheaper than other stuff

[sysig]

Coming in to play! (Patreon)

[kkusuka]

more roommate simon!

i love the idea that simon thinks he's super open and available with his emotions and reader thinking he's really cold and disinterested. is he ooc? yeah. do i care? no. if you want cannon ghost, play the game!

simon riley doesn't know when you became so important to him.

the only reason he even put out the ad for a roommate was because his landlord though he'd moved out while he was away and he'd rather have some bird in his place than deal with that again.

you were just so easy; showing up to the coffee shop (where you requested to have your first meeting just in case he was some crazy murderer) face flushed, strands of hair all over the place, and sweater a mess; rushing to explain how you got sprayed by a sprinkler on your walk over then chased by a dog. and just as you repeat sorry for the 30th time simon thinks he's in love. you're officially his roommate 30 minutes later.

but it's so out of character for him. he hasn't been around anything other than hard ass military men since he was a teenager. fuck, he's killed hundreds of men in his line of work, tortured thousands more. (he doesn't like to think that that's why he's so drawn to you. that you're so different from who he has to be, someone he's been for so long, that being around you lets him breathe. that he feels like he can actually sit and enjoy his moments away from the field in your tiny manchester apartment.)

he thinks it actually started with the decorations.

the small trinkets you let around the common spaces when he was away. it starts with your room obviously; fairy lights above your bed that spills light into the hallway when he comes home in the early morning hours, paintings on the wall that eventually flow over into the living room, the small plants in your window sill that you ask him to water one day after you leave for work.

then the dinner table suddenly has checkerboard placemats and a vase of flowers that change with the season. and his run-down couch has decorative pillows and a throw blanket (both words he learned from you when he questions what the fuck is on his couch). then the bathroom in the hallway gets a new soap stand, and a mat is placed at your front door, next to the shoe organizer and coat rack.

so he starts buying things too; the penguin plushie in the supermarket window, the vase that matches the curtains in the living room, and a small skull magnet to rest on the face of your fridge.

and before simon knows it his dreary, cold apartment actually looks lived in. and instead of coming home to a dark hallway and an empty fridge, your flower lamp is on, some random show from the 90s is playing, and there's food on the table.

he gets to know you more than he thought he would; he knows what foods you don't like, the books you're reading and the ones you refuse to read again, and even that dick from work he promises to take care of if he bothers you again (it's evident that you think it's a joke and not something that he would genuinely do but simon doesn't think he's ever been more serious).

but he never lets you know too much about him, you don't need to know about it and the less you find out the better.

then came dinners, actual dinner not just him showing up while you already had food ready. you would ask if he wanted whatever you had made ( 'i'm already making food and i normally don't eat is all anyway, so i might as well share' ). so suddenly he was spending his nights at your table with a homecooked meal and simon doesn't think he could ever let this go.

then he gets sent away again, for way longer this time. he makes sure to update his paperwork, changes his emergency contact, your name swirled onto the spouse line. you were probably as close as he'll ever get to one and if you're there they'll tell you if anything happens to him faster. he doesn't want to think of how nice your first name looks with his last name. and you'll probably never even know, simon's never gotten that injured before and he doesn't plan on it now.

months in the heat of the middle east return him to hard shell of a man he was. coming home caked in dirt, blood speckled on his clothes; he doesn't want you to see him like this, he doesn't want you to know this version of him. and for the first time he regrets letting you come into his life.

you are home when he gets back, 2:30 in the morning and every light is off, he opens your door to make sure. you're asleep, not shocking, cuddled into the giant octopus you won at an arcade. he tries not to move, he just wants to look at you for a little bit.

he wakes up the next morning to breakfast and a new pair of combat boots. he's only home for a week this time, not that he's ever home for longer than a month, and he tries to soak up all of your time. you complain about your car, he's on it. the heater started being testy, that's fine he'll take care of it. he's going grocery shopping with you, he watching that weird hospital show, and he enjoys his time in domestic bliss before getting thrown back into some random country.

somehow that all led him here. laying in a hospital bed with two bullets lodged in his shoulder with you sitting in some shitty chair pulled as close to the bed as you could.

"so uh, i'm mrs. riley now?"

"yeah, ya are. 'av been for a while."

[missdynamighttt]

teehee, shopping with bf! katsuki for the first time is a whole new experience.

you dragged him to the mall under the pretense of just browsing. katsuki grumbles, complains the whole car ride, mutters something about how he'd rather "eat glass" than spend a weekend in a fluorescent-lit hellscape.

but the second you tug on his wrist and smile up at him, he shuts up and follows. what you don’t expect?

how much of a problem he becomes the second you enter the fitting room.

you're barely five minutes into trying on outfits when it starts. you step out, smoothing down a dress, turning side to side in the mirror.

you barely manage a “what do you think?” before he drops the phone he wasn’t even looking at and sits up straighter.

“turn around.”

you blink. “huh?”

“lemme see the back.”

you do. he whistles low, then squints. “try that in the other color.”

you raise a brow. “oh, so now you care?”

“tch. i care when it looks like that on you.”

from then on, it’s over. every. single. outfit. he's like that.

“yeah, do a little spin.”

“too tight in the chest. not that i’m complaining.”

“damn, sweets. you tryna kill me or sumthin'?”

he lounges on the little bench like he owns the place—legs spread, arms crossed, eyes locked on you like you’re center stage and he’s the only judge that matters. the store’s mirror might show you the front, but he’s giving full commentary on the back. and the sides. and the neckline.

he’s unreasonably hot while doing it too. hood half-up, jaw sharp, legs spread like he’s got thoughts about every skirt you shimmy into.

and the worst part? you start playing it up.

slipping out of the fitting room with a little strut. spinning slow just to watch his jaw tighten. running your hands down your sides, real innocent, then pretending not to notice the way he swears under his breath.

“you’re lucky we’re in public,” he grits when you try on a slinky little number that hugs way too close.

you blink. “so you like it?”

he growls. “i like it on the floor of our bedroom.”

you nearly explode.

one outfit later, you try something on that you already know is ridiculous—fluffy, sparkly, way too over-the-top—but you step out just to mess with him.

you expect him to laugh. maybe tease. instead?

he blinks once. then shrugs. “buy it.”

you pause. “wait… really?”

he smirks. “you look happy in it. that’s all i care about.”

by the time you're done, you're practically floating out of the store—arms light, mood lighter, cheeks a little sore from how much you've been grinning.

katsuki?

katsuki is not floating. katsuki is lugging six bags in one hand, two on the other, and somehow managing to balance the weirdly long one that holds the dress bag across his broad shoulders like a damn pack mule.

and the whole time? he looks pissed. jaw tight, bags slapping against his thighs as he stomps beside you.

you peek over at him, smiling sweetly. “you’re the one who said to buy everything, suki.”

“tch. only ‘cause you looked hot in it, dumbass.”

you giggle. “so it’s your fault?”

he stops walking. and glares. hard.

“i swear to god, if you say that again, i’m droppin’ all these bags and draggin’ you into the back of that h&m.”

you blink innocently. “so romantic.”

“try me, sweetheart.”

despite all his complaining, he doesn’t put a single bag down. not when you stop for a smoothie. not when you see a cute little accessory stand. not even when you wander over to look at shoes you’re not even planning on buying.

he just stands there, one foot tapping, arms full of pink and glitter and tissue paper, looking like a man who’s fought gods and monsters and still wasn’t prepared for the chaos that is dating you.

at one point, you lean up on tiptoe and kiss his cheek.

“thanks for carrying everything,” you murmur.

he huffs. “yeah, yeah.”

you kiss him again, this time slower, lingering by the edge of his jaw. “you’re the best boyfriend ever.”

and that does get a response. his ears go a little red. his mouth twitches like he wants to smile but is physically restraining it.

“hmph. i better be,” he mutters, looking away like a child, shifting all the bags in one hand just so he can wrap the other arm around your shoulders.

still grumbling.

still red.

still the best, grumpiest mall boyfriend in existence.

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

⋆˚࿔ kia's note ˚⋆ bc i love procrastinating and dont write the shit i should write lmao💜 hope you guys enjoyed!!

[seat-safety-switch]

When we were kids, we didn't have access to cool power tools. Every summer, when the soapbox derby race was coming, we'd break into my neighbour's garage while he was at work. Then, we'd use his drill press, lathe, table saw, all the fun tools. Over the course of a week, a race car was produced, which is more than the workshop ever made during the rest of the year.

Sure, we could have asked him if we could have borrowed his tools, but no doubt he would want to be there to supervise. And then he'd want to help. We'd never get done while we were busy indulging the suburb-tinged fantasies of someone who didn't take wood shop and chose instead to idly worship at the altar of Television Presents: The Fantasy of Bob Vila in adulthood.

One year, Old Man Garrett got a security system. Probably this was because Ted (fucking Ted) didn't clean up the sawdust that one time like we asked him to. The old man must have seen the footprint, and realized that he did not wear size-seven Nikes. Child thieves, casing his precious table saw! Now, our humble breaking-and-entering had become significantly more difficult than "reach a coat hanger under the door and pull the emergency release."

With the help of some of the high-school kids who were taking electronics class, we managed to defeat the security system. We did so using an ancient Japanese technique known as "distract Old Man Garrett while he's setting it, and then cut the wires to the panel." I think it loses something in translation, but you get the gist of it. That year's car was especially sweet.

In adulthood, I got drunk and bragged to some work buddies about our little scam. They responded in abject horror, because I was still occupying the weird hump in the middle of a normal distribution of "acceptable crimes." It was terrifying to them to see one of their own, one of the suburbanites, speak openly about largely-harmless property crimes. What if we had been hurt, they shrieked. Around the water cooler, I would become a pariah, unless I could make amends.

I did hunt down Old Man Garrett after that, still feeling the sting of rejection. He was still on the property, and he still had a beautiful collection of immaculate cabinet-making tools in the garage. I rang his doorbell and, when he answered, I told him the whole story. He laughed.

"I knew it was you dumb shits from the beginning," he bragged. "Fucking Ted -"

"Fucking Ted," I echoed, unconsciously.

"Fucking Ted left his library book on building race cars behind on the workbench that first year. You didn't let him drive, did you?"

I shook my head. "We ran the car into him if the hockey-stick brakes ever failed."

We had a good laugh about the whole thing that evening, and I returned to work with my soul cleansed. It's just a pity Ted didn't know how bad he actually was at crime, before he tried to knock over that liquor store and all.

[paetalks]

nanami kento, very serious looking guy working in the finance department, having a little crush for the new girl who just got hired by the creative team.

you didn’t even know him, not until the christmas dinner party at the office. you were fairly new, only been working there for four months. working for a big company had not always been your goal, but when you got offered the position freshly out of college you couldn’t say no. it was well paid, in the city center, and allowed you to put your degree to use - which was a big plus, since finding a good job lately seemed to be stressful for people with an art degree (or so you were told by basically everybody).

when you first saw him, your heart skipped a bit. he looked insanely good, with his white shirt hugging a toned chest and short blonde hair falling slightly on his forehead. he was talking with your creative project manager, big hands gesturing softly while speaking and a light smile on his face. it was the first time you ever laid eyes on this beautiful man, and as soon as you realized you were staring a bit too hard, he had already made eye contact. eyebrows slightly furrowed, his eyes met yours. before you even knew, you were walking up to him.

“hi” you said, breathily. you felt your hands sweat and damned yourself mentally for behaving like a girl seeing a cute boy for the first time. up close, you realized he must have been a little older. not too much but the confidence he exuded was clearly not the one of someone in his early twenties - nothing like a guy your age. your manager looked around, confused on why you were intruding in their conversation, and eventually asked “hi, y/n. did you need something?”

you blushed immediately, looking away from the beautiful man, realizing there was no good reason to justify your sudden intrusion. you just saw a good looking man and walked up to him as if nothing else was going on. “oh…” your mouth slightly open, your mind racing to find something appropriate to say.

“i think we have not been introduced yet.” his voice was deep and you felt it in your stomach, like music at a concert. your eyes darted up to the unknown man, nodding shyly. “right. my name is nanami kento, pleased to meet you.”

you felt your insides melt while shaking his big hand, mumbling your name and smiling softly. five seconds later, you pretended like someone was calling your name from somewhere where your other colleagues were and excused yourself, quickly leaving just like you did arriving.

watching you walk away, nanami let out a soft smile, hoping the man in front of him was not going to pay much mind to it. “oh, don’t worry about y/n. she’s young, and new. she’s still trying to find her way around here, you know?” your project manager laughed awkwardly, still wondering what was all that about. kento shrugged, watching you from afar. your cheeks were red and the grip on the glass you had in your hands looked incredibly stiff.

what neither you or your protect manager knew was that nanami kento did know who you were. he had noticed you, maybe on your first or second day, when you got lost and popped up in the finance department. your colorful sweater and laptop full of stickers looked very out of place and when one of his colleagues approached you, letting you know that maybe you had walked in the wrong office, you did turn another color from embarrassment and started profoundly apologize. he thought you were cute, and funny, but the more he got a glimpse of you in the hallways, the more he noticed you wherever he were.

the break room, the coffee shop in front of the office building, the elevator. he found you in every room, even if you didn’t even know he was there. it was like he couldn’t get enough of you, like looking at you from afar was something he had grown addicted to in such a short time.

he wouldn’t have called it a crush, but whenever he needed to print something he would carefully choose the printer on the same floor your office was on - hoping that, when walking by, your door would be open and that he could catch a glimpse of you. okay, maybe thinking back, there had been a few moments in which he felt very infatuated by the idea of you…

looking at you from across the room, while zoning out on the conversation he was in, and noticing how sometimes you would look back too, he told himself that yes, that was definitely a crush.

idk i love the dynamics of stoic boyfriend x artsy girlfriend. wtv??? i’m done .

[drdawnbreaker]

𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬 ☆ 𝐁.𝐁

Pairing: Perv!MobBoss!Bucky x Librarian!Reader

Summary: A new bookshop had opened on the quiet block, and a certain mafia leader was interested in the sweet little owner.

Word count: 9.01k

Genre: Mafia. Smut. Romance.

Warnings: Pervy Bucky. Like I mean this man is so horny for the reader it's crazy. Really shameless flirting and a lot of flustered most likely cringe moments but it's fine… I promise. Mention of criminal activity. Bucky is a classy criminal, what can I say, hehe. Swearing. Tension. Inappropriate thoughts. Strangers to Lovers?? Domestic play. These two already act like an old married couple, confirmed. Making out, oral(f). Fingering. Edging. Dirty talk. Unprotected sex. Slight sir kink.

Note: what tf was I on, I do not know. Ahh enjoy.

Masterlist | Navigation

“I’m just saying why can’t you get one of the field boys to do it. You got a meeting in thirty, and I don’t see how explaining to them you were ‘out for an errand’ will solve your tardiness.” The driver scoffed yet again as he took the next right towards the new shop that had just opened a few weeks ago in town. A little book shop. There hadn’t been a proper book shop in this part of the city in years, and Bucky was immediately interested in it.

“Like I said, I want to see this place for myself. I don’t need one of those knuckleheads barging in like they own the place. And none of those bozos will ever say a word. I could be a day late, and they’ll all pretend they were just early.” Bucky rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his whiskey. He felt tired just thinking about that meeting. The one he’s been putting off for months. “Stop here.”

Sam sighed in defeat before taking a spot on the busy road. No one seemed to bat an eye as a black Chevy Suburban rolled up, but then again, most people on this side of town knew exactly who the car belonged to. “Meet me back here in twenty. Go grab us a coffee or something.”

“Wait but, Sir. You can't just—” Bucky slammed the door to the car. “Leave…”

The little bell on the top of the door rang cutely as Bucky entered the quiet establishment. There was barely anyone in here, if not no one at all. Perfect. He thought, given he wanted to be able to meet you in peace. And there you were, casually placing books in their rightful places on the shelves. You are wearing a cute sundress with an apron over it. There’s a little sun pattern all over the fabric, making it match with the pastel yellow ribbon in your hair. You were the most beautiful thing Bucky had ever laid eyes on. And the first time he noticed you were in the cafe, a few shops down. You bought a hot chocolate and a blueberry muffin. He still remembers the smile on your face when you took that first sip, getting a little foam moustache as a result.

He wanted nothing more than to kiss your sweet face then and there. So naturally, he looked you up. Finding out you had opened up this vintage-urban store. You had moved from outta town, but no one knew from where. Your family and history was all a mystery. Even to him and his best detectives. You were a no one. And that made you even more interesting. “Come on..just..g-go.”

You were on your tip toes trying to reach the top shelf to put a book back but you being forgetful, left the stool in the back closet and you had decided it was too much of an effort to go back and get it now. So jumping was what you resorted to. You looked like a little bunny in Bucky’s eyes. A sweet little rabbit that’s breast bounced perfectly with every hop. The scrunch in your nose and little tongue poking made him wonder what your face would look like when you were fucked just right.

His feet moved swiftly until he was flush behind up. You felt his broad chest before you heard him as he softly grabbed the book from your delicate fingers and placed it where it needed to be on the shelf. But what ultimately caught your attention was his smooth voice. “Looked like you needed some help, doll.”

Oh right then and there you felt your life was about to change very dramatically and oh, how it did excite you. “T-thanks.”

“Anytime.” His deep voice spilled in your ears like butter, and his cologne danced around you making the outside world cease to exist. He was walking sex on legs, something out of a dark romance novel and you knew exactly who he was. “So, have you got any book suggestions?”

Your smile grew when he asked the question but Bucky was cringing inside. That was really the best he could do. He’s been watching you for weeks and that was all he could mutter up. You on the other hand, chirped, plodding off deeper into the store. Bucky followed as he watched you scanning the shelves, your fingers tracing the spines of multiple books as you passed them, your mouth quivering out the titles of each one. “Ah, here we go!” You grabbed a black book off the shelf. It had a red misty design all around it with bold white lettering in the centre. It looks magical, like you. “This is one of my favourites. But be warned, it’s a lot of info dumping at the start. But the ending is worth it.”

“Thanks doll. What is it about?” Bucky’s sly smile makes your heart shake, your fingers grazing his as you hand him the book. Your throat became dry, unable to think of the right words to describe the novel…”Oh it's fantasy…”

You snapped out of your brain as you saw the man in front of you scanning the blurb on the back, his smile growing into a sinister smirk as he read some of the words, Romantic, erudite and suspenseful. You put your jittering hands in the pockets of your apron as you tried your best not to blush. “Y-yeah.. yes. I... It's really good. It’s got witches and vampires, all sorts of creatures.”

Your little ramble caused Bucky to smile ear to ear. The way your face slowly lit up the more you spoke about it, the dramatic movements of your hands as you used them to further express your emotion. He had come to the conclusion you were the cutest thing on the planet. And he would do anything to protect that. “Well I’ll definitely give it a read, Sunshine.”

Your cheeks deepened the shade of pink upon hearing the cute nickname that slipped from the tall man. You felt like your legs were slowly turning to jelly at the thought. Not only was he hot as all fuck, but he was in fact a reader, like you. “T-Tell me what you think when you finish it.”

“I shall.” His remark was quick, the smirk making your heart race. When was he this close to you? Was he always this close to the point you can smell his cologne mixing with the whiskey on his breath. You gulped, watching his eyes scan from your eyes to your lips, before wetting his own by swiping his tongue across his bottom lip. “I needed to speak with you about…something, as well.”

His deep authorial voice rattled in your mind, suddenly shaking you from your fantasy, making you remind yourself who exactly was standing in front of you. You nodded with a small ‘of course’ before walking towards the front counter. Bucky followed you as he spoke, “I’m assuming you know who I am…” his throat felt dry at his own words.

“Everybody knows who you are, Mr Barnes.” Your words seemed flattened, almost worried. In truth you were scared. The murmurs that circled when you first entered the city was not something you took lightly. The cruelness people spoke off. The ruthless man known as the white wolf. Mr James Bucky Barnes. Too young to be a mafia lord, yet here he stood, powerful, feared and wealthy. “I suppose you were here originally for business then...”

Bucky watched as you took out the logs of the shop, no longer making eye contact with him. Of course you knew who he was, why was he so stupid in thinking he could pretend for one single moment to be somebody else. To be a normal guy that could sway the sweet sunflower that owns the bookshop. A fantasy, he thought, one that won't come true. “I protect these shops on this street. And I was wondering if you would be interested in getting into the same…agreement.” he bit his tongue, trying his best to be professional.

“And what do I have to do to get this sort of treatment…” Your hands were shaking more than you’d like them too, not wishing to look into his cold eyes. But yet his eyes weren't cold, in fact they were swimming in conflict. He didn’t need anything from you, just like the other shops. No, he protected people that needed it and in return he asked for their favour. Nothing more nothing less. But he didn’t want a favour from you. No he just wanted…

“A smile.” Bucky said sternly.

“W-what?” You finally looked up at him to see a soft smirk on his shaded pink features and then he replied again..

“I want you to smile.”

-

You couldn’t help but yearn for Bucky every time you opened your shop. Waiting for him to walk in through those doors like he did almost two weeks ago now. You still remember the butterflies in your tummy as he said his goodbye…

“Like that.” Your smile grew bigger as he stepped closer to the counter. “It suits you so much.” He picked up your hand gently before placing the softest kiss on your knuckles. You swore your heart stopped at that moment. “I’ll be seeing you, Sunshine.”

And with that he left, leaving your blood rushing to your ears and a hefty tip on your counter.

“Hey, so do I sort the biographies by title or by author.” The young worker you so reluctantly hired comes rushing in from the store room, his shirt on the wrong way and his laces barely tied… his aunt had practically begged you to give him work since he was almost twenty-three and still without job experience. And now you can see why no one wanted to hire the poor thing. He wasn’t the brightest.

“Uh yeah. By author and make sure they are put in the end row by the nonfiction section, please.” You pinched the bridge of your nose as you watched him stumble away to the back of the shop, his laces making him side step.

And then you heard a crash. Followed by a quick, “I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?” You felt like you needed to ask.

The young boy rounded the shelf, looking back at you with a face as bright of a pink as the poor flowers he was holding. He had broken another vase... perfect.

“Just put it in the back.” You scratched your chin sighing as he repeated over and over ‘I’m sorry’ while cleaning up, what you’d counted as the fourth vase filled with flowers. You shook your head, looking back at the receipt logbook again, going over all the money you’d have made since opening. It was surprising, to say the least, the amount of people that have purchased or borrowed books in such little time made you giddy. You felt a sense of accomplishment at the idea people were reading. The sound of the doorbell chimed, shifting your attention to a possible new customer. “Hello, how can I help…”

“Hey Sunshine.” Bucky’s face beamed with happiness upon seeing you. His casual wear clothes catch you off guard. He almost looked normal and not like some big bad mob boss who could get away with your murder. “I’ve read your book.”

“B-Bucky.” You perked, closing the logs before quickly rounding the front desk until you were almost inches from him. Close enough to smell his gorgeous cologne. “That didn’t take you long…”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, reminding himself he had spent hours reading the book when he should have been working. But who was going to yell at him for it anyway? No, he needed to finish the book quickly so he could have something to talk about. “No, I fell in love with it on page one. And besides, the quicker I read it. The quicker I could come back here and ask you for another.”

Your face blushed as he took a step closer. You gulp at the proximity, practically feeling his body heat. His on hand leaning on the counter behind you, closing the distance. "D-do you have any in mind..."

Bucky watched your eyes flutter close for a moment, taking in his aura. He couldn't help but smirk at how much he affected you. Infecting your perfect little innocent act, because from what he read in that novel, he knew you weren’t the sunshine he depicted you as, no, there was a dark streak inside you, and he wanted desperately to draw it out. "I was curious if you got something more Smutty. Hmm."

"Smutty!?" You gasp, opening your eyes to gaze into Bucky deep ones, his pupils blown out, almost consuming all the ocean shade in his eyes. His smile only grew, placing his other hand on the other side of your body, now trapping you between his large body and the counter.

"Oh, I know you've got ideas, Sunshine. That book wasn't as innocent as you remember, hm." The tilt in his head made you dizzy. His face inches from yours. If you wanted, you would only need to move an inch to close the gap. To finally feel those lips you'd been dreaming about for the past couple of weeks.

"I could give you some suggestions..." You whispered your breath, mixing with his. Bucky bit his bottom lip, inching closer and closer until his lips graze yours and just enough to—

"I think I lost the log book again in the...." The young boy, frozen, almost dropping some of the books that he held tightly in his hand. Bucky sighs, reluctantly pulling away slowly. You looked down at your feet, feeling like your heart was going to jump right out of your chest. "S-sorry."

"It's okay, Peter. Uh..Just.. Did you leave it on the desk in the back again?" You answered the poor boys' question, making his face light up with cringe. He muttered to himself before scurrying off towards the back room. You look back at the man still caging you against the counter, but his gaze was elsewhere. On the young boy, in fact. Bucky couldn’t explain it, but he swears he knew the kid. He's seen him somewhere. His face is so familiar…yet not. "Are you okay?"

Your little murmur caught the mob boss's attention, turning his gaze to you once again. He cleared his throat before standing up straight, almost making himself bigger than normal. His stare still flickered to where the back room was. His gut told him something was wrong, but he couldn't figure out what. "Yeah, don't worry about me, Sunshine." He finally looked back at you, gifting you one of his award winning smiles, "I'm good."

"Well. I should be getting back to work." You felt a slight twinge of embarrassment circle in your tummy. Getting caught in the arms of a man like Bucky but being caught almost kissing him. That was a scandal and a half. Argh, you can practically hear all the old bettys in the street gossiping already. You go to turn away from him, but his hand grips your upper arm, swinging you into his chest. His free hand grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him.

"Let me take you out." He smirked.

"A date?" You questioned.

"Yes. I like you, Sunshine. If that wasn't obvious enough." He could see your ears start to turn pink as you tried to look everywhere else. Your heartbeat was ringing in your ears, feeling an overwhelming sense of every emotion under the sun. He leaned closer until his lips grazed your ear, whispering, "Think about it. I'll come back Friday afternoon before you close, and you can tell me your answer."

He lightly kissed your cheek before letting you go, walking out, without another thought. You just stood there, shocked, thrilled and absolutely terrified.

"You can't go."

"What?" You knitted your brow as you turned to Peter standing in one of the aisles. He jumped, changing his expression from a plan and cold expression to one of bewilderment.

"Uh, what I mean is you shouldn't…go. He's not a good man." You can see his grip on the books tighten as he grits his teeth. Your expression stayed the same as you turned your back to him, opening the logbook to where you were before.

"I know who he is." Your words were cold, blunt, almost shocking the young man. He was taken aback, to say the least, but then again, he expected your response. In fact, he hoped for it.

-

Through the following days, you found yourself staring at the clock, waiting, begging for the day to end. You wished desperately for it to be Friday every time you woke up. It was finally Thursday when your craving died a little. An old lady had come in to return a few books, and she had said a fine looking man had asked her to give you a piece of paper. A letter. To say your heart nearly jumped through your throat would have been an understatement. "Hey, Peter. I need to do some paperwork, watch the store."

"You've never let me work the regis—." You didn't even let the poor boy finish his statement as you sped off towards the back room. Your shaky fingers locked the door as quickly as possible before you practically jumped into the swivel chair. ‘Open it’ you told yourself ‘it has to be from Bucky’. Your smile only grew bigger at the voice singing in your head. You open the paper and see it's written in the most beautiful hand writing you've ever seen. It read;

To my Sunshine,

Even though our interactions have been brief, I have to confess that crossing paths in your bookshop was not the first time I've noticed your beautiful presence. I first saw you in the cafe, three shops down. The way you were lost in your book while sipping on your hot chocolate made me want to dive into your mind and see it’s wonders. Curious what could be lying within… You’ve been on my mind ever since. I have found I am unable to sleep at night without the thought of you. Call me old-fashioned with this letter, but I needed to get this off my chest without blabbering like a fool in front of you. I can't wait for our date tomorrow that I know you’ll say yes to. But until then. A gift…

You look at the bottom of the page and note there is a phone number. If the confession of love wasn't enough, him giving you his number was certainly going to kill you. You had already planned to say yes to his date but now an idea sparked in your mind. In truth, you have found feelings towards Bucky, like you had been made for one another. No amount of time, whether little or long it was, you know your feeling would stay the same. So you wanted to take the reins for once, even if deep down you knew you wouldn't be able to hold them for long.

Sunshine// I got your letter. I want you here out the front by 6 pm, wear something casual.

You left no room for argument as you shut your phone off and held your head high. Peter’s expression of unpleasantness couldn’t… wouldn’t, stop you from the growing butterflies in your gut. You were finally going to be happy, and Bucky was the one going to give it to you.

-

You swore it wasn’t this cold yesterday afternoon, the keys almost sticking to your ice cold fingers. You checked the locks to the doors one final time before letting out a sigh of relief and nerves, ready to call it a night. “Well hello, Sunshine.”

You turned with a smile, seeing the man of the hour. He was wearing a less-fancy dress suit. No tie, or cuff links. You couldn't help but giggle. “I said casual wear James…”

“What do you mean, love? This is casual.” He chuckled, taking two large steps to you, closing the gap. His hand snuck around your waist, squeezing the flesh on your hips. “So where are we off to, tonight?”

“A surprise. So you’ll just have to trust me.” You giggle, your palm resting on his chest. You could feel his heart racing a million miles, yet he looked so composed. But then again in his field of ‘work’ he needed to show almost no signs of emotion.

“I’d trust you with my life.” Bucky had never used those words so lightly, but it was the truth. He couldn't explain it but he could easily lay his life down for you. You could crush it if you wished and he wouldn't say a thing. You blushed at his confession, reaching on your tiptoes you kiss the rugged man's cheek, before pulling away towards the street.

“I loved your letter by the way.” And with that you turned to start walking, letting Bucky trail after you like a love sick puppy.

“Just this way…” Bucky followed you curiously as you weaved through the streets. There were no restaurants or diners around in this area he knew of and given he owned half the city he should be aware of almost everything. So where on earth were you taking him? You turned your head over your shoulders spotting the confusion on his face, you couldn't help but giggle at his wide boba-like eyes. You outstretched your hand, waiting for him to take it. Bucky swore he felt his heart stop when he locked his fingers with yours. Bucky has never put this much trust in a person before and yet he has found himself being led by you through the front door of an apartment complex and up three flights of stairs before coming to a stop at a door that read 117. “I..”

All the words you had prepared to say had suddenly flown out the window as you slotted the key into the lock. Bucky's smirk grew as he watched your brain scramble, finding enjoyment in watching you squirm. “And here I thought you had an innocent date planned. But my cheeky little sunshine just wanted me all to herself, hmm?”

“N-no!!” you whipped your head to his direction, leaning against the door with blush riddled on your cheeks. “I-i just wanted to make you a home cooked meal. I-i prefer cooking over going out.” You dipped your head to the ground feeling a little ashamed of your introvertedness. Bringing such a dangerous man home wasn't exactly the thought that crossed your brain when you thought of this evening. In truth you were only thinking about treating him to your cooking, something you took pride in. “I’m not very good with other people.”

He brought his hand to your chin, lifting your face up so he could look at you in the eyes. There was no judgement in his soft gaze, heck even his killer smirk was now only a small simple smile. “As long as I'm with you, we could be doing anything, besides…” He leaned down to give the side of your face a kiss before whispering, “I’m not one for crowds either.”

You gulped, nodding slightly as you turned back to open the door. Bucky's gaze shifted from yours as soon as he heard the creek of the wood, finally getting a peek inside the little place you call home. Your place was riddled with a vintage, cottage-like aesthetic. It was like Bucky had stumbled into a fairies hut that was hidden away in an enchanted forest. The smell of your salt lamp was strong but not as strong as the calming lavender. He felt like the air around him was giving him the warmest hug. Everything was soft, cute, and dainty… just like you. You lead him deeper into the apartment, letting him take the lead once you get to an archway. It led into the lounge room he found, spotting the emerald couch and various bookshelves encasing a tv cabinet. “Uh..I… make yourself at home, I just got to put away some things and I'll start to prepare dinner.”

You scurried off before he had the chance to protest, not that he would have that is. He was almost scared to take a seat, his black on black attire completely stuck out to the surroundings. Slicked back hair, expensive accessories, shoes worth more than most of your furniture… He was so out of place. Taking a seat he felt himself sink into the cushions. He was being bombarded by plushies falling onto him as he shifted to get comfortable. Everything smelled like you, sweet, sugary, a hint of freshly baked goods and old books. He couldn’t help himself, leaning down, he brought his face to a blanket you use regularly when lounging on the couch. He took a deep inhale. ‘God help me’ he'd think to himself as his fingers tangled in the soft fabric, feeling his hips twitch at the thought of your scent round him. Paint him as a pervert, he didn't care, all he cared about in this moment was the feeling of you. Craving, begging to see if he could have you as more.

A loud clunk caught his attention, making him snap out of the haze clogging his mind. He’s never sat up quicker, swiftly moving towards the kitchen to only find you with a pot on the ground and the lid firmly in your hand as if you were using it as a shield. “Whoops…” was all you could mutter, feeling like your nerves had been shot from the loud noise. Bucky scooped up the pot, trying to see if you were okay only to see your face completely red. The same red as the tomatoes on the counter. “I can't stop my hands shaking,”

You tried to laugh it off lightly at how nervous you were with such a man like Bucky being in your house. You were starting to regret bringing him here and wishing you just sucked it up and took him to a restaurant instead. Bucky's free hand placed itself on your upper arm, gently rubbing up and down on your soft skin before giving the flesh a squeeze. He hadn't even realised you were dressed in something different, another sundress, but this one was black with lace accents on the hems. the ribbon holding up your hair matched it accordingly. “Hey It's okay. Just take a deep breath, baby.”

Him calling you all these pet names weren't helping but you obeyed him as best as you could nonetheless. “I just feel a little silly bringing you here. You know since we barely know one another and I don't want you to get the wrong impression…”

“And what kind of impression would you be giving me, hmm?” He didn't mean to come off as teasing but his deep tone caused him to always sound alluring.

“I..uh. That I wanted to just get you to my place to sleep with you. Cause that's not the reason i just really dont l-like—” you stopped rambling as soon as your eyes met Bucky's. His dark blown out gaze causes your words to get caught in your throat. Bucky had put the pot down a while ago, his spine straight as he stepped closer. You instinctively took a step back and then another before your hips made contact with the counter. Bucky placed a foot on either side of yours and his hands on the marble behind you. You were caged.

"And what if that was the reason? Would it be so bad?" It was like his voice got deeper, more sultry as he took a deep grumbling breath, taking in the scent of your perfume and shampoo.

"I j-just don't want to ruin anything we could have." You whispered, your eyes fluttering close. But Bucky simply stared holes into your flesh, like he could see straight to your soul. This cute little thing in front of him wants more than a hookup? Wants to actually get to know him? He doesn't know if he had just won the jackpot, or this was, in fact, a cruel dream he hadn't woken up to yet.

"Trust me, darling. Nothing you can do will ruin anything between us..." he leaned down to your ear, "Even if it's sex."

You choked when you heard him groan that unruly word. Your hand clapping over your mouth to hide your gasp. Never in your life have you been put into a situation quite sultry as this one. The men you’ve dated were only stereotypical, self-centered or mama’s boys. Worse if they were all three. But Bucky was different. He is no gentleman but yet, if you asked for the moon he would do anything to give it to you. He is not a nice man but if someone were to hurt the old lady that runs the little shoe shop down the street he would not be afraid to kill the fucker who did her wrong. He is not a lover but he’d be damned if he didn't get down on one knee right now and begged for your hand. Bucky was different and that's why you had quickly fallen for the man even if those around you did not approve. “W-what if I were to ask for more tonight. Not just dinner…”

Bucky's heart stopped, he was sure of it. His body moving closer his lips inches from your own, “I would give anything your pretty little heart desires… all you gotta say is, please.”

You opened your eyes to see his dark ones locked on you. Moving your hand slowly, you snaked them gently around his neck, feeling his soft locks tangle between your fingers. “Please…” His lips locked onto yours, stealing the yelp from your throat. His hands that were gripping firmly on the counter now tugged at your hips, bringing you flushed against him. You could feel his body heat pool where you needed him most. You’ve never been kissed like this before. The softness with pure desperation lingering. It was as if your nerves exploded with little fireworks across your spine as you shiver under him. “B-bu-B.” He was quick to swallow your cries, using his leg to spread your thighs more so he could easily slip between them.

“If we keep going, we won't be having dinner.” Bucky groaned against your tongue, pulling away with a tug on your bottom lip. He could hear a slight ring in his blushed ears, feeling his whole body shaking, craving to keep going. But he needed you to take the lead. Tell him what you wanted… for now.

“My bedroom is the first door on the left.” Your smile seemed to be contagious, as Bucky couldn't help but give you a cheeky little smirk in return. He wasted no time in taking a hold of your lips again, but this time he took a step back, letting you both shuffle ungracefully towards the hallway. You huffed as you almost tripped, giving up with the kiss. You grabbed a hold of his hand that was still tightly against your hip, intertwining your fingers with his. You both stood there for a moment. Nothing but battered breath and racing heart beats could be heard. It was like the world had ceased to exist around this very moment. His hazy gaze travelled from where you were both connected, up your soft arms, until he reached your lips. They were swollen, puffy and pink. Beautiful… Bucky thought. Everything about you was simply breathtaking.

You gave him a soft smile, one he has never seen ever pointed in his direction, and with your hands tightly interlocked, you led him slowly down the hall. A shy grin decorated your features. Something that Bucky's dark stare didn't linger from, as if he needed to map out every curve and twist to keep it perfectly accurate in his mind for years to come. From the intense gaze, you look away and towards your bedroom.

As soon as you opened the door, Bucky was met with the sweetest scent. It was so much stronger than the one that painted your apartment. Strawberries, vanilla, and brown sugar. The room wasn't much different from the rest of your place. It was neat, tidy. But there were blankets and plushies galore on your bed. Like a little nest to keep you safe from the outside world. The bedding was a forest green that matched the similar greens on your desk that sat in the corner. You, of course, had a bookshelf in here too, filled with a number of different kinds of novels. Bucky reminded himself to bring up the one you recommended to him when you first met.

"Cute..." Was all he spoke, making your red face become even more hotter. You turned back to him, seeing his gaze glued to you, eyeing you with a devilish smirk. "...Just like you.”

Bucky lowered himself to place his lips on yours in another heated kiss. His hands wandering lower and lower, making your own fly to grab his shoulders. He backs you up slowly, step by step. Your hazy mind was too focused on the deepening kiss to notice any movement. It wasn't until you were suddenly startled by the edge of the bed hitting your thighs that you pulled away from the man in front of you. Bucky didn't hesitate to push you back gently. The little yelp that escaped your throat would have sounded pathetic if in a different scenario, but Bucky couldn't help but groan in response to the sound. Before you could protest anything, Bucky quickly stifled any noise as he followed you to capture your lips once more in a fierce kiss.

Teeth clashed against each other, and tongues danced like there was no tomorrow. It was like Bucky couldn't get enough of you. He needed to taste you in every way possible. The whimper that slipped from him as his mouth ventures lower to your jaw, biting and lapping at your skin. Then the same is done to your neck, your collarbone, all the way to the part of your breasts that were exposed above your sundress. You gasp, tipping your head back onto the plushies behind you while your hands loosen from the fabric on his shoulders.

Bucky suddenly stopped, his dark gaze looking up at your flushed expression. You're as red as the hottest sun with glossed over eyes, and God is it a delicious look on you.

"Such a pretty little thing." He groans, his voice all but a hushed whisper, slowly snaking his hands to your knees, playing with the lacy hem of your dress. "May I, Sunshine?" You nodded while biting your lip, a little too enthusiastically, shifting a little side to side. You tried to ease some of the ache between your legs.

“Use your words, Doll,” He grins, his touch unmoving.

“Please Bucky,” you finally squeak out. He shifts his body lower until he is snuggly between your legs. The sight of him looking at you through his lashes while his tongue coats a thin layer of spit on his lips was enough to make you soaked. You shiver as his large hands run from your knee, up your thigh, under your dress before returning back to your knee, tantalisingly. As if marvelling at what was before him. What you were gifting him. He does it again, this time letting his finger tips linger a little bit longer on your inner thigh before pulling away completely, leaving a thrilling chill to run down your spin. “I need you…”

His ghosting hand places itself back on the soft parts of your thighs, squeezing as he heard those three words slip from your pretty mouth. “You need me, Sunshine? Need me to take the ache away? Tell me what you need, sweet thing.”

“I want you to…taste me…” You felt shy whispering such filth but Bucky on the other hand, simply raised an eyebrow at your daring comment. It was something so daring it brought a smile to his older features. His little sunshine wasn’t innocent and he was slowly drawing the darkness out. His thumbs hooked on the edge of the dress hesitating before pulling the fabric up, agonisingly slow.

“Hmm, I knew my girl had a sinful side.” He spoke with a lightly chuckle escaping his reddened lips from him biting them in anticipation. My girl…those words played in your head on loop, like your new favourite song. My girl. Argh you would never get over him saying that.

He hikes your dress up higher to reveal your cute purple panties with a deep wet patch on them. You’re soaked right through. It was like he couldn't help himself, taking his pointer finger he pressed firmly on the patch watching the fabric stick to your core. He couldn't help but groan, “All this talk and here you are…dripping.”

Bucky dragged your underwear down your thighs. The cool air that crept from your bedroom window immediately hitting the warmth of your core below. His fingers snatch the fabric clean off your legs, flicking them off to the side of the bed somewhere before his lustful gaze finally sets on the prize he had been yearning for ever since he first met you.

He swipes his thumb over your aching cunt, collecting some slick with his finger. It sent a jolt through you, your thighs twitching without your control. He coated his fingers more, watching your juices were spilling down his digits onto his knuckles. He does it once more for good measure, this time rubbing over your clit to earn himself a delicious whine from you. You grip at the bedsheets, widening your legs further for him unconsciously as he continues to play and rub at your clit just right. "Fuck...James."

"That's it Sunshine, feeling good?" He chuckled watching you flinch as he pressed harshly on your clit. He snaked closer before his face was inches from your soaking pussy. He blew onto your wet lips, causing a gasp to leave you, but the gasp quickly turned into a high-pitched whine as you suddenly felt the warmth of his mouth upon you. He begins to lap up your pussy all the while still harshly circling your clit, moans escaping your parted lips. The noises turned into something desperate when the thumb was replaced by his firm tongue, pressing down and licking at your swollen bud, again and again. Bucky groaned against you, bucking his hips into the mattress at a stuttering pace. You took notice of his whine, feeling another one while he ground his hips just right against the sheets.

"Please, Buc..Bucky, t-that. I..ah."

You've never had any man pay this much attention to you before, let alone find enjoyment in eating you out. You can feel yourself becoming absolutely soaked just under the sensation of his mouth. Your legs quiver and shake, unable to control your movements as you feel yourself tip closer to the edge.

You try to take a deep breath. Feeling yourself already so close has made you feel slightly embarrassed. But as he sunk his long finger inside of your cunt, all the nerves seemingly washed away. Another one slid in easily and "Nh-ah JAMES!" He curls them upwards, right to the spot that sends a spark of electricity crackling through your core.

He begins a steady rhythm along with his tongue continuously lapping your clit like he was a starved man taking his fill of a goddesses nectar and you're unable to control the noises and pants that fall from your throat. You grip one hand into the sheets as the other flies to grab the back of your thigh. lifting your leg up further to give him more access. You need more. You craved more. You've never felt this good before, and your being was demanding to be selfish… just this once.

He added a third finger as if he knew you needed something more. It made your head slam into the pillow behind you, turning to almost shout into the soft cushioning, muffling yourself for your poor neighbours. He works up a good rhythm, finding what buttons to push, succeeding in getting to know what your body wants. Groans from him and other lustfulled sniffles fill the room, as your thighs clamp down around the mob boss's head, keeping him where he is.

He could barely breathe as your hips buck against his soaked face. But he couldn't care less. In fact, he would be happy if he died like this. In between the legs of his best girl, his pretty little sunshine. You felt like you were about to explode but the euphoria didn't last long as Bucky used his free hand that had been holding onto your outer thigh to pull your legs apart, holding them in place so he could sit up slightly. "You close, baby? Do you need to cum?"

"Yes!" You answered in a choked whine needing to feel his mouth on you once again.

"Yes, what sunshine?" Normally, he would be one for punishment, and given you kept breaking rules, he was most certainly craving to punish you. But he decided to let it slide this one time. He has more than enough time to mould you and shape you into his perfect little baby later. But for now, he'll see what type of filth he can draw from you.

"Yes, please, Sir." Your glossed eyes finally opened for the first time in what felt like years, your tears clouding most of your vision but you could still see the darkness in Bucky's gaze and how his chin was dripping with slick. Your slick.

He drove his fingers deeper, his knuckles brushing your walls as he slammed his digits in a calculated thrusts. Harsh, slow, and powerful. You become louder, needier, and you can’t get your breathing under control. You’re teetering right on the edge. Ready. Right there and then...

He stops.

His glistening face had the cheekiest, wet grin across it like he felt proud of edging you. “Say that again, Sunshine. Who am I?”

“S..Sir..oh nagh.” He picked back up, but at an even faster pace, bringing you to the edge in mere milliseconds. But just as you were about to burst you felt his fingers pop right out of your aching hole. “Ahng.. pleasee.”

You whined, staring at him with welting tears, shocked, and panting louding. Your heart beating in your ears with flush brilliant red cheeks. You lick your lips as you run your hand over your mouth before raking it through your slightly dishevelled hair. Your eyes grew narrow as you stared at the man between your shaking legs. He holds your thighs apart so you can’t clamp them shut to try and stop the intense tingling between, causing you to huff in frustration.

“Don’t mean to ruin the fun now, princess,” he inquired as he stood up off the bed, towering over your weak looking frame. The moon light that was pooling in the room caused his shadow to engulf you, covering your body in his darkness. He looked powerful. He looked dangerous. Like the man everyone warned you about. The feared mafia leader of New York. He pulls you by your ankles, yanking you until you were sitting on the edge of the bed. His hand gripped the back of your neck gently bringing your face to his so he could kiss you. But you kept your hand over your mouth, your other hand coming to place on his chest, holding him firmly in face with a hidden smirk.

“You are a cruel man.” You gestured to him not letting you finish, but in truth, the word cruel hung in the air like thick tension. Cruel. A word he was sadly used to. But not in this kind of way. It almost delighted him. You felt your heart jump as he raised his brow, coming closer so that he’s only a hair’s breath away from the back of your hand. His dark eyes roam over your face, taking in every detail.

“Hmm why? You tasted so sweet,” He bit his lip, “I wanted you to have a taste…” He mimics what you asked prior. You swallowed thickly with wide eyes nodding shyly. Slowly, you moved your hand away as he paused for a moment, just to see your flustered face once more. “Cute…”

He dives in, kissing you, lapping at your lips. His teeth nibbling, and his teeth clashing against yours. You could taste the muskiness of yourself on his tongue, the sweetness that lingered. You deepen the kiss, allowing his hand on the back of your neck to hold it still in place, giving up any power to give him everything of your being. Your hands shift to his shirt, catching the hem between your finger tips before tugging at the fabric. He seemed to get the gist as he pulled away for only a mere couple of seconds to pull his shirt off, snatching your lips against his once more.

Your fingers trace his body with your sight, feeling all the bumps of scar tissue and muscle. More proof of his status, of who he truly was. But yet you still couldn’t pull yourself away. You’re not sure if you ever will. “James..” You huffed against his lips, “Buck I..”

He pulls away, letting his nose rub against yours while his eyes stay tightly sealed, taking in the moment like he was never going to be able to get it again. “What is it, my Sunshine?”

“I need you… please.” You voice was barely above a whisper, only you and him being able to ever hear your little plea. His smile. His addicting smile made the butterflies in your tummy swoon. His hand that was firmly on your neck slid down until it found the zipper to your dress, playing with the metal between his digits.

“Can you stand?” He gently asked, waiting for you to nod a small ‘yes’. He helped you stand, the backs of your thighs still tightly against the edge of the bed, as if the position was helping you stand. He finally pulled away, letting your eyes wander down his toned, damaged chest. He had tattoos up his right arm while his left was completely metal. A dark almost purple metal with golden accents. You heard rumours about how he had a missing limb but this was far from what you imagined.

You licked your swollen lips unconsciously as you gawked at him. Bucky on the other hand couldn't help but grin sinisterly at your reaction, delicately grabbing the zipper on your dress, he unzipped it until the straps of your dress loosened and fell from your shoulders.

The fabric pooled at your chest, your arms tightly holding it in place. “I…”

“Are you okay, love?” Your eyes snapped to his deep chocolate ones when he called you ‘love’, feeling your nerves crackling like fireworks. He tilted his head to the slide marginally, his smirk fading to a simple smile but his eyes never dimming their darkness. His hands gripped tightly onto his belt, unlooping it before throwing it somewhere in the room. He had made you watch his every move as he unzipped his slack unhurriedly. He could see the darkness begin to cloud your colourful eyes, your pupils growing large as the fabric fell to the floor, leaving him in his boxers. “Your turn.”

His voice somehow got deeper. His fingers gliding along your goosebumped skin. You took a deep inhale through your nose before letting your dress drop, pooling at your ankles. "Fuck..."

"Bucky..." You don't even know why you called his name, but he was immediately on you, his one hand resting on your bare hip while the other effortlessly unhooked your bra in one quick snap, watching your plump breast spring free. He almost bent you in half when he brought his face to your tits, taking a deep breath, smelling your perfume on your sweaty skin. His tongue licked along the valley, groaning as he latched his mouth to your left nipple. "Fuck James, nargh."

Your hands tangled in his hair as you fell back, dragging him with you as you fall onthe bed with an 'oof'. He used his strong arms to throw your body upwards until your head hit the pillows, not leaving your breasts alone. He painted every part of skin he could with beautiful purple marks. Neading your chest, tugging on your nipples and wetting every surface. He could lay here and suck your tits for hours if you let him. But he knew you needed more. He needed more. To feel what it's like to be inside you.

"Such perfect tits. A pretty body. Everything about you is perfect Sunshine. Hmm. My perfect baby." His praise made you whimper, a tear creeping out the corner of your eyes. You've never had someone say such kind things to you, praised you the way Bucky has been. For a cruel man, he was the kindest person you've ever met.

"J-James, please. I need you i-inside me." You whispered, tugging his head up by his hair so his lips were inches from your own. He gave you a small peck before sitting up slightly so he could pull his cock out of his boxers, letting smack against his abdomen. You wrapped your legs around his waist, in the process so he could slide the tip of his cock along your folds eagerly.

“Whatever my girl wants, she’ll get.” He sunk inside your soaked cunt inch by inch, bit by bit, at a snail pace until he bottomed you out completely. He shivered at the feeling of your warm walls clenching tightly around him. His eyes squeezing shut and face burring in your neck. He could feel the coil in his gut already tug. He was going to cum any second and he felt embarrassed how quick you’ve made him feel. As if he had just died and gone to heaven. “Fuck sunshine, you feel so nice. Your pussy is sucking me in ngah.”

“Bucky please move.” You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, grinding upwards onto his public bone, feeling the friction ease the ache only just. It was like a switch went off when Bucky heard your little plea, snapping his hips into yours at such a pace, it caused the air to be snatched out of your lungs. If you weren't being fucked by the inch of your life you would of felt sorry towards your neighbours as a string of cries, swears and pet names bounced off the thin walls of your bedroom. Bucky drug his nails in the soft flesh of your waist and back, surely creating deep indents that you’d be flaunting for days to come.

You’ve never felt such a connection to another person before let alone a man. You were brought up with the idea that love didn’t exist. That it was only a dream that settled in the books you’ve read. But the way Bucky made you feel, the way he made you want to feel. It was like you were in those books you’ve read.. “Bu-Bucky I—”

“It's okay baby. Let go. I wanna feel you cum around my cock, fuccknagh..” He sat up just slightly grabbing both of your wrists so he could hold them above your head, lacing his fingers harshly around your appendages. Bending one of your legs over his shoulder, he then jackhammered into you at a speed that was just what you needed, feeling his waist grind against your clit, giving you the right amount of simulation to let go. “That’s it, Sunshine.”

Your foggy eyes, riddled with tears, stared up at Bucky's, never leaving his gaze. He watched every detail your face made as you came crashing down from your high. The way you brows cross, you mouth hung only ajar and the saliva that dripped down your chin. You were the hottest thing he had ever laid eyes on, he was certain. “Fuck, Sunshine, can I come inside you. Can I fill this pretty pussy up?”

His eyes began to flutter closed as he felt a rush of need spill down his spine. You whimpered out a daring ‘yes please’ making him bust his load deep inside you, coating your walls before some of his cum started to leak out around his cock that stilled in you. Clouds danced around you, the softness of air tickling your sweaty flesh. Every nerve in your body was on an all time high and it was all thanks to the dangerous man above you. Bucky had let go of your wrist, kissing each one tendly, while you simply lazily watched him, basking in the moment, never wanting it to end.

—

© DrDawnBreaker. Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, repost, or use my work in any way, shape, or form.

[kwittuwi]

★ Clothing Haul—

— Saja Boys x M!Manager!reader ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ )

▍𓉸⋆ྀི summary, when you find out the saja boys only have one outfit in different colors, you insists on going on a shopping trip to get them more clothes…but the saja boys have other ideas.

▍𓉸⋆ྀི content, fluff & silliness ˃ 𖥦 ˂

You were currently staring at the Saja Boys with a (not so) intense glare. Each member darted their gaze somewhere other than your face.

When trying to be nice by washing the boys clothes you found out they each only had the outfits they wore on stage. You called them into the living room to question them, but for the first time since meeting them they were quiet.

Mystery was keeping to himself while looking off to the side hoping you wouldn't notice him. While Romance would have normally loved you staring at him, the implications of your stare made him upset. Baby was trying not to laugh because he thought your “intense glare” was more of a cute pout than something scary. Abby was distracting himself trying to think of something to say.

Each member stayed quiet till Jinu spoke. “Is it really that big of a deal?” His voice was unsure and as if he was trying to convince himself more than you.

You whipped your head towards him. “OK, ok,” he put his arms up in defeat. “What do you suggest then?”

An hour later all six of them were standing in front of an expensive clothing store that you personally couldn't ever afford. When you said nice new clothes this is not what you meant.

Lost in thought about how beautiful the exterior was that you didn't realize the boys had gone inside. It wasn’t until you noticed Mystery looking at you like he was waiting for you.

After acknowledging him you both walked inside to see the others looking for clothes they liked. Baby was near the oversized sweaters. Abby was looking at button shirts that definitely were too tight. Romance grabbing anything that had hearts on it. And Mystery had walked off and was replaced with Jinu.

“Why don't you help us since this was your idea.” It sounded more like a statement than a question. “Ok,” you paused, looking around the store. “So what do you typically like wearing?” Jinu's face looked of shock and confusion like he had never been asked that. “Um…I um…” he stumbled looking for words, fidgeting with his fingers.

“Why don't we help the others out since it seems they have more of an idea what they want?” You said trying to reassure him. He giggles before you both start walking to Romance.

While walking towards him you spotted something it was a pink sweater with white checkered pattern in each white square was a red heart. Your eyes lit up. It was perfect.

You grabbed a random size you thought would fit Romance and almost ran to him with Jinu wondering why you were running so excited. “Romance!” you said holding up the sweater as he turned around. He walked towards you eyes lit up in excitement. “I found this and I thought it was perfect for you.” He thought it was cute the way you cared about him.

Romance took it from your hands. “It's perfect. We should look for more.”

“Yea!”

You both started wandering around finding more and more pink and red heart themed clothes. Jinu just followed you two trying to see if there was anything that caught his eye.

After getting half a shopping cart (you guys realized half way through you probably need it to help carry the clothes) full of clothes you decided to go looking for Baby to help him. But once you three got there Baby threw a heep of oversized sweaters and shirts filling up the cart completely.

You three looked at him in shock that he could find that many different types of stylized sweaters without anyone’s help. “We’re gonna need another cart,” He said while walking towards where Abby was.

Abby turned around when he heard all your guys footsteps. He held up a tight button up shirt almost like he was making sure it was too small for him. You looked at him with an ‘are you serious right now’ expression on your face.

You walked over to him, grabbing the shirt and putting it back on the rack. Turning around you walked towards tank tops with different colors and patterns picking one and holding it up to see if it would fit. Abby seemed happy with your choice for him.

Abby grabbed the tank top. “Perfect! I’m gonna find more like this,” he said before walking away to find more shirts that would show off his abs and muscles, such as more tank tops, more tight button shirts as well as some shorter shirts (the ones that when u raise ur arms it lifts up). Romance and Baby followed him wanting to help him.

A couple seconds later you felt someone tap your shoulder. When you turned around you were met with Mystery. You looked at him tilting your head to the side as to silently ask if he needed anything. Mystery pointed to the other side of the store, following his finger you understood that he wanted your help and you happily started walking to where he was pointing.

Jinu followed you with Mystery close behind. “You’re good at this aren’t you,” Jinu said. “Good at what?” You asked, confused by what he ment. “At helping us. More specifically, helping us pick out clothes.” You looked at him. “It’s because I wanna help you, all of you.” He smiled, taking his gaze off of you.

Soon all three of you reached to the section Mystery pointed at. It was mostly casual clothes, clothes that most people wear when lounging around. Mystery guided you to a specific aisle. It was filled with short sleeved shirts, arm warmers, cardigans, and many other items. Pacing the aisle you soon spotted a cardigan that was dark purple with eyes covering it.

You pointed to the cardigan to get Mystery’s attention. “What about this?” You asked while he stood behind you. “I like it,” it wasn’t much but it was all you needed. You both looked at the items one by one trying to figure out what style he had. Mystery didn’t really have a distinct style but it definitely screamed him.

When you two were occupied Jinu walked off to another section after he saw a couple of items that caught his eye. It mostly was button ups, hoodies, jackets, and shirts. Some were plain, some had patterns. Jinu grabbed the ones he liked most, walking towards where you and Mystery were.

You turned around when you heard someone approaching you only to see Jinu. He raised his arm showing you the things he found looking for approval. You nodded happy with his decision not to be completely boring.

A couple minutes later Romance, Abby, and Baby came with a second cart with piles of the clothes Abby picked out. Both Jinu and Mystery put their respective clothes in the cart filling the second one.

“Well now that that is done with, we can leave.” Turning around before someone grabbed you. “Not yet exactly.” You recognized his voice as Baby’s and the hand as Abby’s. Turning around you saw Baby, Mystery, and Romance had a clothing item that was not something you remembered one of them putting in the cart.

Abby guided you towards the changing room while the other three threw the clothes at you. Before being shoved into the changing room you saw Jinu looked confused yet amused while the others were smirking.

Looking down at the clothes in your hands seeing what they had just given you. To your surprise there was actually something you might wear. All of the shirts, hoodies and sweaters given to you were too big almost like this was on purpose. You actually liked it almost as if you could hide in your own personal cave. There were shorts, leg warmers and arm warmers. You giggled ‘probably from Mystery.’

At the bottom of the pile was a pink cardigan with a hood, it had two pointy ears with the outer part of the hood having fur. After putting it on you realized what they had done, they had found a cute cat or lion hoodie you couldn’t tell but you knew that they saw it as a lion. A lion their band's mascot.

You giggled. It was cute, you liked it. Wanting to amuse the four boys who had picked this out for you, you walked out the changing room to show them the cardigan. They surrounded you looking at you. Jinu chuckled once he realized what they did.

They complimented you, barely even about the cardigan, just you. They called you their pretty boy, lion cub, and many others. All of them started to hang off of you like how they do with each other. You couldn’t help but blush bright red.

After buying everything you guys went home to perform a fashion show before getting into your new comfy clothes to watch a movie, you specifically choosing to wear the lion cardigan.

[cinnasite]

with great power comes great lesbianism

꩜ pairing: spiderman!ellie williams x female reader

꩜ warnings: explicit content, language

꩜ word count: 5.5k

꩜ synopsis: your campus crush is awkward, brilliant, and possibly allergic to eye contact. your city’s superhero is bold, brawny, and keeps saving your life. it takes a few close calls and some questionable physics to realise they��re the same girl—and she’s falling for you, too.

The first time Spider-Girl saves you, it's from a mugger in an alley behind the campus coffee shop. You're fumbling through your backpack for your pepper spray when she drops down like some extremely agile angel, all wisecracks and impossibly fluid movements.

"Hey there, citizen," she quips with her trademark enthusiasm, expertly knocking out the guy with a single punch. God, she’s always so extra on television. You didn’t think she’d be a hundred times worse in real life. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that walking alone at night is, like, really bad for your web of safety?"

You stare at her, dumbfounded, heart hammering from more than just the adrenaline. "Did you seriously just make a spider pun?"

"Maybe." Even through the mask, you can hear her intolerable grin. "You okay? No injuries? Emotional trauma? Sudden urge to take up martial arts?"

"I'm fine," you manage, though you're definitely not. She's hanging upside down now, her auburn hair falling in waves around her masked face, and something indescribable about her voice is making your stomach flip. You clutch your pepper spray tighter.

"Good. Great. Awesome," her extremely endearing stuttering doesn’t distract you from how delicious her biceps look in that top-notch suit of hers. "Um, you should probably get home. Soon. Don’t want to miss dinner. Most important meal of the day."

She swings away before you can thank her (or correct her on how the phrase is actually about breakfast), leaving you alone with your breathing irregular and a very inconvenient crush on a masked vigilante.

The second time is five days later, when a chunk of building facade decides to almost make friends with your head during the villain of the week’s rampage downtown. Spider-Girl appears out of nowhere, scooping you up in arms that are surprisingly stronger than anticipated (not that you’ve been thinking about her arms, haha, no way) and swinging you to protection on a nearby rooftop.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," she pants, setting you down gently. "People are gonna talk."

"Are you following me?" you gape at her, brushing dust from your jacket.

"What? No! That's—that's crazy talk. I'm a hero. Heroes don’t follow. They heroically arrive. At coincidental moments."

You purse your lips, evidently skeptical, "Right. Coincidental."

"Very coincidental. Cosmically coincidental, even. The universe is just really invested in us meeting, apparently."

While she goes off on a tangent about something too philosophical for your understanding, you’re more focused on scrutinising her mannerisms. There's something eerily familiar about the way she gestures, all animated hands and panicky grace, but you can't seem to place it. You table your suspicions for another time. That is, if there is another time.

And, oh boy, there is. 

You're walking home from a last-minute convenience store visit when a car runs a red light, heading straight for you. It’s downright ridiculous. At this point, you’re convinced that you’re undeniably cursed. Before you can ponder over the pros and cons of becoming roadkill versus finally escaping the group project from hell, a blur of red and blue tackles you to the pavement, and suddenly you're staring up at the sky wondering if you've died.

For a moment, you're pressed chest to chest with Spider-Girl, her masked face inches from yours. You can feel her heaving, quick and shallow.

"Okay," you whisper. "Now I’m certain you're following me."

"I—" she scrambles backward, nearly tripping over her own feet. "It's not what it looks like!"

You shake your head, trying to gain sense of your surroundings, "It looks like you're stalking me."

"I prefer 'keeping tabs on.' For very legitimate reasons."

You let out a disbelieving laugh, studying her, "What's your name?"

"Girl, do you have a concussion?” 

"Your real name, smartass."

She freezes, her frantic spiraling reaching an abrupt halt, "Come on, gorgeous It’s not so simple. That's classified information."

"Of course," you stand with a defeated sigh, running a hand through your hair and trying not to fixate on how she chose to refer to you (gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous). "Well, thanks for the save. Maybe next time you could text me when there's danger instead of lurking like a weirdo?"

You're halfway down the block when you hear her call out: "I don't have your number!" You turn back, grinning, "I guess you'll have to ask for it like a normal person!"

The girl in your Advanced Calculus class is strange.

Not bad strange—sort of a cute strange, truly. She showed up six weeks into the semester, all quiet and nervous twitching, taking the only empty seat right next to you. She has freckles scattered across her nose and the greenest eyes you've ever seen, and she fidgets constantly, like she's got too much energy for her own skin.

"Ellie," she'd introduced herself on her first day, awkwardly extending a hand that was covered in small scars and calluses. "Williams."

"Nice to meet you," you'd replied, and something about her crooked smile made your chest tight.

She's brilliant in class—when she shows up, of course. Professor Martinez assigns a problem set on differential equations and Ellie solves them with an elegance that makes everyone lean forward to so much as catch a glimpse of her work. But she has her quirks like not making eye contact while explaining her solutions, and doodling in the margins of her notebooks—intricate patterns that look too similar to webs, you suppose. 

Also, she stares at you. A lot.

"Earth to Ellie," you mutter during a particularly boring lecture on integration techniques. She's been gazing at you for the past five minutes, completely obvious about it.

She startles, knocking over her water bottle. "Shit, sorry. I wasn't—"

You stifle a laugh, "Staring at me?" Her face goes pink, about ready to burst if she could, "I was thinking about derivatives. Pretty intensely."

"Uh-huh, here," you hand her some napkins from your bag, helping salvage her soaked notes. "What's your take on the fundamental theorem of calculus, then?"

"It's... fundamental," she says, then grimaces when she seems to realise how that sounds. "I mean, it's inherently elegant. The way it connects differentiation and integration like two sides of the same coin."

You're impressed despite yourself, "Not many would choose to explain it that way, but it’s a fitting analogy."

"Thanks." She plays around with her pen and you wonder how someone’s fingers could be so long and slender and—

Oh my fucking god, please stop.

You snap out of your thoughts to come face-to-face with Ellie rambling, too engrossed in what she’s saying to notice how your neck is embarrassingly flushed. "I'm good with connections. How things relate to each other."

As if summoned by her words, her phone vibrates with what sounds like a notification. She glances at it offhandedly and her whole body goes tense.

"I-I have to—bathroom—emergency—" she's already gathering her things, moving with surprising dexterity despite her apparent alarm. At first, you can only blink at the sudden shift, thinking it's some kind of elaborate excuse or a joke you’re not in on. But she's already weaving through chairs, clutching her bag like a lifeline.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah! Fine! Totally fine! Just, erm, digestive issues!"

By the time you lurch to your feet, she's vanished around the corner, leaving behind only the ghost of her perfume and a rapidly cooling seat. Twenty minutes later, news alerts start buzzing about Spider-Girl stopping a large-scale robbery across town.

You start paying attention after that. Really paying attention.

From your elaborate observations, you’ve concluded the following: Ellie disappears from class every time there's a Spider-Girl sighting. She shows up the next day with new bruises she claims are from "aggressive skateboarding" or "really competitive rock climbing." Who does she think she’s trying to fool? Moreover, she knows too much about physics and momentum for someone who supposedly just likes math.

"Want to study together?" you nonchalantly ask one Thursday under the guise of Professor Kim sending out a particularly brutal assignment. In actuality, you were on the prowl for some hardcore evidence to back your hypothesis. "The library has those group study rooms."

Ellie's eyes light up, caught off guard by the offer, "Yeah, yes! Absolutely. I mean, if you want. I'm probably not that helpful, but—"

A pointed stare from you shuts Ellie up, "You're literally the smartest person in our class."

A sheepish smile is all you get in response. The study session is a disaster and the best three hours of your week simultaneously.

Ellie is smart, walking you through complex equations with a patience that makes you genuinely grateful to have her by your side, but she's also the most distractible person you've ever met. Her phone buzzes constantly—emergency alerts, news notifications, text messages that make her face go pale.

"Popular girl," you can’t stop yourself from teasing after the seventh interruption.

"Not really. Uh, I volunteer with this community safety thing. Neighborhood watch type deal."

"Neighborhood watch?"

"Mhm, very active neighborhood watch."

She's helping you with a particularly tricky problem, leaning close enough that you can smell her shampoo, when her phone starts borderline shrieking with alerts.

"Shit," she mutters, grabbing it, looking beyond apologetic. "I have to—"

"Go," you say, even though you're disappointed. "Your neighborhood watch thing?"

"Yeah. Last-minute emergency... watching."

She's halfway to the door when she turns back. "Can we do this again? The studying, I mean. Not the emergency part."

You try to bite back a more than pleased smile. You’re not successful. "I'd like that."

After she leaves, you sit in the empty study room for a while, thinking about the way she explained vector calculus like it was poetry, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about complex theorems, the way she looked at you like you were the most interesting equation she'd ever encountered.

Until reality punches all of the air out of your lungs: "Spider-Girl Saves Civilians Trapped in Terrible Industrial Fire."

The realisation hits you during the next class.

Professor Kim is explaining the mechanism behind projectile motion, and Ellie is taking notes with the intensity of someone who needs to understand exactly how objects move through three-dimensional space. Which is apt, you guess. 

"The trajectory of any projectile can be calculated using these equations," Professor Kim drawls, writing on the board. "Accounting for initial velocity, angle of projection, and gravitational acceleration..."

Ellie's pen moves across her notebook, but she's not just copying the equations, you notice. She's modifying them, adding variables, and sketching what looks like trajectory paths between buildings.

Huh, that’s interesting.

"Miss Williams," Professor Kim’s voice booms throughout the hall, "could you share your perspective regarding the topic at hand?"

Ellie looks up, startled. "Oh. I-I was just thinking about how you'd need to account for air resistance in real-world applications. And wind patterns. And if you were, I don’t know, swinging between buildings, you'd need to calculate the optimal release point to maintain momentum while accounting for the pendulum effect of the swing itself."

It’s dead silent. You raise an eyebrow. The class stares at her.

Professor Kim clears her throat, "That's a good question. Yet very specific, Miss Williams."

"I just think about practicality," Ellie mutters weakly.

After class, you corner her in the hallway, determination oozing from the way you stride over to her. "Swinging between buildings?" you ask.

Ellie can barely hold it together, itching with the need to be anywhere but in front of you. "Hypothetically."

"Hypothetically," you echo, studying her face. "You know, I've been thinking about patterns lately, since our conversation. Like how Spider-Girl always seems to show up right after you disappear from class."

Ellie goes very still. "That's... cool."

"Is it? Because I've been doing some math of my own. The timing, the locations, the way you know exactly how web-swinging would work from a physics perspective."

"Funny story, I’m… ah… writing a research paper on Spider-Girl’s abilities—"

"You have the same voice as a certain superhero who's saved my life three times."

Her face goes pale. She opens and closes her mouth, unable to devise an escape plan. And she has tons of experience in those. "I can explain."

You lean closer, lowering your voice, "Can you? Because I'm starting to think my study partner is also the girl who's been stalking me from rooftops."

"I haven't been stalking you!" she protests, then catches herself. "I mean, I don't know what you're talking about."

You tilt your head, close enough to see the panic in her green eyes. "Prove it."

"How?"

"Kiss me."

"What?"

"If you're not Spider-Girl, then kissing me shouldn't be a problem. But if you are..." you let the sentence hang, your own pulse skyrocketing.

Ellie stares at you, bewilderment painting her features. "That's not—that doesn't prove anything."

"Doesn't it? Because I'm pretty sure Spider-Girl has been wanting to kiss me for weeks. The question is whether Ellie Williams wants to kiss me too."

The words tumble out before you can second-guess them—bold, reckless, and so unlike you. But for once, you don’t care. The hallway is empty, most students having fled to their next classes. Ellie looks around desperately, like she still believes that she can scheme her way out of this.

"I—" she starts, then ultimately stops. Her shoulders slump. "Fuck."

"Is that a confession?"

"It's an acknowledgment that I'm terrible at this secret identity thing."

You grin, pleased with yourself, "So you are Spider-Girl."

"Yeah." She runs a hand through her hair. "And I've been going crazy trying to keep away from you while also making sure you're safe, and I think I'm falling for you but I can't tell if it's because I'm Spider-Girl or because I'm Ellie, and—"

You kiss her.

It’s soft, at first, almost hesitant, but it lands with the quiet certainty of something long overdue. Her words die against your lips, a half-formed thought swallowed by the warmth of your mouth on hers. She lets out a soft, taken aback sound, something between a gasp and a sigh, and then she’s kissing you back like it’s instinct, like she’s been waiting for this as long as you have.

Her hands rise to cradle your face, fingers trembling just slightly as they settle against your cheeks. She leans into you, melts, and the world narrows down to the press of her body against yours and the wild, thunderous beat of your heart.

When you finally pull back—breathless and stunned—she doesn’t say anything. Just stares at you with wide, shining eyes like she’s seeing something brand new.

Like she’s never wanted anything more.

"Both," you whisper. "You asked if you're falling for me as Spider-Girl or as Ellie. For me, it's both. I'm falling for both of you."

Her smile, the brightest you’ve ever seen, could power the entire campus. "Really?"

"Really. Though I have to say, your secret identity skills need work."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm getting that." She ducks her head, but not before you catch the rising blush, equal parts pride and bashfulness. You’re not sure if it’s the jab, the kiss, or just you that’s got her blushing like that, but whatever it is, you want to see it again. 

"We should probably talk about this somewhere more private," you say, glancing around the empty hallway.

"My apartment?" Ellie suggests, then immediately looks panicked. "If you want. For talking. Just talking. Very innocent talking."

You laugh, carefree, watching the panic bloom across her face like she’s just proposed something scandalous instead of, quite frankly, simply suggesting. It’s cute—dangerously cute—and a spark of amusement curls in your chest. "Ellie."

"Yeah?"

"It’s alright. I'm not going anywhere."

Her apartment is small and cluttered, textbooks scattered across every surface, equations scrawled on sticky notes stuck to the walls. Such a nerd, you think to yourself with barely controlled lust. There's a familiar suit hanging in the closet, and you stare in awe.

"So," you begin, settling on her couch. "How long?"

"About a year. There was this lab accident—" she sits beside you, close enough that your knees touch. "Radioactive spider. Very original, I know."

"And you've been doing the superhero thing since then?"

"Someone has to. The city's not exactly overflowing with good-natured people."

You drink in her face, taking in the small scar on her cheekbone, the way her eyes are alight with something unfamiliar. "Are you okay with this? Me knowing?"

"Terrified," her eyes widen a little, like she hadn’t expected you to ask. Like the idea that someone would care enough to check in hadn’t fully occurred to her. The tension in her shoulders eases, just barely, and when she speaks, her voice is softer. "But also... relieved? I've been wanting to tell you for weeks."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because people I care about get hurt. It's like a rule or something," her nails scratch at her skin anxiously. "And I care about you. A lot."

It slams into you—her honesty, raw and unguarded—and you have to swallow the rush of feeling that follows. You’ve waited so long for this, for her. Now, she’s here, and you don’t trust yourself to breathe too loudly in case the moment shatters. "How much?"

She looks at you then and the intensity in her gaze makes you forget how to function. "Enough that I've been taking patrol routes past your apartment building to make sure you get home safe. Enough that I nearly blew my cover multiple times because I couldn't stand the thought of you getting hurt. Enough that I've been falling asleep thinking about you and waking up wishing I could tell you everything."

Your lips quiver, "Ellie..."

"I know it's crazy. I know I've been lying to you, and that dating me comes with risks you never signed up for. I know you think I'm some kind of stalker. Fuck, I am—"

You kiss her again, slower this time, like you're trying to commit the way she tastes, the way she feels under your hands to memory. Her fingers tighten at your waist, tentative at first, then surer, pulling you closer until there’s barely any space left between you. You can clearly tell that she’s been waiting for some semblance of permission to want this as much as she does. She tilts her head, deepening the kiss with a quiet groan that makes your knees go a little weak.

It’s not a confession. It’s a surrender. A promise that neither of you quite knows how to verbalise so soon.

"I don't think you're a stalker," you mumble against her lips. "I think you're extremely awesome. And hot. And selfless."

Ellie chuckles, "And?"

"And I think I'm completely gone for you."

She pulls back to meet your eyes. "Both versions of me?"

"All versions of you. The hero, the student, the girl who makes terrible spider puns and gets flustered when I catch her staring."

"I do not get flustered."

"You look like a tomato right now."

"That's unrelated."

You throw your head back, and she grins, that same, crooked smile that's been driving you crazy for weeks. "I love your laugh," she appreciates softly.

"I love your brain. The way you see patterns in everything, the way you explained all of those formulae like they were beautiful instead of impossible."

"They are beautiful. Math is, like, the language the world uses to describe itself."

"See? That. That's what I'm talking about."

She shifts closer, her forehead resting against yours. "What happens now?"

"Now you stop trying to protect me from a distance and let me be part of your life. The real part."

"It's dangerous."

"So is crossing the street. So is falling in love with someone," you trace the line of her jaw with your fingertip. "I'm not asking you to stop being Spider-Girl. I'm asking you to trust me enough to let me choose to be with you anyway."

She's quiet for a moment, and you can see her calculating probabilities, a deep furrow set in her brows. Finally, she utters, "I've never had anyone who knew. About me, I mean. All of me."

You nod in understanding, "How does it feel?"

"Scary. Amazing. Like I can finally relax."

"Good,” you smile, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Because I plan on knowing you for a very long time."

"Show me," you say later, when you're curled up together on her couch, her arms around you and her chin resting on your shoulder.

"Show you what?"

"The Spider-Girl stuff. I want to see how it works."

She tenses slightly. "Are you sure? It's kind of intense."

"Ellie. I've been dreaming about this for weeks."

She's deeply amused for a moment, then she gently untangles herself from you and stands. "Okay. But if it freaks you out—"

"It won't."

She moves to the window, and you watch as she seems to almost, in a way, transform. Her posture changes, becomes more fluid, more confident. She presses her palm against the glass, and you see her fingers stick to the surface without any effort.

"Holy shit," you gawk.

"That's not even the cool part." She grins, extending her wrist. There's a soft thwip sound, and you jump back as a strand of webbing shoots out, sticking to the opposite wall. "Web-shooters. My own design."

"Can I...?"

"Touch them? Sure," she comes back to the couch, holding out her wrist. The device is sleek and mechanical, clearly homemade but extraordinarily sophisticated.

You run your fingers over the metal, marveling at the craftsmanship, "You built this?"

"Built, tested, redesigned about fifty times. Turns out web-slinging is more complicated than it looks."

"This is incredible. You're incredible."

She rubs the back of her neck, "It's just engineering."

"It's genius-level engineering that you did in your spare time while maintaining an impeccable GPA."

"My GPA is not impeccable—"

"Ellie," you look at her seriously. "You're amazing. Not just as Spider-Girl, but as you. The fact that you use your intelligence to help people, that you built all this to make the world safer... it's the most attractive thing I've ever seen."

She stares at you for a moment, then she's pressing her lips to yours, urgent and hungry. You respond immediately, your hands fisting in her flannel shirt as she guides you back against the couch cushions.

"I've wanted to do this for so long," she barely contains her whimper. "Every time I saved you, every time you smiled at me in class, every time you caught me staring..."

"I was hoping you'd stare," you admit, biting your lower lip. "I've been trying to get your attention for weeks."

"You always had my attention," her fingers trace the skin just above your waistband, and you shiver. "From the first day you sat next to me in class, I couldn't think about anything else."

"Then why didn't you say anything?"

"Because girls like you don't usually go for awkward nerds."

You giggle, bringing her face back to yours for another kiss. "This girl does."

"Yeah?"

"Hell, yeah," you tug at her shirt, suddenly desperate to feel more of her.

She helps you pull her flannel off, revealing a simple black tank top underneath. There are more scars here, small ones scattered across her arms and shoulders—evidence of her other life.

"Do they hurt?" you ask, tracing one with your fingertip.

"Not anymore. I heal fast now."

You lean up to kiss the scar on her collarbone. "I don't like the idea of you being hurt."

"I'm careful."

"You throw yourself off buildings for a living."

"I'm strategically careful."

You're about to respond when she kisses your neck, and whatever you were going to say dissolves into a soft moan. She's good at this, all careful attention and gentle pressure, like she's been thinking about exactly how to touch you.

"Ellie," you whisper, and she responds by trailing kisses down your neck.

"I love the way you say my name," she whispers against your skin. "Both when you're annoyed with me in class and when you're like this."

"Like what?"

"Desperate. Wanting me."

"I do want you," you thread your fingers through her hair, tugging gently until she looks at you. "I want all of you."

Something shifts in her expression, heat darkening her eyes. "All of me?"

Instead of answering, you flip your positions, pushing her back against the couch and settling yourself astride her lap. Her hands immediately find your waist, fingers digging in like she's afraid you'll disappear.

"Hi," you say softly.

"Hi yourself," her voice is rougher now, her breathing uneven. "This is... this is really happening?"

"Unless you want to stop."

"Fuck no," she sits up, bringing your faces level. "I just... I've imagined this so many times, but I never thought..."

"What?"

"I never thought you'd want me back."

You cup her face in your hands, thumb brushing over her cheek. "Ellie Williams, I've been hopelessly crushing on you since the first time you rambled about one of your silly interests. Finding out you're also the badass superhero who's been saving my life is just a sexy bonus."

She laughs, light and surprised. "Sexy?"

"Very sexy. The competence, the confidence, the way you move like you know exactly what your body can do," you roll your hips cheekily, and her grip on your waist tightens frenziedly. "It's incredibly hot."

"Oh."

"Tongue-tied?"

"Shut up," she says, but she's grinning as she pulls you down.

This time when your lips meet, it's different. Needy. Her hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing just under your ribs, and you arch into the touch with a sound that makes her eyelashes flutter.

"Is this okay?" she asks, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt.

"More than okay."

She helps you pull it off, and for a moment she just stares, dumbfounded. "You're so beautiful," she licks her lips, and the reverence in her voice astounds you.

"So are you,” you drag her into another makeout, rougher this time. She meets you halfway as you both start to move—slow, desperate grinding that leaves no room for doubt. Her thigh slots between yours, and the friction pulls a breathy curse from your lips.

Ellie’s hands are everywhere, the curve of your back, your shoulders, the line of your throat. She mouths at your chest through your bra, tongue dragging over the fabric until your head tips back and a shaky moan escapes you. She hums against you like she’s proud of your reaction and you’re already giving in, her name slipping like a prayer.

You pull back to meet her eyes. "I need you, Ellie."

Something in her expression shatters—restraint, maybe, or whatever thread of self-control she was still clinging to. Her jaw tightens like she’s trying to hold herself back and failing spectacularly. She exhales sharply through her nose, then grabs your hips with both hands, grinding up against you like she can’t stand even an inch of space.

“Fuck,” she mutters, like the word is forcibly ripped out of her. “Say that again.”

“O-oh,” you gasp at the delicious movement, clutching onto her helplessly. “N-need you, Els. Please.”

She stands without warning, lifting you with her, and you wrap your legs around her waist. The casual display of strength makes heat pool in your stomach.

"Show off," you tease.

"You like it."

"Wrong. I love it."

Her bedroom is small and messy like the rest of her apartment, but you don’t mind. She sets you down gently beside the bed, her hands immediately finding your waist again.

"Are you sure about this?" she asks, and there's a fond vulnerability in her voice.

"Ellie," you step closer, pecking the tip of her nose. "I'm sure about you.”

"I’m sure about you too," she smiles, and then she's walking you backward until your legs hit the mattress.

You fall together, a jumble of limbs and fast kisses and hands that can't stop touching. She's careful with you, gentle despite the strength you know she possesses, and something about that contrast—the deadly superhero being so tender with you—makes you feel cherished in a way you've never experienced.

"I want to make you feel good," she moans against your ear, and it sends shivers down your spine. "Will you let me make you feel good, baby?"

"E-Ellie," you can only manage to stammer, and she smirks deviously against your neck.

"Just like that."

Ellie doesn’t hesitate. Her hand slips beneath your waistband, knuckles brushing your skin as she works her way into your pants and under your panties. The first drag of her fingers through your slick makes both of you gasp—you at the contact, her at the way you’re already soaking for her.

“Jesus,” she remarks, almost in devotion, before slipping two fingers inside you, slow but unrelenting. Your hands dig into her shoulders, hips rolling up to meet each thrust, and she finds a rhythm that makes your head spin. Her palm presses snug against your clit, every movement measured and devastating.

"You're so responsive," she murmurs, pressing kisses down your throat. "So perfect."

"Not perfect," your reply is strained, hard to think with her touching you like this.

"Perfect for me."

When her lips follow the path her hands have traced, you're already trembling. She takes her time, building you up carefully, until you're writhing beneath her.

"Please," you beg for the second time that day, and she looks up at you with her insatiable, lidded gaze.

"Please what?"

"Please don't stop."

"Never," she swears, and then she's making good on it, using her mouth and hands to take you apart piece by piece.

She sinks to her knees like it's second nature, tugging your pants down completely with an urgency that makes you shy away. Her mouth is on you almost instantly, tongue parting you with aching precision, and the first slow lick is both torture and life-changing. Her hands grip your thighs firmly, anchoring you in place, as if daring you to pull away.

Not that you would, not when her mouth is right there, focused solely on your dripping cunt.

She moans against you like she’s the one being eaten out, the sound sending vibrations straight through your core, and you choke out a gasp. One hand trails from your thigh to slip two fingers inside you, easy from how wet you already are, and the combination of her mouth and the rhythmic movement of her fingers is devastating. She fucks you with purpose, stroking that perfect spot over and over as her lips wrap around your clit and suck.

Your hands find her hair, threading through it with desperation as you grind helplessly against her face, barely coherent. 

“Mmm, yeah, good girl. There you go. Use me however you want.”

Your eyes roll back at her words.

The tension coils tighter and tighter, until it snaps all at once—a blinding rush of pleasure that leaves your vision white at the edges as your body bucks against her, undone completely.

She doesn’t stop until you’re gasping, overstimulated and twitching. Until you're crying out her name and seeing stars. Afterward, she holds you close, pressing soft kisses to your temple while you catch your breath.

"Okay?" she asks quietly.

"More than okay," you move in her arms, meeting her eyes. "Your turn."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to," you reassure her softly. "I want to make you fall apart the way you just did to me."

Her face contorts into something akin to burning desire and you grin as you begin to return the favour, taking your time to explore every inch of her skin, to learn what makes her gasp and moan and whisper.

She's beautiful like this, her usual composure completely gone. When she finally climaxes, it's with your name on her tongue and her hands tangled in your hair.

You collapse together afterward, sweaty and satisfied and completely content. She pulls a blanket over both of you, and you snuggle into her side, your head on her chest.

"Hmm," you sigh eventually, tracing lazy patterns on her skin. "This is nice."

"Nice?" she laughs, the sound vibrating through her chest. "I pour my heart out, reveal my secret identity, and give you the best orgasm of your life, and you call it 'nice'?"

"Best orgasm of my life? Someone’s cocky."

"Was it not?"

You grin, leaning up to kiss her chin. "It was incredible. You're incredible."

She tightens her hold around you. "I plan on doing that a lot more, just so you know."

"I’m counting on it."

You lie there in comfortable silence for a while, enjoying the feeling of being close to her. Eventually, though, a bunch of doubts and concerns start to creep in like phantoms in the night.

"What happens now?" you ask timidly.

"Now we figure it out as we go," she presses her face into your hair, inhaling deeply. "Together."

"Together," you agree after a few beats of silence, and you can't think of anything that sounds more meant to be.

Outside the window, the city hums with its usual evening hustle and bustle. Somewhere out there, people are going to need Spider-Girl's help. But for now, she's exactly where she belongs—in bed with you, planning a future that includes both sides of who she is.

And you can't wait to see what comes next.

[cressidagrey]

Netflix Suffers

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Netflix suffers through quietly private Oscar for 2 and a half whole seasons of Drive to Survive. 

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

FEBRUARY 2022

🗂️ FILE: Netflix DTS SEASON 5 - Notes

SUBJECT: Oscar Piastri 

AUTHOR: Emily Kingsley (Producer)

New talent, F2&F3 champ, Alpine reserve – strong potential for screen time once on the grid. Quiet but smart. Needs camera time to build profile. Likely to debut in 2023.

Approach for low-key content – i.e., “day in the life” while in reserve role. Ideal filming locations: Enstone, coffee shop, sim work, etc. (NO home shoot yet, build trust first.)

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Production Team DTS

Subject: [CONFIDENTIAL] Driver Profiles – Oscar Piastri

We should absolutely start tracking Oscar Piastri content.

Even if he’s just the reserve driver this year, the hype around him is ridiculous. Also, Alpine won’t stop talking about “the future.” He’s calm on camera, photogenic, and his stats in F2 were insane. I don’t think he has the ‘media darling’ vibe yet, but maybe that’s the charm?

(Also, if he ever opens up, I think we’ll find something really good there.)

***

MARCH 2022

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

Subject: Oscar — Filming Availability?

Hi Mark,

Hope you’re well — I wanted to reach out regarding some potential filming time with Oscar in the next few weeks. We’re spotlighting the Alpine Academy as part of a talent pipeline feature for Drive to Survive, and Oscar’s obviously central to that.

We’d love to do something a little more personal, maybe in Australia if he’s home during the race weekend? Just informal stuff — walks along the coast, cooking dinner, time with the family.

Would he be open?

Best, Emily

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

To: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

Subject: Oscar — Filming Availability?

Hey Emily,

Appreciate the ask. Just a heads up: Oscar’s not big on the personal angle. He’ll do talking heads, training shots, maybe some light garage footage, but filming in Aus is a no.

He won’t budge on that.

Cheers, Mark

***

APRIL 2022

🗂️ FILE: Netflix DTS SEASON 5 - Notes

SUBJECT: Oscar Piastri 

AUTHOR: Emily Kingsley (Producer)

Piastri’s still cagey. Got him for like 10 seconds in the Alpine motorhome. Media-trained within an inch of his life. Never says more than necessary. No mention of family, background, anything. I swear he arrives and vanishes like a ghost.

***

MAY 2022

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

Subject: Filming Opportunity

Hey Mark,

Quick question—do you think Oscar would be open to a short sit-down segment before the summer break? Just a few minutes of reflection on the reserve role, how he’s prepping for the future. We wouldn’t push anything personal.

Best, Emily

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

To: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

 Subject: Re: Alpine Segment

Hi Emily, Oscar appreciates the ask but he’s going to pass. Head down for now.

He’s not the “talk it out on camera” type.

Cheers, Mark

***

AUGUST 2022

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Production Team DTS

Subject: What

Update: Alpine just announced Oscar Piastri as their 2023 driver.

Two hours later… Oscar publicly denied it.

We’re pivoting this entire storyline.

Please prep:

New B-roll

Emergency reaction interviews

A very patient attitude

God help us.

— Emily

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

Subject: URGENT: Oscar Piastri Content Opportunity

Hi Mark,

We’re obviously across the Alpine press release and Oscar’s... shall we say... firm rebuttal. I know it’s a delicate situation (understatement), but from a Drive to Survive perspective, this is GOLD.

Would Oscar be willing to do a sit-down? Nothing invasive, just some general footage — his perspective on the announcement, what he can and can’t say, maybe a voiceover? We could shoot it neutral — no team gear, simple setting, even his flat or somewhere casual?

Fans are already going wild. This is the biggest off-track story since Ricciardo to Renault. We don’t need the dirt — just a moment of “this is what it felt like from my side.”

Timing-wise, we’d want to film this week. Please let me know.

All best, Emily ***

📩 EMAIL

From: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

To: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

Subject: RE: URGENT: Oscar Piastri Content Opportunity

Hi Emily,

Thanks for reaching out.

Understand where you’re coming from — and yeah, it’s certainly been a lively 48 hours.

That said: Oscar’s not going to film anything right now. He’s focusing on keeping his head down and letting the CRB process play out. Legal is involved, as I’m sure you can imagine.

Also, he's not keen on filming at home. Ever.

Will keep you posted if anything changes, but I wouldn’t hold your breath.

Best, Mark

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Oscar Piastri <oscar.piastri@piastri.com>

CC: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

Subject: Quick Touch Base – Re: Statement Footage

Hi Oscar,

Just wanted to reach out personally and say we’re all very impressed by how gracefully you’re handling everything — not an easy situation.

If you’re open to it, we’d love to get a short piece to camera — even something as simple as your thoughts on what it’s been like these past few days. We can keep it high-level. No legal landmines, I promise.

Totally understand if now’s not the time. Just thought I’d ask directly.

Hope you’re well, Emily

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Oscar Piastri <oscar.piastri@piastri.com>

To: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

CC: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

Subject: RE: Quick Touch Base – Re: Statement Footage

Hi Emily,

Thanks for the kind words.

I’d prefer not to be filmed right now. Nothing personal — just trying to keep things quiet while everything gets sorted.

Appreciate you checking in though.

Best, Oscar

***

INTERNAL NETFLIX SLACK THREAD: #DTS-production 

 Emily:  Okay, so… Oscar very politely said no. Again. Mark also said no. I swear, they are a unified front of chill, lawyered-up silence. Which, okay, fine — but this is the most dramatic moment in F1 driver contract history and we’re filming damn car factories.

 Emily:   Also, quote of the week from Mark:“He’s not keen on filming at home. Ever.”  What does he do at home? Stare at walls? Garden in secret? Marinate in contractual ambiguity?

Jason: I don’t think he even has a home. He might just unplug at the back of the simulator when no one’s looking.

Laura:  Honestly, I’d believe that.

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Production Team DTS

Subject: Oscar Piastri Situation – Emergency Pivot #2

Oscar has signed with McLaren. Alpine is pissed. The internet is on fire.

We absolutely need to feature this in the next season. Please prepare:

Voiceover drafts for "F1’s biggest contract twist"

New graphics

Backup plans for literally everything

He’s still refusing to be filmed outside of team facilities. I asked for a reaction clip — he said “no comment”. 

This is going to be painful.

— E.

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Oscar Piastri <oscar.piastri@piastri.com>

CC: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

Subject: Okay, but hear me out

Hi Oscar, Totally respect your privacy—promise! But with everything happening, the contract, the Alpine/McLaren tug-of-war—this could be a defining story moment. Even just five minutes of your thoughts would mean so much.

We can do it on neutral ground. In a field. A parking lot. A hallway. You don’t even have to sit.

Please? Best, Emily

***

[NO REPLY]

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Production Team DTS

Subject: Filming Opportunity

I don’t even know which team to email anymore.

Alpine says he’s theirs.

Oscar says “no.”

I asked for an interview — even off-record. He said “not until everything is settled.” And he meant it.

At this point I’m tempted to just film Mark’s facial expressions and stitch a narrative together from that.

Oscar is cool as a cucumber and somehow still tells me nothing.

***

SEPTEMBER 2022

📱Text Message – Emily Kingsley -> Mark Webber

 Emily:  Hey — is Oscar open to a small sit-down to talk about his career path? Nothing contract specific.

Mark: He’ll do a brief neutral one, but no questions about Alpine or McLaren. And no “fun behind-the-scenes” stuff. Just racing.

***

DECEMBER 2022

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Production Team DTS

Subject:  Oscar Piastri – Summary of 2022 Access

All personal/home/family requests denied.

No on-location filming allowed outside official team appearances.

Only gave us 2 usable soundbites and one very neutral post-contract interview.

Refuses to discuss “loyalty” or “betrayal” — insisted “it’s just contracts.”

Tried to bribe cameraman with coffee to stop filming.

Did not laugh at any of my jokes.

Conclusion: Oscar Piastri is the single most media-resistant driver we’ve ever had.

Future suggestion: If he ever lets us film at home, there’s either been a major personality change… or he’s hiding something.

(Honestly starting to bet on the second one.)

— Emily

***

FEBRUARY 2023

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Sophie Ogg <sophie.ogg@mclaren.com>

Subject: Oscar Piastri Filming Access (Clarification)

Hi! Just checking again on the possibility of doing a “rookie spotlight” feature with Oscar. Something simple: breakfast, drive to the track, post-race reflection? We can be as unobtrusive as needed.

Let me know what he’s comfortable with!

Thanks, Emily

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Sophie Ogg <sophie.ogg@mclaren.com>

To: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

Subject: RE: Oscar Piastri Filming Access (Clarification)

Hi Emily,

Oscar is happy to participate in behind-the-scenes filming at the track, during media day, or at the McLaren Technology Centre (MTC). He’s not comfortable with at-home or family-based filming at this time.

We’ll loop you in when he’s scheduled for a sim session or debrief we can film.

Best, Sophie

***

🗂️ FILE: Netflix DTS SEASON 5 - Notes

SUBJECT: Oscar Piastri 

AUTHOR: Emily Kingsley (Producer)Production Log – Episode Notes: Oscar Piastri Rookie Year (Draft)

All track footage cleared.

MTC sim session + papaya feature: ✅

Emotional arcs = ??

No family interviews, no at-home footage, no old footage allowed.

Oscar is friendly, professional, and zero drama.

***

MARCH 2023

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Oscar Piastri <oscar.piastri@piastri.com>

CC: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

Subject: DTS Filming Requests – Oscar Piastri

Hi Oscar,

Thanks again for letting us tag along during media day in Bahrain. Really appreciated your patience with the cameras—and the boom mic guy stepping on your shoelace.

As discussed, we’d love to schedule a small sit-down interview for the Melbourne episode. Maybe something reflective, personal—“Coming Home” kind of vibe?

We’re thinking your old karting track, maybe your parents’ place if they’re comfortable?

Let me know what works!

Best, Emily

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Oscar Piastri <oscar.piastri@piastri.com>

To: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

CC: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

Subject: Re: Re: DTS Filming Requests – Oscar Piastri

Hi Emily,

Thanks for the email. Glad the crew got everything they needed.

Appreciate the idea—but I’d prefer not to film anything personal around Melbourne, if that’s okay. I’m happy to do more McLaren-based interviews, behind-the-scenes from the garage, prep footage, etc.

Thanks for understanding.

Best, Oscar

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

Subject: Request Re: Australia GP Segment

Hi Mark,

We’d really love to get Oscar into a segment for the Melbourne GP this year — something personal, local, that grounds him a bit. Maybe a visit to his childhood kart track? A walk around his hometown? Even just some shots with family, if they’re comfortable? It’d add great context.

Best, 

Emily

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

To: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

Subject: Re: Request Re:Australia GP Segment

Hi Emily,

Appreciate the thought. It’s a no for the hometown and the family.

He’s not being difficult. He just values his privacy more than most.

Cheers, Mark

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

Subject: Re: DTS Feature Ideas – Oscar Piastri

Hi Mark,

We would love to film some home content with Oscar while he's in Australia. Fans are eager for more of his personality and background, especially given how impressive his rookie season is shaping up to be.

Would he be open to filming in Melbourne with his family? Even just an afternoon BBQ or a sit-down with his parents? We can keep it light and casual.

Let me know! Best, Emily

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

To: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

Subject: Re: Re: DTS Feature Ideas – Oscar Piastri

Hey Emily,

Appreciate the enthusiasm, but that’s still going to be a no from Oscar. 

He’s been clear since the beginning: no filming with family, and definitely not at his house.

You can try asking again, but between you and me? Won’t change his mind.

Cheers, Mark

***

📱Text Message – Emily Kingsley -> Oscar Piastri

Emily: Hey Oscar! Just wanted to check if you’ve reconsidered filming a short segment in Australia? A lot of the younger guys have had great feedback from showing a bit of their life at home.

Oscar: Appreciate the offer, but that’s a no from me.

Emily: Not even a beach walk? A café? A dog? You don’t even have to speak.

Oscar: Still no.

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Production Team DTS

Subject:  Oscar Piastri – Personal Storyline Attempts

Notes:

Reached out 3 times for Australia-based filming. All rejected.

Mark Webber confirms this is standard.

Oscar is exceedingly polite but very firm on privacy.

Refuses family involvement. Refuses filming at home. Declined filming with childhood photos or karting footage unless pre-approved.

No girlfriend, parents, or siblings allowed on screen.

“Keeps things boring on purpose” — per one of McLaren’s PR guys.

***

APRIL 2023

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Production Team DTS

Subject: Rookie Coverage – Piastri

Team,

Oscar Piastri is officially the most confusing human being I’ve ever tried to film.

We are four races in. He’s:

Scored points.

Been praised by everyone from Lando Norris to freaking Fernando Alonso.

Referred to as “a robot with a perfect driving line” on Reddit.

And he still won’t film anything outside the paddock. Not even a coffee run. Not even a “walk-and-talk” through the McLaren motorhome.

He said — and I quote — “The racing should be the interesting part.”

I need an aspirin.

— Emily

***

MAY 2023

📱Text Message – Emily Kingsley -> Oscar Piastri

Emily: What about a day-in-the-life shoot? Just a few shots at your apartment, packing your helmet, chatting over coffee?

Oscar: I don’t drink coffee.

Emily: Tea?

Oscar: Still no.

Emily: A silent montage of you sitting on the couch?

Oscar: No thanks.

***

JUNE 2023

🗂️ FILE: Netflix DTS SEASON 5 - Notes

SUBJECT: Oscar Piastri 

AUTHOR: Emily Kingsley (Producer)

Asked Oscar directly in the paddock. Said (verbatim): “I’m just here to race. I’m not really into the storytelling stuff.”

Said it politely. Somehow made me feel bad for asking.

He’s 22 and already gives media-trained veteran energy.

No public drama. No family content. No home content. Not even a cat. What is he hiding?

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Oscar Piastri <oscar.piastri@piastri.com>

CC: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

Subject: Mid-Season Filming Plans – DTS

Hi Oscar,

Just circling back on upcoming storylines—we’d love to get a personal angle in the Silverstone episode. Maybe something about how the transition to McLaren has affected your day-to-day?

Let me know if there’s any setting or topic you would be comfortable with. Even something low-key, like lunch with friends or your sim setup at home.

Hope the triple-header isn’t wearing you down too much.

Best, Emily

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Oscar Piastri <oscar.piastri@piastri.com>

To: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

CC: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

Subject: Re: Mid-Season Filming Plans – DTS

Hi Emily,

Thanks again—really appreciate the thought and planning. I’m good with filming at McLaren, any sim stuff can be done there too. Just no home filming, please.

Best, Oscar

***

JULY 2023

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Zak Brown <zak.brown@mclaren.com>

Subject: Oscar Piastri - Filming Permission Request

Hi Zak,

We’re hoping to film some light content with Oscar off-track — nothing invasive, just lifestyle b-roll. Maybe a post-race decompress scene? It’s for his rookie arc.

He’s been polite, but firm: no house, no “at home,” no background info, no family questions. It’s like trying to film a hologram.

Would appreciate your support in encouraging him — he’s a huge part of this season.

Thanks, Emily

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Zak Brown <zak.brown@mclaren.com>

To:  Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

Subject: Re: Oscar Piastri - Filming Permission Request

Hey Emily,

Appreciate the hustle, but Oscar’s...let’s say “particular.” Doesn’t like cameras unless he’s in the car or on the grid.

We’ve all tried. Even Lando gave up.

Keep doing your best — and don’t take it personally. That kid keeps his world very locked down.

ZB

***

SEPTEMBER 2023

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Production Team DTS

Subject:  Rookie Year – Piastri Workaround

Still no home footage.

Still no family mentions.

Still no idea what this man does outside of racing and eating bananas.

BUT:

He said we can film a sit-down if it’s in a neutral hotel room, lasts no more than 12 minutes, and avoids questions about “loyalty,” “controversy,” or “anything that sounds like a TikTok thirst trap.”

He did blink when I asked about his support system, so... possible crack in the armor?

Still suspicious about why he’s so protective of home life. My bet: secret girlfriend. 

Emily

***

📱Text Message – Emily Kingsley -> Oscar Piastri

Emily: Okay, totally off the record — is there a reason you’re so locked down about your personal life?

Oscar: Probably.

Emily: That’s not an answer.

Oscar: Still true.

Emily: Come on, even Lando lets us film his kitchen. Just one little peek into home life?

Oscar: There’s nothing interesting there.

Emily: I don’t believe you.

***

OCTOBER 2023

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

Subject: Oscar Piastri - Filming Permission Request

Mark.

I will buy you a very nice bottle of wine if you just tell me why Oscar is so secretive.  Is he secretly a monk? Is there a bunker full of cats?

I’m not trying to pry. I just want to make good television.

Please.

Emily

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

To: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

Subject: Re: Just Tell Me Why

Ha.

Emily, he’s not hiding scandal, if that’s what you’re worried about. He just keeps things close. Always has. Family, relationships, the whole deal.

You won’t get him to change his mind unless he decides to. Trust me.

Cheers

Mark

***

DECEMBER 2023

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Production Team DTS

Subject: End-of-Season Wrap – Oscar Piastri

Final access level:

Filmed: 2 interviews, 4 race weekends, 0 personal segments.

Declined: 12 off-track requests.

Quotes of the year: “I don’t think that’s relevant,” “Not today,” and “No thanks.”

Still no footage of:

His apartment

His family

Literally anything that tells us he’s a human being and not a polite race-bot

Final verdict: He’s hiding something. I just have no idea what. Yet.

— Emily

***

JANUARY  2024

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Production Team DTS

Subject: Piastri Segment – “Still Nothing” Update

Team,

We’re heading into Season 6 planning, and in case anyone had delusions of cracking Oscar Piastri this year, here’s a little refresher of how the last few weeks went:

Team McLaren OK’d filming around the garage, factory, even a simulator session.

Oscar OK’d a sit-down interview, as long as the topics were racing, racing, and also racing.

Oscar absolutely, categorically, politely said “no thank you” to anything involving:

His home

His background

His personal life

His off-track activities

Any “day in the life” filming

Every single “soft” question we attempted (ex. “What’s your go-to comfort food?” led to: “Whatever Bees likes—sorry, I mean—whatever I feel like.”)

He nearly had a stroke when someone asked if he had a pet.

We’re still in the dark. I don’t know what’s going on. But I know it’s not nothing.

— Emily

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Oscar Piastri <oscar.piastri@piastri.com>

CC: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

Subject: DTS Season 6 – Early Shoot Availability Hi Oscar,

Hope you’re doing well and had a restful off-season! We’re lining up some early-season shoots with returning drivers and wanted to check if you’d be available for a quick segment in February.

Nothing invasive — just a casual piece on how you spent the break, training routines, and maybe a few reflections from home. Could be in Monaco, or if you’re back in Australia—

Best, Emily

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Oscar Piastri <oscar.piastri@piastri.com>

To: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

CC: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

Subject: RE: Filming Opportunity

Hi Emily,

Thanks for reaching out. Appreciate the offer, but I’ll pass on the home segment.

Happy to do something at the track during pre-season testing though.

Regards, Oscar

***

FEBRUARY 2024

INTERNAL NETFLIX SLACK THREAD: #DTS-production 

 Emily: Oscar deflected a “What do you like to do in your free time?” with “Tidy the garage.”

Jason: That’s so serial killer coded.

Emily: He said he’s “too boring for Netflix.” With a straight face. I know he’s hiding something.

Owen: Secret girlfriend?

Laura: Or has a dog named after a politician. Or something. No one is this allergic to personal questions unless they’re deeply interesting.

***

MARCH 2024

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Oscar Piastri <oscar.piastri@piastri.com>

CC: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

 Subject: Drive to Survive – Post-Race Australia Segment?

Hi Oscar, Congrats on surviving the Melbourne media gauntlet.

We were wondering if you'd be open to filming a short post-race reflection scene in Australia. Could be something casual—coffee with a friend, walk around a local kart track, even something at home if you're comfortable. We’d love to highlight the “local kid comes home” angle.

Let us know. We're flexible on format and timing!

Best, Emily

***

📱Text Message – Oscar Piastri → Mark Webber

Oscar: Did you see Emily’s email? Again with the home filming ask.

Mark: You know the drill. Smile, say thanks, say no.

Oscar: Smiled. Said thanks. Said no.

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Oscar Piastri <oscar.piastri@piastri.com>

To: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

CC: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

Subject: Re: Drive to Survive – Post-Race Australia Segment?

Hi Emily, Appreciate the note and the kind words.

I’d prefer to keep any filming this season within the McLaren environment or at-track settings. I’m not comfortable including personal locations or relationships in the show at this stage.

Thanks again for understanding.

Best, Oscar

***

INTERNAL NETFLIX SLACK THREAD: #DTS-production 

Emily: Oscar Piastri is the politest stone wall I’ve ever met.

Owen:  We got nothing personal from his Australia weekend?

Emily: He let us film one (1) shot of him walking into the paddock in the rain. Incredible cheekbones. Zero content.

Jason:  I tried asking him about his life outside the sport and he hit me with a “I’m focused on the team and the car this season.” Man’s media-trained like a royal.

Emily: I swear he has an underground bunker where his personality lives.

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

Subject: Just Checking In Again

Hi Mark, I know I sound like a broken record, but we’d really love to get a bit more personal access with Oscar this season—maybe even just a sit-down interview off-track, something with a bit more narrative depth.

We’re not trying to push. But it feels like there’s a story we’re missing.

Emily

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

To: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

Subject: Re: Just Checking In Again

Hey Emily, Appreciate the persistence. But as I said back in '22—if he hasn’t offered it, he won’t. Oscar keeps his circle tight and his cards closer. It’s not a slight. It’s just how he’s built.

Cheers, Mark

***

APRIL 2024

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

Subject: Quick sanity check

Hi Mark, Sorry to bother you—just wanted to check if there’s any movement on Oscar maybe letting us do a more personal feature. Doesn’t even have to be Australia. A glimpse into his life off-track, maybe a cooking scene or something with friends?

We keep getting polite refusals, and I just want to make sure we’re not missing a scheduling window or an angle he would be comfortable with.

Appreciate the help. Emily

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

To: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

Subject: Re: Quick sanity check

Hi Emily, You’re not missing anything. He’s just not going to do it.

Oscar’s private life is exactly that—private. Always has been. Always will be. Take it from me: if he hasn’t agreed by now, he’s not going to.

 Cheers, Mark

P.S. Don’t take it personally. 

***

INTERNAL NETFLIX SLACK THREAD: #DTS-production 

Laura: I JUST SAW THE CLIP.

Emily: guys

Emily: GUYS

Emily: OSCAR IS MARRIED

Josh: huh?

Josh:  LIKE ACTUALLY? was this announced?

Emily: YES. 10 MINUTES AGO. FAN STAGE. LIVE.

Emily: Lando had a SPIRITUAL CRISIS on stage

Josh: pls tell me we have the rights to that footage

Josh: pls

Naomi: I’m already scrubbing the audio

Naomi: it’s Oscar saying “10/10. would always marry her again.” while Lando combusts

Naomi: Oscar dropped a wife reveal like it was lap data

Emily:  I HAVE SPENT TWO YEARS TRYING TO FILM THIS MAN’S HOME LIFE

Emily:  HE SAID NO. EVERY TIME.

Emily: AND HE WAS MARRIED THE WHOLE TIME

Emily: MARRIED.

Emily:  WITH A WHOLE ASS WIFE.

Laura: He said "at home. On the bed." That man is accidentally romantic. Is he okay?? Are we okay??

Tom: Compiling top fan tweets now. Lando screaming "YOU HAVE A WIFE?!" is our new episode cold open. 

Owen: Also, is it true Nicole Piastri only found out after the wedding? Because that’s... incredible.

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Production Team DTS

Subject: URGENT: PIASTRI MARRIAGE REVEAL - DAMAGE CONTROL & CONTENT PITCH

Team,

Hi. I am going to scream into the sun.

Apparently, Oscar Piastri has been married since he was eighteen. He announced it casually at a live fan stage during a game of "Would You Rather."

I’m attaching the clip. Please note the moment where Lando nearly dies. That is not an exaggeration.

Key Details:

Oscar is married. Legally. Since age 18.

No one on our team knew. No one in the paddock seems to have known.

His wife is still unnamed. No photos. No social media. She’s basically an encrypted file.

Lando screamed “I’M YOUR FRIEND” and the internet is now in full nuclear meltdown.

I AM GOING TO LOSE MY MIND. This is the best story we never got. Five seasons of silence and he was SITTING ON A SECRET WIFE.

We had NO IDEA.

Immediate action items:

Get the footage — we need every angle of this meltdown. Lando spitting out his drink is already trending.

Contact McLaren PR — and offer our eternal sympathy. Also ask if Oscar is open to filming with his wife. (I'm laughing. But also crying. But mostly laughing.)

New season pitch update — working title: "The Mysterious Mrs. Piastri"

Figure out what else he’s hiding — goats? underground bunker? A baby??

I will personally be contacting Oscar. I have already made peace with the fact that he will say "no."

Emily

***

📩 EMAIL

From: James Landon (Post-Production)<james.landon@netflix.com>

To: Production Team DTS

Subject: Oscar Segment - Recut Suggestions

Can we go back through the Season 5 footage and check for:

Any signs of a ring

Vague mentions of "someone"

Literally ANY CLUE

We might have to go full "true crime" voiceover: "The clues were there all along..."

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Legal <legal@netflix.com>

To: Production Team DTS

Subject: Request for Contact - Mrs. Piastri

We will need:

Name

Signed release form

Any footage/photos if she's ever appeared accidentally

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

Subject: Can We Get Her On Camera?

Mark,

Any shot Oscar’s wife would be willing to do a sit-down? Even just audio? Silhouette? Shadow puppet reenactment?

Emily

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

To: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

Subject: Re: Can We Get Her On Camera?

Emily,

Felicity Piastri is as scary with power tools as she is with spreadsheets. 

Your odds are low.

But hey, miracles happen.

Mark

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Hannah Gray <hannah.gray@netflix.com>

To: Production Team DTS

Subject: Emergency Title Brainstorm - Oscar Episode

Options so far:

"The Mysterious Mrs. Piastri"

"The Quiet One"

"Marriage? I Hardly Knew Him!"

"Oscar and the Secret Life"

"How To Hide A Wife"

Open to pitches. (Also therapy.)

***

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

 To: Sophie Ogg <sophie.ogg@mclaren.com> , Zak Brown <zak.brown@mclaredn.com>, Andrea Stella <andrea.stella@mclaren.com>, 

Subject: Netflix Inquiry — Episode Rights: Oscar Piastri Reveal

 Hi Sophie, Zak, Andrea —

Hope you’re surviving the media spike after the fan stage.

We’d love to coordinate on messaging around Oscar’s marriage announcement. It seems to have caught the internet (and... Lando) by surprise, and obviously we'd like to be sensitive but thorough in our approach moving forward.

Can we please set up a time tomorrow to discuss:

Whether you’ve worked with Oscar’s wife in any media/brand capacities

Any upcoming content opportunities that include her

Name/pronunciation/bio for our internal briefings

Preferred narrative tone from McLaren’s side

Thanks in advance, Emily ***

📩 EMAIL

From: Sophie Ogg <sophie.ogg@mclaren.com>

 To: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com> , Zak Brown <zak.brown@mclaren.com>, Andrea Stella <andrea.stella@mclaren.com>, 

Subject: Netflix Inquiry — Episode Rights: Oscar Piastri Reveal

 Hi Emily,

Thanks for reaching out.

To be entirely transparent with you… We didn’t know either.

Zak may have been aware, but the wider team (including PR) was very much in the same position as Lando: confused, betrayed, and on the verge of cardiac arrest.

We don’t have a name, a bio, or a backstory. We don’t even have a wedding date. There is apparently a whole wife who has been around for years. Since Oscar was in high school. We are still... adjusting.

So at this stage, we unfortunately can’t provide any of the materials you're requesting. We also do not currently have any brand involvement or photo access.

As of now, we have no official statement prepared. PR is regrouping. I cried.

Please give us a moment to breathe.

We’ll reach out to Oscar once he’s finished his debrief (and Lando stops yelling), and update you as soon as we can.

Best, Sophie ***

📩 EMAIL

From: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

To: Oscar Piastri <oscar.piastri@piastri.com>

CC: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

Subject: Re: Just Following Up (About The Whole Secret Marriage Thing)

 Hi Oscar,

I hope you’re well and had time to breathe after what was… arguably the most internet-breaking moment of the entire season.

To be direct: First, congratulations. Second, WHAT THE HELL. Third, would you be open to a quick follow-up filming session or even a private sit-down interview to elaborate a little more on today’s revelation? Just… anything, really.

It’s safe to say you’ve just ignited the most unexpected story arc of Drive to Survive Season 7, and we’d love to give it the justice it deserves. We can keep it tasteful. We can blur the wedding photos. We can film in shadows like a crime doc if you want.

Let me know your thoughts — or have your mystery wife get in touch if she wants to.

Warm regards (and mild panic), Emily

📩 EMAIL

From: Oscar Piastri <oscar.piastri@piastri.com>

To: Emily Kingsley <emily.kingsley@netflix.com>

CC: Mark Webber <mark.webber@jam.com>

Subject: RE: Filming Opportunity

 Hi Emily,

Thanks for the congratulations. And sorry, I didn’t mean to cause… whatever that was.

To clarify:

Yes, I’ve been married since 2019.

No, we’re not filming anything at home.

No, we’re not filming my wife.

Happy to talk about racing, contracts, simulator work, car setup, or tire degradation. Private life is private, as always.

Best, Oscar

[ebodebo]

Ghost Garage

—mechanic!simon riley fucking you in his car garage because you couldn’t afford to pay for his services:(( MDNI ofc

“You’re lookin’ at six thousand for a new engine,” Simon says thoughtfully, scribbling a collection of messy additions in his notebook. “And if you’re lookin’ to do just one set of brake pads and rotors,” he says, scribbling some more, “lookin’ at six hundred even for those.”

Your eyes widen at his words because how the fuck were you ever going to be able to afford this? You swallow hard, pondering your following words. “Do you do discounts or something?” You’re sure you sound like an idiot, but you’re desperate.

The corner of his lip quirks at your question as his eyes stay glued to the notebook paper, still scribbling. “No. Still no discounts ere’,” he says, capping his pen, finally looking at you.

You fidget with your hands, eyes on his. “I—um…there’s no way I can…” you begin, turning your gaze away from him, feeling bashful, “…afford that.” Even though you had come to Simon’s garage before, this was just the first time you outwardly told him you couldn’t afford his services.

He leans back in his chair, the base squeaking a little. “Do ya’know how dangerous it is to drive with worn-out brake pads?” he states, placing the pen in his mouth, awaiting your response.

“Yes. I’m aware, but—” you begin, only for him to interrupt.

“But nothin’,” he calmly says, shifty in the chair, eyes shamelessly dragging down your body. You pretend not to notice even though it invokes an immeasurable amount of wetness to gather in your panties.

He can tell you’re nervous—your body language says it all. Clammy hands you wipe off on your jeans every so often, you’re avoiding direct eye contact with him, and the fact he can hear your heartbeat from where he sits.

He shouldn’t even have unholy thoughts of you come across his mind. But, shocker, he did. Every night from the time you first went to the shop all of those four months ago, he would fist himself in the shower thinking about you.

You, who always had that doe-eyed, glossed-over expression. You, who always had to bring Simon a sweet treat when you came, whether it be candy or some fresh-baked cookies you prepared. Oh, and you, who would hug him after he did your car inspections. Ya, he thought about that one a lot.

He considers your predicament. He has a solution, but it’s risky—perhaps too risky?

Eh, Fuck it. What’s he got to lose?

“Tell ya what,” he starts, standing up from his chair and grabbing the notebook paper with the numbers. “I’ll throw this ere’ piece of paper in the trash—hell, I’ll burn it,” he cocks a brow, “If you do somethin’ for me.” He hovers the small, intimidating piece of paper over a small trash can.

“Anything,” you say, desperation coating your voice. He hums, ducking his head to stare at the trashcan.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he says, followed by a gravelly laugh. You gulp, waiting for him to explain.

“I want somethin’ from ya,” he finally looks up at you, wiping his mask-less jaw with his hand. “Somethin’ that isn’t…money.”

You slightly confound your head. “Like I said…anything,” you amend.

He sticks his tongue in his cheek, drops the tainted paper into the trash, and then takes slow, deliberate steps towards you.

You inhale as he stands before you, unsure of his intentions. Exhaling sharply only when he brings his thumb up, dragging it delicately across your jaw, tilting it up so you are looking at him.

“I think we could figure out a way for you to get that work paid in full,” he rumbles, brushing his thumb against your bottom lip. “And a way I could feel that pretty pussy around me.”

Your eyes widen at his words, dumbfounded by his sheer bluntness and vulgarity. Though you admit, you feel a knot start to form in your lower stomach and more wetness pool between your thighs.

“Unless you don’t want to?” His tone his monotone, no signs of resentment as he drops his hand from your face.

“No—I do,” you affirm, even grabbing his hand and then dropping it from embarrassment. “I just didn’t think…you, uh, liked me like that,” you mutter, shifting on your feet and shifting your gaze to the concrete floor you both stand on.

“Oh, trust me. I like you like that,” he laughs lowly, stepping closer to you, bringing his hand back to the same spot to brush his finger against your pouty lip. “Can I?” He questions his gaze on your lips. You nod, standing on your tiptoes, gripping his neck, and bringing his lips to yours. You could taste remnants of cigarette smoke and the icy tang of Nicorette mint gum.

The kiss quickly became full of fervent urgency. Sloppy lips sucking your own, hands aimlessly gripping any piece of flesh it could, and teeth frantically clashing with your own.

“You do this with all your clientele?” you tease as Simon grips the bottom of your shirt and quickly pulls it off your head.

“Nah,” he coolly says, hands palming your breasts over your bra. “Just the ones I jerk off to.” You gasp at not only his hands on such a sensitive part of you but also his confession.

“You jerk off to me?” you tentatively ask, bringing your hands to grip the hem of his shirt, slipping it off his head. His lips instantly connect with your neck.

“What about it?” he murmurs against your skin, dragging his tongue from the side of your neck to your lips.

“I just…I finger myself thinking about you,” you admit in between his feverish kisses, which are apparently taking away your sense of shame. He pulls back only a little.

“You’re tellin’ me…” he reaches down to bring your hand up, grazing your fingers with his own. “You plunge these in your pussy, thinkin’ about me?” he stares at your fingers, unable to comprehend what he’s hearing. He darts his eyes to yours. “I get you off?”

“Of course you do,” you attest, dragging your hand so it rests on his cock that is tucked away in his greased stained jeans. He groans at your touch.

“Now let me see what I’ve been imagining.”

He wastes no time stripping you bare, throwing your bra and panties off to the side, before he unlatches his belt, roughly yanking his jeans and boxers down just below his thighs.

He grips the back of your thighs before hauling you over to a wood table that currently holds some pens and a toolbox. His lips connect with your collarbone, then to the fat of your breast, as you lazily stroke his cock.

“Little smaller than I imagined,” you cheekily say before Simon lightly nips at your nipple with his teeth, making you moan. He laughs against your skin, sending vibrations throughout your entire body.

“And yet it still makes you fuckin’ wet,” he cockily says as his hand slips to graze your glistening cunt. You don’t even talk; you have no breath left to speak. So, you let out a pathetic noise instead—somewhere between a moan and whine.

“Let me play with ya for a minute,” he murmurs into your ribs, pointer finger brushing against your labia. You squirm at his touch.

“Simon. I just…I need you in me,” you beg, pulling him by the hair so his ear is by your mouth, rocking your hips against his finger in you.

“I’m gonna come as soon as I’m in you, Sweetheart,” he says honestly, pointer plunging into your cunt, gently touching your clit.

“I don’t care…just…just,” you rasp, unable to speak with his hand plunging into you.

“Fine, fine,” he says. He gives his cock a tug before he pokes your entrance with the head, gripping your hips before he pushes inside you a little. He grits his teeth at the sensation, and you whine at the slight pain.

“Open up for me. Come on,” he hisses, throwing his head back as he sinks deeper into you. “There she goes,” he praises, gripping one of your legs and positioning it so it lies straight up against his body. You both groan at the deeper contact.

“Shit,” you curse as Simon starts up a good pace. His cock managed to graze you in all of the right spots—reaching places you didn’t even know was possible.

You knew you both wouldn’t last long at this pace—you’re honestly not so sure he would have lasted at any pace. He was painfully hard when you hadn’t even whipped your tits out.

Though you thought the jokes were on him, as soon as he brought his thumb to stimulate your clit, you were skewing curses, tightening around his cock.

“Fuck. That’s it…that’s—” he panted out as he felt you clamp around him, hearing you yell, ‘Coming,” before he followed with his orgasm.

Once both of your orgasms have subsided, he helps you off the table to grab your clothing. You gently tug on your lip before you speak.

“Also…about the payment?” You shyly question as he pulls his jeans up.

“Consider it handled,” he says with a smirk as he zips up his jeans.

a/n: bye once again i abused the italicized button

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

[achedtobepretty]

→ Crush!Fred

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

early 20s

⋆ Crush!Fred! He’s so cocky… until you flirt back. Fred flirts constantly. Always has. He calls you “sweetheart” and “trouble” and grins when you blush. But the first time you throw it back — leaning close and whispering, “You’re not nearly as smooth as you think, Weasley” — he stares. Eyes drop to your lips. Smirk falters. You walk away. And he’s a wreck for the rest of the day.

⋆ Crush!Fred! You’re already basically dating — just without the title. You go to the pub together. He pays. He brings you breakfast when you’re hungover. You sit on his lap at gatherings like it’s normal. You fall asleep on his shoulder. He plays with your fingers under the table. Everyone around you has stopped pretending. Ron says, “So when are you telling her?" Fred shrugs. But his ears turn red.

⋆ Crush!Fred! He gets dangerously handsy when he’s drunk. Arms around your waist. Whispering in your ear. Hands on your thighs. At first you thought it was just Fred being Fred. But then he leans in too close, breath hot on your jaw, and murmurs, “If I kissed you right now, you wouldn’t stop me.” You don’t. But someone interrupts. And when you lock eyes across the room after that? It’s game over.

⋆ Crush!Fred! There’s an almost moment at the joke shop. You’re helping him stock shelves. He’s behind you. You drop something. He bends down to pick it up. You turn. Face-to-face. Inches apart. He stares at your lips like he’s seconds from ruining everything. And just when you think he’s about to do it— George walks in. Fred jumps back like he’s been electrocuted. You both pretend it didn’t happen. But it definitely happened.

⋆ Crush!Fred! He flirts with other people to make you jealous — and it works. You glare. He notices. And suddenly he’s wrapping an arm around your shoulders, grinning, “What’s with the face, darling? Thought we weren’t the jealous type.” You snap back, “Thought you weren’t the desperate type.” That shuts him up. Ten minutes later, he pulls you into the hallway. You make out like you’ve been starving.

⋆ Crush!Fred! He has a thing for how flustered you get. Especially when he calls you things like “good girl” or “mine” as a joke. Except it doesn’t feel like a joke when he whispers it in your ear. Or when he presses you up against the wall after hours at the shop, hands gripping your hips, lips hovering near your neck. “Say the word,” he says. “Just once." You almost do.

⋆ Crush!Fred! He’s not subtle about staring. Ever. He watches your mouth when you talk. Your legs when you cross them. Your neck when you tilt your head. Sometimes he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it until George smacks his arm. “You’ve got it bad, mate.” Fred just sighs. “You don’t even know.”

⋆ Crush!Fred! The first time happens after a fight. A real one. Something stupid. You’re yelling. He’s yelling. Then he grabs your face and kisses you like he’s drowning. You yank him into your bedroom. It’s messy. Heated. Hands under clothes. His mouth between your thighs. Afterward, he holds you like he can’t believe you’re real. Says, “I was so scared you’d never want me back.” You whisper, “I’ve always wanted you.”

⋆ Crush!Fred! He’s dangerously good in bed. And he knows it. Once he finally has you, he takes his time. Lots of teasing. Dirty talking. Holding your hips down while he makes you beg. But he’s soft, too — kisses your stomach, whispers “So pretty like this” into your skin. When you whimper, he grins against your neck. “Told you we’d be good together.”

⋆ Crush!Fred! You finally call him your boyfriend without even realizing it. It slips out at a party. “Oh, my boyfriend made this drink.” Fred freezes. Then smirks. “Say that again.” You try to backpedal. He grabs your waist, kisses you in front of everyone, and murmurs, “If I wasn’t yours before, I bloody well am now.”

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

[partiallysame]

Ok i wanna talk about price's lil wife some more because im obsessed with it obviously

Ik a friend who often joke about getting a divorce for something stupid (her husband was ok with it, they just joke like that, like to make ppl concerned)

But like, imagine if reader does that. Like, oh- dirty laundry on the floor 🤨? Divorce. One dirty cup left in the sink? Divorce. Hogging the blanket? A bit too late te reply text? D I V O R C E.

Of course reader didn't actually mean it and probably giggled as it was said it but i feel like their reaction wont always be what reader expected

These are my fave types of jokes. Nothing like a good running bit

You weren’t even married yet the first time you said it. John brought you the wrong flavor coffee “so you want a divorce?” Was your reaction and suddenly he’s panicked. Looking around for the cameras that have to be recording his reaction. How fast and sincere he apologizes almost made you feel bad but after that he was in on the joke. He doesn’t want take out that night? Divorce. You don’t want to watch the game with him? Divorce. Forgot something on the shopping list? divorce for real. Now you have 3 other husbands. That means 3 times the causes for divorce. Price had been waiting for you to finally pull this joke on his men. He knew they’d panic just like he did the first time. Poor Kyle. He just had to be the one to mess up first. You had asked him to grab you a drink from the fridge when he went in the kitchen and he forgot. “Kyle I think we should get divorced.” Voice monotone and face serious. He is sprinting back to the fridge. He’s on his knees holding the drink out for you like that one knight holding a sword meme. He’s never been so sorry in his life. And now he’s in on the joke. Next is Sweet Innocent Johnny. Accidentally sat on the remote and changed the channel in the middle of your show (you had already seen this episode and it wasn’t even an exciting part). “Oop sorry love let me change it back” “Johnny I think we should get a divorce.” He’s crying. Literal tears pouring from his face. Snot dripping. How did that even happen so fast. Took an hour of you holding him and reassuring it was a joke for him to calm down. Mental note not to play this game with Johnny. Now lastly was Ever Stoic Simon. You were proud of your boys for keeping the joke a secret until you could get Simon too. He made steak and it was a little more rare than you had asked. “Simon I think we should get a divorce.” He turned to look at you and just stared for a moment before responding. “I understand. I’ll clean up and be out in an hour.” Immediately started packing up his things. WAIT for Christ sake Simon it was a joke. Now you’re the one crying like Johnny did. Simon then got a talking to from the rest of the group even tho he still wasn’t sure what he did wrong. “Can’t just leave the missus, Riley!” “It’s what the missus said to do!!”

[solastarr]

Both Ain’t Shit- Smoke vers.

Smoke Moore x Black Reader

Genre: Smut with plot

Word count: 6.2k+

Summary: You and Smoke have been having a little fling for a while now. But Smoke pushes you too far. And now it’s time to show him you can play the game just as well as him, and remind him who he’s dealing with.

Warnings: cheating if you squint, p in v, fem receiving oral, use of n word, banter, and cussing

Authors notes: i’m so sorry for making yall wait so long for this. This was very long so i think my next few pieces will be short. I have a lot more ideas to come tho! Enjoy!!

He is not my man.

I mean, yeah he be at my place more than his own. He got a designated space in my closet for his clothes, he sometimes gets packages sent to my address, and my neighbors think he’s my husband…

But Elijah Moore is not my man.

And I wasn’t his woman neither.

Or at least that's what we tell everyone…

Me and Smoke wasn’t nothing but a good time to each other at first. The risky nights, flirty texts, and playing house was fun and all at first. But then I fell too deep into our fake fantasy. 

Smoke has everything I want in a man–drive, ambition, quite confidence and he gave me sex that made me forget my own name. Everything I dreamed of, but he didn’t give me the security, honesty, and title of the relationship I wanted. 

I used to care, I used to ask, I used to cry about the women that approached us in public like I was some homewrecker, the days when he would leave and not talk to me, the late nights where he would up and go handle “business” without putting on proper clothes or packing his work bag. And I say this with my chest because I will never again fall for his games. 

He use to gaslight me so well I thought I was going crazy and made up the entire thing. And I tried to leave, put the mess of a relationship behind me but Smoke can make you feel like you the only one, even when you know for a fact you’re not. 

And I always knew, I always knew.

Between the late replies, dirty stares from women I don’t know in shops giving me dirty stares, and the way his phone magically stayed face down every time he came over.

I’d have to be stupid to not know. 

But now?

I play it cool. Smile in his face, moan in his ear, and act like I’m not being used. Because I know I can run game too. He wants to be a player? Bet you I can play dirty too if not dirtier.

Because even when he’s out chasing whatever new girl that caught his eye, he still ends up in my bed. He might go ghost for a day or two, but he always shows back up with that same sorry ass smirk like he ain’t been doing me wrong. But I know I mean something to him because I’m the one he slips up and calls when he’s drunk, the one he trusts with his silence, his stress, his secrets. I’m not stupid—I know I’m not the only one he touches, but I’m the only one that sees Elijah Moore. They might get Smoke, but I get both. And maybe that makes me just as dumb as them, but at least I’m the one he always runs back to. Even if he pretends like he’s just passing through.

 I don’t return the energy to the same extent—not 'cause I’m loyal, but 'cause none of them other dudes make me feel what Smoke do. They don’t got that pull on me. They don’t got that calm but dangerous aura that make your knees weak and pride nonexistent. And I hate that. I hate that I crave the same man that got me second-guessing my worth, but still got the power to fuck me like I’m the only woman in the world. They couldn’t handle me anyway—not like he can. So I let him think he winning… while I lose my damn mind behind closed doors.

But tonight he did something that was a new low.

I should have know something was off when he showed up to my door with flowers.  

Smoke ain’t ever gave me no fucking flowers. He do give orgasms and headaches. He do “You good?” texts at 2 in the morning. But flowers. Roses? Never .But there he was—standing in the doorway like a fever dream—holding roses like that alone could undo months of hurt. They were fresh too, like he’d actually cared enough to stop and pick the best ones for me. The red looked loud against the cool evening light, too loud for a man who whispered lies in a voice so calm it sounded like love.

That was guilt wrapped in a heart shaped box. With a weak ass smirk. 

“What’s this for?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe of my front door with my arms crossed. Staring at him with confusion and surprise in my voice.

He smirked. “ I can’t do something nice for you?” He says dressed in his typical grey suit with a blue tie, with a caring but deceitful look in his eyes.

He walked past me like he owned the place– even though some days he practically lived here. He dropped the roses in the middle of my dining room table like they meant something to me and then found his way back to me by sliding his arm around my waist. I let him. I always let him. Because I deserve some fun out of this too. 

The night started like our normal routine. Dinner. Jokes. Laying in his chest while telling him about my day. He even started talking to me about how he wants to take me on a getaway trip so he can show me the world. Which should have been red flag number two. But again I just wanted to get the most out of him being with me.

The third flag was what got me though. 

I was looking for one of my heels that I had recently broken on accident in hopes I could get a little money out of him for all the problems that come with him. But while I was looking I saw a little velvet box tucked in the bag he packed to spend the night. 

At first, my heart jumped–thinking that maybe something came over him and knocked him into his senses to commit to me. Thinking maybe it was a promise ring or something stupid like that.

But as I got closer I realized how familiar the box looked. When me and Smoke started messing around he gave me a gold anklet as a little keep me in mind gift. And I still wear it to this day because you cant see it under my clothes in public, it makes him pound me into the mattress when he sees while we fucking, and because I thought it was a genuine gift he was giving me because he cared.(you’re a dummy bitch)

Out of curiosity I kneeled down checking my surroundings to make sure he wasn’t about to come help me look for whatever I came in my room for. I opened the box to see the exact anklet that was on my leg. The box has a note attached to it that read, 

“To J.”

“J… Who the fuck is J?” I thought to myself. My blood immediately started to boil. Vision blurring. But I collected myself to steady my hands as I closed the box and zipped his bag right back up with a smirk on my face. This was my green light to start fucking with him.

I walked back into the living room. I didn’t ask no questions. Didn’t start a fight. Didn’t even make a petty remark. I gave him one more night, one last kiss, and last moan. Letting him think everything was sweet. Made it real good too, gave him my all.

Because tomorrow?

I’m getting my lick back.

Next day 

I woke up like I knew nothing.

Played the same role—sweet, soft, and familiar. I kissed him good morning, made him breakfast, even ironed the shirt he accidentally wrinkled from throwing it in his bag.

He was still in bed by the time I was done, shirtless in only his underwear, stretching like he ain’t just spent the whole night with his tongue in me. The sun crept in through the blinds, laying golden ribbons across his broad muscular back. He looked good—too damn good for someone who didn’t deserve me.

I walked past the bedroom doorway with my coffee in hand, making sure to get all his shit together so he could be on his way. I looked like a woman coming down from a long night—curls falling messily from the makeshift bun, nightgown straps slipping off my shoulders from running round the house. But the second I heard his voice, I paused.

“Damn, you just gon’ walk past me like that?” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep and fake concern.

“Didn’t know you were still here,” I replied over my shoulder, taking a slow sip from my mug. “Usually you’d be gone by now.”

He chuckled, that lazy one he does when he thinks he’s charming.

“That how we acting today?”

I kept moving, gathering his keys, wallet, phone charger—placing everything neatly by the door.

“I made breakfast. Even ironed your shirt. What else you want?”

“I thought maybe we could chill for a second.”

I glanced over at him, leaving my bed, half-dressed and stretching. Taking his sweet time like he ain’t planning to meet another girl in a few hours. “I’ve got stuff to do. You got places to be and people to see, don’t you?” I tilt my head, all sweet like honey over broken glass.

He raised an eyebrow, trying to read me.

“You good? I just wanted to make sure my girl was alright after last night.” He grinned—half pervert, half innocent—as if the memory of his mouth on me gave him the right to ask.

“I’m great,” I said with a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Got what I needed, didn’t I?”

He laughed, low and amused like he thought I was playing. But I wasn’t.

I brushed past him, slow enough to feel his heat, fast enough to pretend it didn’t burn. Before I left the room, I paused.

“Your shirt’s on the couch, still warm. Coffee on the counter, take it to go.”

I walked toward the hallway mirror, pretending to fix a loose curl, but really, I was watching him through the reflection. Watching him fake like he wasn’t confused.

He moved slow, dragging himself out into the hall, “Damn, you rushing me out?”

I turned, still calm. “Not rushing,” I shrugged. “Just... reminding you that you do have somewhere else to be. I mean, don’t you have brunch plans? I know I’m not the only per—I mean, thing you tend to in your day-to-day.” I offered a soft, fake smile

He smirked. “Why you always doin’ that?” he asked, pulling his shirt over his head, voice dipped in charm and guilt like he didn’t know where he stood.

I turned back to the mirror. “Doing what?”

He walked into the hallway like he owned it—coffee in one hand, confusion in the other. “Throwing lil’ jabs like I ain’t been here every night this week.”

I tilted my head, slow. “And yet somehow, still not doing right.”

That shut him up for a second.

“If you got something to say—”

I cut him off with a soft laugh, eyes still on my reflection. “I don’t. Nothing to say. Nothing new, anyway.”

I walked to the door, held it open like a polite hostess.

“I don’t want to stand between you and your business. They seem to be getting impatient.” I nodded toward his phone lighting up again with a text he didn’t bother hiding.

He looked at it, then back at me. “You really on one today, huh?”

I shrugged. “Not really. Just on schedule.”

He stepped onto the porch, shirt tugged, ego bruised, still confused

“You good though?” he asked again, this time softer. Smaller.

I leaned against the doorframe, cool and casual. 

“Always,” I said.

And then I slammed the door in his face.

Later that day

The silence in the apartment after he left was thick. Like the walls were holding their breath, waiting for me to fall apart.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I ran a hot shower, scrubbed him off my skin, and let the steam cleanse every trace of him from my pores. Then I pulled open my closet and picked the one dress I knew would make someone stare too long and think too hard.

It was satin—deep red, the kind of red that doesn’t beg for attention but demands it. It clung in all the right places and slid over my thighs like water. I slipped on gold hoops, sprayed the perfume he used to compliment before he stopped noticing, and glossed my lips.

I needed to get back at Elijah in a way that would make his blood boil. Elijah used to have a friend named Darius that always showed me a little too much attention when me and Elijah would run into him. Compliments that were too attentive, gifts too expensive, and hugs that were intended to be more than friendly. 

Elijah hated it. Hated him.

Then my phone lit up:

Darius: I’m outside.

I smiled to myself, grabbed my bag, and walked to the door with the same grin smoke gives when he’s fucked me over. 

We walked into Club Eden like we’d done it before. Darius had one hand on the small of my back, the other in his pocket, grinning like we go together. I kept my chin high, every step deliberate, the red satin of my dress catching the lights just right. Heads turned, we looked good, and I knew it. But I wasn’t here for the stares. I was searching for one face in the crowd. Just smiling, slow and sweet, as Darius guided me deeper inside the club I knew too well.

Smoke wasn’t hard to spot.

Even in the low-lit haze of Club Eden, he stood out like sin dressed in success. Black slacks tailored to perfection, button-up open just enough to show that gold chain he never took off, and a gold watch to match catching flashes of light as he leaned back, calm and calculating.

And he wasn’t alone.

She sat next to him, legs crossed, laughing because she didn’t know about our twinning anklets. It shimmered around her ankle like a middle finger straight to my face.

I didn’t react. Couldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Instead, I leaned back against Darius, legs draped over his lap like it was second nature. I smiled, slow and sweet, twirling my straw in my drink as if I wasn’t locked in a silent war with the man across the room.

Smoke’s eyes met mine—dark, unreadable, but I knew that look. His jaw was clenched. His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. The girl next to him leaned in to whisper something, and he didn’t flinch, didn’t move. Just kept his gaze on me like I had his whole night wrapped around my finger.

Good.

I tilted my head, let my curls fall over one shoulder, and whispered something in Darius’s ear. Didn’t matter what, I just needed to see Smoke look at me.

He did and I knew I had him right where I wanted him.

“Wanna dance?” I asked Darius, my voice soft but just loud enough. He grinned like he’d been waiting for the invite. “You know I do.”

The second I stood, I felt Elijah’s stare follow every step I took. I didn’t look back. Just led Darius to the dance floor like we owned it. The bass hit heavy, the colorful led lights spun soft, and I let my body move—slow, effortless, sensual. Darius tried to keep up, hands respectful but curious. I didn’t care. I wasn’t dancing with him for him. I was dancing for the man sitting in the corner pretending he didn’t care.

Elijah didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But when I twirled to catch his gaze again—he was gone.

Just like that.

I smirked, satisfied, even as my chest tightened.

“I’ll be right back,” I told Darius, brushing a kiss on his cheek before slipping toward the restroom.

The bathroom was cool and quiet. I touched up my lip gloss, adjusted my dress, and took a deep breath. The game was fun, but it was stressful. And I was starting to feel the heat of it rise to my skin.

I opened the door, and there he was.

Smoke.

Leaning against the wall like. His arms were crossed. His shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to show the tattoos on his forearms, jaw tight, eyes darker than I remembered.

I blinked. “You lost?”

He didn’t smile. “Was about to ask you the same thing.”

I crossed my arms, mirroring him. “Bathroom’s not your usual hangout, is it?”

“I saw you dancing,” he said, voice low and clipped. “Looked like you were real comfortable.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? Darius is sweet,” I said, letting the name linger to make sure it burns.

His jaw flexed. “He’s a clown.”

“He’s not you,” I shrugged. “That’s kind of the point.”I look at him with amusement because I know i’m getting under his skin.

“You really brought him here?” he asked, stepping closer. “To my spot?”

“Oh, my bad,” I said with mock concern. “Didn’t realize I needed permission to come to the club. Should I check in next time?”

His tongue dragged across his teeth like he was trying not to snap. “You knew I’d be here.”

I tilted my head. “Did I?”

He scoffed, stepping in just close enough that I could smell his cologne. “You doing all this for what? Huh? To make me jealous?”

I smiled. “Ain’t nobody checkin for you Smoke?”

His hand came up, not touching me—just hovering near my waist like muscle memory. As he towered looking down at me,  “You think I care about Darius? You think I give a fuck about that lame ass nigga?” 

I leaned in, just a breath from his lips. “Well… he was talking real good about having dessert back at my place. So maybe I will leave your “spot”.”I give him a menacing grin.

His whole body tensed.

“You lyin’,” he said, but his voice cracked just enough to expose the panic under the rage.

I laughed. “Am I?”

I stared up at him, not moving. “See, I think you care more than you wanna admit. But I think you should head back to your little date. I wouldn’t want her ankles to get sore waiting on you.”

He flinched. Just a flicker. But I saw it.

“Keep playin’ with me,” he warned, voice almost a whisper. “You forget, I know how to handle you.”

I laughed, low and bitter. “Yeah? If that’s what you want to call your lame ass stroke game.”

His mouth opened—but I started to walk away before he could respond. Because I was definitely lying about his stroke game unfortunately.

“Have fun tonight, Elijah,” I said, brushing past him, the scent of my perfume trailing between us like a dare.

And then I walked away—hips swaying, heels clicking, heart pounding—but head held high.

As the night continued I still felt the heat of Smoke and his date that hes not paying any attention to anymore on me. I continued to dance, flirt, and laugh with Darious to prove that I can play game too. I even let Darious’s hands explore my body a little. Rub my thighs, grip my ass a little while dancing, let his hands run up and down my curves. By the time the lights came on in the club and all the drunks were scrambling out to their rides. I let Darious drive me home. 

The car ride was actually nice. The moon was bright and full, soft R&B music was playing, and the conversation we had was amazing. Darious is a really sweet guy, but I know it would be wrong to drag him into me and Smoke’s mess. Plus I don’t want smoke to kill him…

We made it to my apartment and I knew I wouldn’t have much time until Smoke showed up at my door to interrogate me. Darious wanted to come up, but I knew if he did someone would end up in jail. So I said my goodbyes to Darious and promised him another night out soon as I walked back into my apartment. 

As soon as I walked through the door I took a quick shower, changed into a silk blue night gown with white lace trimming, fluffed my curls, removed my make up and prepped my skin for whatever is going to happen in the next few hours. Lastly I got myself a glass of wine and sat on my couch and read a book as I waited for him. I didn’t know what I was going to say, but I needed to be ready nonetheless.

Not even twenty minutes late I hear a loud banging at my door. Three quick, violent knocks. Like the wood itself owed him an answer. I didn’t rush.

I took my time taking a last sip of wine, stood slowly, let my silk nightgown cling to my hips like it was made to tease. I walked barefoot to the door, cool and collected, like I hadn’t been waiting on this exact moment since I walked out of that damn club.

I opened the door just enough so he could see me. And there he was leaning against the door frame using one of arms for leverage.

Pupils dilated with nothing but anger. Jaw tight. Other hand clenched at his sides trying to contain himself.

“Where that nigga at?”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play with me,” he snarled, stepping inside like this was his home. His head was on a swivel. “You let him fuck you?”

I shut the door. Walked right past his rage and sat on the edge of the couch, crossing my legs with purpose.

“Hello to you too Elijah, come one in?” I stated.

“Answer the question,” he snapped.

I smiled, slow and dangerous. “I don’t have to do shit.”

Smoke stepped closer, his whole body on fire with fury.

“You wasn’t gon’ fuck him.”He looked at me like he was challenging me to give him the wrong answer to send him over the edge. 

“Wanna bet?” I raise an eyebrow and give a deceitful smirk.

He snatched the glass from my hand, set it down with a rough thunk, and stepped between my knees. Boiling with anger waiting for me to say the wrong thing to make him explode.

“Say that shit again.”

I looked up at him, lips parted just slightly.

“I was gon’ let him taste every inch of me… then let him sleep right where you do.”

His hand wrapped around my throat in a flash—tight, hot, possessive.

“You gon’ let another man lay where I sleep?” he growled.

I smiled, the tension around my neck turning me on, breath hitching. “I was gon’ let him do more than that.”

He paused. That’s when I stood up. No fear. Just slow, deliberate grace as I walked past him and down the hall.

“You can keep lookin’ for him if you want,” I said over my shoulder, “but if you was really scared I let that man touch me, you’d be too late. He left already.”

I didn’t wait to see if he followed. I went straight to my bedroom, sat at the vanity, touched up my lip gloss with calm hands. Behind me, I heard heavy footsteps pause in the doorway.

His eyes were all over the room. Searching. Burning.

“You think this shit cute?” he asked, voice gravel-thick. His eyes looked me up and down almost in disgust and jealousy.

I met his gaze in the mirror. “No. I think it’s fair.”

He stepped inside, slower now. Confused. Angry. Hurt. “What the fuck mean by that?”

I turned on the stool and faced him, legs crossed again. My night gown starting to rise a bit up my thighs.

“It means I’ve been waiting on you to choose me, Elijah. Or at least grow a pair and tell me that this bullshit we got going on isn’t going nowhere. But you’d rather keep me close, fuck me, then go back to pretending I don’t exist.”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. His shoulders dropped like the weight of my words finally registered.

“I’ve given you space, time, silence. I’ve let you spin this thing however you wanted, and I stayed. Quiet. Loyal. Patient. But I’m done beggin’ a “grown-ass” man to act like one.”

Smoke’s jaw flexed. His hands were twitching at his sides like he didn’t know whether to grab me or punch a wall.

“So yeah,” I said softly. “I let him touch me. I let his hands roam a little. Not ‘cause I wanted him. But because I needed you to feel what it’s like to watch the person you believed was yours go play boyfriend to other bitches.”

Smoke’s jaw clenched hard enough to crack bone.

I watched him. Calm on the outside. Heart thudding like a war drum on the inside.

“You really was thinking of letting that nigga touch you?” His voice was low now. Dangerous. “He don’t even know what to do with you.”

I stood up slow, walked toward him like prey that didn’t fear the predator. “He may not know how to handle me,” I said, standing chest to chest. “But at least he acts like he wanted me.”

That landed. Hard. He blinked once—tight, sharp—like the words had cut straight through his ribcage. His hand gripped the back of my neck, and whispered against the shell of my ear.

“I ain’t act like I wanted you, huh? Was that before or after I fucked you outside that club becuase you was letting niggas grind on you and I had you cryin’ and creamin’ on my dick?”

My breath caught.

“Or when I had you bent over your own counter, sayin’ you was mine with a mouth full of my name? Because you like flirting with dudes in front of me. That's not ‘wantin’ you’ either?”

My knees pressed together tight.

“You sayin’ he acted like he wanted you…” he scoffed. “Cool. But did he make you cum in under five minutes on your bedroom floor? Did he eat you ‘til your voice broke because you was hitting up the dudes in your DM’s?”

“Shut up,” I breathed, voice shaking.

“Say it,” he taunted, eyes on fire now. “Tell me he could have touched you like I did. Tell me he could have made you forget your own fuckin’ name. When you go out half naked with your girls and come back with ten new numbers in your phone”

“I—” My chest rose and fell too fast. “He didn’t.”

Smoke’s gaze burned through me.

“I didn’t lose you,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Even when you out here pretending like I’m the only one fucking up. You ain’t been right by me either.”

My mouth parted, but I didn’t respond.

“You mine,” he said. “Still mine.”

He stepped forward as I kept moving back, until the backs of my knees hit the bed. Still, he hadn’t laid a single hand on me—but I could feel every word on my skin.

“Say it.”

“Say what?”, I give him a confused but intrigued look. 

“You know what the fuck I’m askin’, ma.”

My mouth opened, but he didn’t wait.

He dropped to his knees and pushed me back on to the bed.

“I should make you beg,” he growled. “After that bullshit you pulled tonight.”

“But I missed this pussy…” he muttered, shoving me back onto the bed, hands pushing my nightgown up slow.

He paused. Smirked. “No panties?”

I smiled, real smug. “Why wear ‘em when I knew you was gonna end up on your knees anyway?”

His eyes darkened. Jaw clenched.

Then his mouth was on my clit immediately. Hot, angry, wild.

He licked me like he was punishing me, tongue stiff and fast, nose buried deep like he needed every drop. He groaned when I whimpered. Flattened his tongue against my clit, then flicked it until my hips jerked.

“Say who it belongs to,” he growled against me.

I gasped. “Fuck—”

He sucked my clit hard enough to pull the words out of me.

“Say it.”

“Fuck you Elija–”

He slapped the inside of my thigh. “Try again.” starting like and suck faster. 

I gave in, my climax was near and continued to build, “It’s yours! It’s your pussy!”

His eyes locked on mine, lips shiny and glistening with me. “Damn right.” He licked me slower now, dragging it out, two fingers slipping inside me, curling just right.

My back arched off the bed.

“Louder,” he whispered. “Let the whole fuckin’ building know who got you cryin’ like this.”I whimpered his name, high and cracked, as he tongue-fucked me like he needed it to breathe.

“Had me stressing bout you letting some other dude in here?” he muttered between licks. “In this pussy?”

“Wanted you to feel it,” I moaned. “Wanted you to know—what it felt like.”

“Never again,” he growled. “You mine. You hear me?”

“Then act like it,” I snapped, as I begin grinding against his face. “Act like I’m yours.” I say as I grab the back of his head to push him further in to me. 

He laughed low, filthy. “Oh I’m ‘bout to show you, baby.”

Then he dove back in, no mercy, dragging me through a climax so hard I shook, hands fisting the sheets, moaning his name like a prayer and a curse all in one.

My thighs were still shaking when he stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he’d just devoured something messy and rare.

He looked down at me—lips glistening, chest rising and falling, jaw tight with hunger.

“You talk too much,” he muttered.

“I was making a point.” I snap back, out of breath.

He grabbed my waist, flipped me over onto my stomach like I weighed nothing.

“Yeah?” His voice dropped. “Make it now.”

I didn’t have time to speak—he yanked my hips back, arching my ass high in the air, pressing my face down into the mattress with one heavy hand on the back of my neck.

“Say that shit again,” he hissed into my ear, breath hot. “Say how he acted like he wanted you.”

“Elijah—”

“Mm-mm.” He pressed harder on my neck, not enough to hurt, but enough to let me know who was in control. “You wanted Daddy’s attention?”

He lined himself up, thick and heavy against my soaked entrance. His other hand gripped my ass, spreading me open.

“Well, you got it now.”

And then—he thrust inside me, deep and fast. No hesitation. No gentleness. Just raw, angry, need.

“Fuck!” I try to muffle my moan as I pushed my face into the mattress.

“Nah, don’t get shy now,” he growled, snapping his hips against me again, again. “You was runnin’ your mouth a minute ago. Where all that shit talk go?”

The slapping of skin echoed through the room, loud and wet. His hips slammed into mine, balls smacking against my clit with each brutal stroke. The bedframe creaked under the force, the mattress giving under the weight of his big, muscular body.

Smoke’s build was all lean muscle and hard edges—wide back, thick arms caging me in as he pounded into me from behind, I could feel the tension radiating off him.

“You wanted to make me jealous? You wanted me mad?” he breathed, chest pressing into my back. “Well, now you got me.”

He drove deeper, grunting, hips rolling in filthy rhythm. “This what you wanted, huh? Daddy stretchin’ you out like this? Say it.”

I whimpered, arching into him, my ass bouncing back against his thrusts.

“Say it.”

“It’s what I wanted,” I moaned into the pillow. “I wanted you—fuck—I needed you.”

He leaned in closer, biting the curve of my shoulder.

“You mine, baby. You don’t gotta play games for me to see you. You all I ever see.”

He fucked me harder then, no mercy. My pussy clenching around him, trying to keep him in with every stroke.

“Look at this pussy suckin’ me in,” he growled, voice thick with possessiveness. “You act up just to get it like this, don’t you?”

His palm came down on my ass, the sting making me cry out.

“You love it when I fuck you back into your place, huh?.”

I could barely respond, the way he was hitting made my thoughts scatter like dust. All I could do was moan and take it.

“You gon’ behave now?” he asked, yanking my hair so I lifted my face off the pillow. “Or you need another round?”

“Give it to me,” I panted. “I can take it.”

That did something to him. His next thrust knocked the wind outta me.

“You do all this talkin’, just to shut the fuck up when this dick in you. That’s your problem.”

The pace got even filthier—fast, relentless, dragging sounds out of both of us that had no place outside of a bedroom.

The air was thick with heat and sweat and desperation.

“Say you mine again,” he ordered, breath ragged. “Say it like you mean it.”

“I’m—fuck— i’m yours, Daddy.”

That sent him over. He slammed into me one last time, deep and hard, filling me up with a loud groan that vibrated against my spine.

I followed right after, walls pulsing around him, toes curling, throat raw from moaning his name.

We collapsed together, breathless and shaking, tangled in the mess we made.

He was still catching his breath, eyes fluttered shut, mouth open like he was trying to gather himself.

I sat there for a second, letting the weight of what just happened settle between us. Sweat slicked my skin, my curls wild and frizzy from all the grinding and grabbing and all that heat. My chest heaved. I watched his body twitch—sensitive, eyes closed, overwhelmed, but still so hard for me.

He didn’t even notice me move.

Until I straddled him again. Hovered over him, lined us up—

And slammed down on his dick.

“Shit—!” he yelped, eyes snapping open like I’d snatched his soul. “Wait—wait—baby—”

I bounce on him hard, grinning down at him like a beast that finally caught its prey.

“You good?” I asked sweetly, breathless.

He gasped barely able to make a sound. “Damn, girl—”

“Thought so.”

I started to move. Slow at first. Just enough to hit him right. His whole body tensed, trying to brace, but he couldn’t. He was too sensitive, and I was overriding his nerves.

“I’m tired of bullshit, Elijah. I want to settle down,” I reminded him, voice low, sultry, taunting. “You going to be better for me, baby?”

“I—I am,” he stammered, jaw tight. “I am, baby—I swear—”

I sped up.

That had him groaning, loud and full in his chest. His hands shot to my thighs, gripping, begging me to slow down—and I didn’t.

“You gon’ answer when I call?” I asked, breath hitching from how deep he was hitting. “No more games?”

“Yes! I got you, baby, just don’t—don’t stop—”

I moved faster.

“Say it again,” I demanded, hips rolling harder, rougher. “Louder.”

“I’m gon’ do right! I swear to God, I’m—fuck—”

He tried to hold my hips, tried to make it last, but he couldn’t keep up. He was shaking, whining, and I loved every second of it.

But so did I.

Every stroke had my moans cracking, turning breathy and sharp, like I was losing the same control I held over him. I started to tremble too, thighs quaking, chest heaving. He was hitting that spot, again and again—stretching me just right.

My hands landed on his chest to steady myself, nails digging in. “You better,” I gasped, voice splintering. “You better fucking do right by me.”

“I will—I swear—baby, please—”

I felt it creeping up on me—my legs tightening, the heat coiling in my belly. “Oh my God—Elijah—”

“Come for me,” he begged, hips bucking under me. “Let go, baby. I got you.”

That did it. I shattered around him with a loud, raw cry, my walls clenching hard, dragging his name out like a prayer. My body folded forward as I pulsed around him, riding every wave, every tremor, until my whole frame shook.

His voice broke under me, hands locking around my hips like he never wanted me to move again. “That’s it, baby… fuck, that’s it.”

Breathless, dazed, I slumped against his chest, heart pounding, sweat glistening on my skin.

“I’m sorry,” I moaned against his neck. “I know I ain’t been fair either.”

His hands slid up my back, holding me tighter.

“I ain’t mean to hurt you,” I whispered. “I just needed to feel wanted too.”

“You got me, ma,” he said hoarsely. “You been had me.”

“I don’t wanna fight no more,” I breathed. “But you gotta do better.”

“I will,” he promised, kissing the side of my face. “You got my word.”

We laid there tangled in silence, both of us wrecked and breathless

~ I hope you liked it! Also send me some asks if you have a request, question, or fic ideas!!

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