#it's just different brushes but the look and feel to it is different from how i draw now with different brushes i think

[rafescherie]

✮⋆˙ cockwarming your best friend, rafe.

warnings — 18+ MDNI. mixture of innocent!reader & bestfriend!reader x bsf!rafe. cockwarming. slight manipulation.

cherie’s note — going through personal stuff irl + a heatwave right now, got me soooo tired and exhausted all the time LOLL. sorry for the late posts! <3

you should've known better than to let rafe sit so close.

he always does this. eases himself into your space, little by little, until your legs are tangled and your sides are pressed together beneath the scratchy blanket — which is draped more on your side than his, if we're being honest. he sprawls across the couch like it belongs to him — like you belong to him — and you're so used to it, you don't even push him away anymore.

the movie plays, but you're hardly watching it. you can feel his shoulder brushing yours. his knee keeps tapping against your thigh every so often when he shifts that much closer. his warmth crawls up your skin, dizzying your mind with each nudge.

and then his voice, low, close to your ear.

"c'mere," he says. "sit on my lap."

you turn your head, brows knitting. "why?"

"s'comfier," he shrugs, not looking up from his phone screen. "you're hogging the blanket anyway."

you roll your eyes, but obey, crawling into his lap without thinking much of it — you'd sat in his lap a million times before. he always held you a little too tight against the skin of your hips, hands always a little too low on your waist but... that was just rafe. it never meant anything.

the couch dips under both of your weight, his thighs spreading wider to make room for you. he barely shifts his phone out of the way, one hand settling instantly at your hip like it belonged there.

"better," rafe mutters, half to himself.

it should have been normal. you'd sat like this a hundred different time before. but the longer you stayed, back pressed against the soft rise and fall of his broad chest, warm breath against the nape of your neck, the more aware you became of how his hands dragged lower. how the blanket hid the way his fingers dug into the soft of your hips.

"lemme in," rafe murmurs, his mouth grazing the shell of your ear. his voice is quiet, almost careless, like this was the most normal question he could have asked you — but the weight of his palm on your hip tells another story. "just a little bit."

your stomach twists. you know you should push him off, brush it off like the other, many dirty jokes he'd muttered before, roll your eyes and try your best to focus on the flatscreen in front of you. that's what you should do. but his hand strokes lazily over your side, coaxing, steady, like he has all the time in the world to wait for you to give in.

"rafe..."

"we're not even doin' anything," he cuts in smoothly, tone dripping with false innocence. "i just wanna feel you. that's all." he tilts his head, catching your eyes with that slow, smug smirk — the one that always seems to make your resolve crack. "c'mon. lift your hips for me, sweet girl."

you swallow hard, pulse hammering against your skin, but when his grip tightens and he repeats, softer this time — "up." — your body obeys before your mind catches up.

he moves quickly, acting before you could change your mind. he pushes his sweats down just enough, the sound of fabric dragging making the air around you feel heavy. then, he's free — thick, hot, heavy against your thigh. your breath stutters at the contact, and his hand immediately settles over your hip, steadying you.

"see?" he hums, like he's proving a point. "not a big deal."

but then he's nudging against your entrance, guiding you down slow — unbearably slow — until he's stretching you open, inch by thick inch. your body clenches instincteivly around him, thighs trembling, nails biting into his thighs. he groans low in his chest, head falling back against the couch for a beat before he exhales sharply through his nose.

"fuck," he mutters, jaw tight, eyes screwed shut like he's savoring every second. "that's it... sit right there."

your breath catches on a shaky gasp as he bottoms out, the fullness almost dizzying. he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him, chest pressed against your back, locking you there like you're just another part of him now, fused together in the intensity of the moment.

"rafe—"

"not anything," he interrupts instantly, voice calm, smooth. his lips brush against your temple, a soft mockery of comfort. "we're not fuckin', see? you're just keepin' me warm."

the words make your cheeks burn. he shifts just slightly, the smallest roll of his hips, and you choke on a whimper before you can stop.

"this is weird, rafe..." you mumbled, the guilt laced through your voice.

"feels good though, right?" he murmurs. "nothin' wrong with that."

the movie plays forgotten in the background. all you can feel is the thick weight of him inside of you, the dull throb of your body trying to adjust, the way his thumb rubs lazy circles into your side like you're not both sitting there full of tension. he sighs, all smug satisfaction, like this is exactly how he planned the night to end, starting from the minute you walked in.

"told you it was comfier." rafe whispers again, resting his head against your shoulder.

cherie's taglist <3 — @sexybr9nette, @fawnfate, @bonjourjiminie, @bunniecouture, @kaydennnn, @rafessbaby, @girldisrupted, @vunhun, @mattyskies, @rafestoothbrush, @harrrrystylesslut.

[haniette]

forbidden taste.² // ln4

pairing | lando norris x fem!reader

genre | angst, smut, fluff, fewtrell!reader, brother’s bestfriend au, friends to lovers, kinda forbidden love??, slowburn, hurt-comfort

word count | 15.4k (part two)

warnings | no use of y/n, age gap (4 years), smut (18+) minors dni. (soft dom!lando, sub!reader, soft sex, p i v, oral (m, f), hair pulling, edging, dirty talk, praise kink, virginity loss, slight voyeurism, aftercare), forced proximity, makeout scenes, pet names (sunshine, baby), secret relationship, slow burn, emotional vulnerability, usage of alcohol, max being dramatic af.

music. isabel la rosa — older, sombr — makes me want you, olivia rodrigo — lacy

summary: you grew up watching him from across the room—always out of reach. he was the one person you weren’t supposed to want, the forbidden taste. but when Ibiza strips away everything but the heat between you, the line Max drew and limits he set start to blur. and crossing it was only ever a matter of time.

a/n: read part one here <3 hope you’ll like it !! ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡♡

The next morning, the villa seemed to hold its breath. The sun had barely kissed the horizon, heavy with the scent of saltwater and jasmine, and already the weight of the morning was thick with unspoken things. The kind of silence where you could almost hear the thoughts racing, the weight of the air pressing in as though something was about to break.

You sat at the end of the dining table, one leg tucked beneath you, a loose hoodie slipping off your shoulder. You stared down at your cereal, which already started to become mushy, your spoon abandoned in the bowl. You weren’t really eating—you were just there, staring down at the swirls of milk and flakes while your thoughts looped back to last night.

Your thighs still tingled. Your skin still remembered the brush of his fingers, the way he whispered praise into your ear with a voice so low it made your lungs forget how to breathe.

And then he just left.

You hadn’t slept. You couldn’t. You just stared at the ceiling until the sun started spilling across your sheets, your lips curving without your permission, heat blooming across your cheeks. 

Footsteps padded across the tile—not rushed, not hesitant. Just calm, and easy. You knew it was him before he even came into view, but you didn’t look up. You didn’t move, yet your breath still caught anyway. You hid the smile quickly, biting the inside of your cheek as though that could erase the evidence.

He walked into the kitchen without pause. Hair tousled, his curls messy and falling over his forehead. A simple black t-shirt stretched across his torso, sleeves tight against his arms. Navy shorts hung low on his hips. He didn’t look like someone haunted by the night before. He looked… effortless. Like this was just another morning.

Your heartbeat was a slow, steady thud in your ears. He hadn’t said anything after last night. Not when he left with your name still clinging to his lips. And now, he was here, barefoot and relaxed, as if the memory of his fingers deep inside you wasn’t still thick in the air between you.

He reached for the orange juice in the fridge, the sound of the cap twisting echoing in the silence. You wondered if it was too loud, but to you everything felt too loud. The hum of the refrigerator, the distant swoosh of the waves from the ocean, and the shuffle of his feet on the floor. But you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. He poured himself a glass, the golden liquid cascading smoothly into the cup, the way his fingers curled around the glass—so strong, yet effortlessly delicate. 

He never once acknowledged you, but somehow you could feel his awareness. He knew you were there. 

Lando leaned against the counter, still not looking at you. But you looked, you couldn’t stop yourself. The curve of his throat, the faint red mark on his collarbone—had you done that? Or was it a different girl? Your eyes dropped lower, to the veins in his forearm, to the way his fingers flexed around the glass with tension he probably didn’t realize he was holding.

The seconds ticked by like hours, stretching the air between you until it vibrated with unspoken words. And then, as if finally deciding to break the stillness, he looked at you. But it wasn’t just a look or a small glance. Lando watched you, his eyes locked on yours, sharp and knowing, and then that damn smirk tugged at his mouth. Slow. Crooked. As if he was letting you know—without words—that he remembered everything.

Your stomach flipped. You should have looked away, pretended to be too busy with your cereal. But instead, you smirked right back. A tiny one, more playful than defiant, like you’d just agreed to play along in this silent game. You remembered the way he looked at you last night—right before he slid his fingers between your thighs—with reverence, like he wasn’t supposed to, but he couldn’t help it. 

The tension wasn’t suffocating anymore—it was charged. Like teenagers daring each other not to break first. His gaze dropped, just for a second, to your mouth, before flicking back up. He took a slow sip of juice, as though he wasn’t caught, but his eyes never left yours.

You leaned your chin on your palm, tilting your head at him. “Morning, Lan.” You said, casual, but your voice carried more than that—like you were testing how much he’d give away.

His smirk deepened, one eyebrow ticking up. “Morning, Sunshine.” He echoed, smooth, easy, but his eyes sparkled with something far less innocent.

The air between you thrummed, like the universe had reduced itself to nothing but glances and smirks across a breakfast table.

Suddenly, Max’s voice broke through the air like a slap, loud and oblivious as he stomped in, “Where the fuck is my charger?” He muttered while ruffling his hair, already half-complaining. 

You jumped slightly at the sudden interruption, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. He was still a bit drunk from the night before, his words slurring together as he dug through the drawers, looking for his charger.

Lando shifted immediately, the tension vanishing like it had never existed. You, on the other hand, were still frozen, while your heart was beating too fast. Your palms suddenly went cold as you clenched the edge of the table, trying to ground yourself in something, anything, that wasn’t the pull of his gaze.

“Hey, are you seriously still looking at your cereal?” Max’s laugh was grating, but it was easy to let it wash over you, pushing away the tension that was still hanging in the air like fog.

Lando, however, didn’t break. He didn’t let the interruption completely pull him away from whatever had been between you. He just bit his bottom lip, eyes darting from Max to you in the span of a heartbeat. The smirk remained, like a secret only the two of you shared.

The moment stretched long as Max rambled something uncomprehendable under his breath, as Lando’s attention remained fixed. His eyes flicked from Max to you, and back again. There was something unreadable in his gaze, something that held you captive in place, even as the noise from Max’s antics continued in the background.

You tried to breathe, but it felt like you were suffocating. The space between you and Lando seemed infinite and too close all at once. Every time your eyes met his, there was an undeniable, magnetic pull. And yet, he didn’t break the silence. He didn’t rush forward to fill it. He just watched—eyes gleaming, smirk softer now, but just as dangerous.

Max continued his tirade about his charger, finally locating it under the couch, and tossing it carelessly onto the table. Then finally, Lando placed his glass in the sink and moved toward the hall. But as he passed behind your chair, something happened. His hand brushed your shoulder. Barely. Like the memory of the touch from the night before. But your body flinched anyway—every nerve sparking to life, your skin burning beneath where his fingers had grazed. He didn’t look at you, and he didn’t stop his tracks. But you felt it.

Max was wandering across the room, completely unaware of the situation between Lando and you. But you knew better.

Everything between you two had changed, and though the world seemed to spin on, indifferent to the storm brewing inside, you both knew it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

────୨ৎ────

Laughter was bouncing off the walls in the villa, and music was thumping through the thick summer air as the glasses clinked in careless celebration. Only a few days have left in Ibiza. 

It was too loud, and too hot. Too crowded with people who had no idea what had passed between you two just a few nights ago. No one knew that Lando had had his fingers buried deep inside you while your breath hitched, gasping his name like it was the only thing tethering you to life.

Now, here you were, both pretending that night had never happened. Well, sort of.

Lando lounged across the pool, sunk into one of those overstuffed chairs with a glass of something cold in his hand. His curls were messier than usual, dark and wild, shadows playing over his jawline that was clenched tighter than anyone pretending to be relaxed should be. He wasn’t looking at you—at least, not openly—but you could feel him. Like a pulse beneath your skin, drawing your eyes back to him, again and again.

Finally, your gaze caught his. It was slow, deliberate. Neither of you willing to look away first. Your eyes locked like some silent challenge, electric and heavy. You didn’t smile, and neither did he. But the tension between you snapped into place like a taut wire, humming with everything you weren’t saying, everything simmering just beneath the surface.

Then, without a word, Lando stood up. He wasn’t in a rush, no sudden moves. Just smooth, deliberate steps, passing close enough that his fingers brushed your hip—light as a feather, but you knew better. It was never accidental.

He disappeared inside the villa, footsteps fading down the hallway until a door clicked open, but it didn’t close. You knew exactly what that meant. You waited, heart pounding loud in your ears, counting the seconds-ten, fifteen-before you followed, steady and sure.

The bathroom was dim, bathed in the soft golden glow leaking from the hallway lights. The bass of the party thudded muffled beyond the door, but here, time slowed.

Lando was already there, leaning against the sink like he had all the time in the world-like he hadn't been eyeing you from across the room all night, like he hadn't traced your every step in that little sundress that barely brushed your thighs.

He didn't say anything right away. Just looked at you-dark, unreadable, jaw tight, a slow smirk pulling at the corner of his lips like he was already winning. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his shorts like he didn't trust himself to touch you again.

“Took you long enough.” He finally murmured, voice low and smug.

“You didn’t exactly rush me, Norris.”

“Didn’t need to, Fewtrell.” His eyes roamed over you with a dark heat, each slow sweep like a silent claim. 

You moved first—one step, then two, until you were close enough to feel the shallow rise and fall of his breath against your face.

“Sunshine…” He said finally, almost like a warning. 

Your nickname—tender and teasing—the one he always used when he wanted to sound playful. But now it was tight in his throat. It made your stomach twist because he never said it like that. Not with his mouth this dry, and his eyes already glued to your lips.

“This is a bad fucking idea.”

You tilted your head. “You think I don’t know that?”

He sighed, his tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek as he looked you over again—really looked at you. Your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, your bare legs, and the shine of want in your eyes that matched the one in his.

And he cracked. Again.

“Fucking hell…” He muttered, hand dragging over his mouth. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You stepped closer, one slow, deliberate movement at a time, until you were standing between his legs. You didn’t touch him yet—just looked up at him through your lashes, voice soft.

“You didn’t stop me that night,” He leaned forward slightly, his forehead almost brushing yours. “But I should have. You’re—”

“Max’s little sister?” You cut in, voice low but sharp. “I’m also the one you’ve been thinking about every time someone walks into the room.” 

The look on his face—God. It was like you’d cracked something open.

His expression faltered for a second, just a flicker, but enough to see it all pour through. First came surprise—barely there, just a flick of his brows. Then irritation, not at you, but at himself—for being so obvious. For letting you see how tightly you’d wrapped yourself around his every thought.

His jaw tightened. His lips parted slightly like he was about to argue. But he didn’t. He couldn’t, because he knew you were right.

Then came the worst part, the one he tried to bury beneath a half-lidded stare—the longing, plain and aching. It flickered behind his eyes, heavy and unspoken, curling in the corners of his mouth that wanted to smirk but couldn’t quite get there. Like he hated how much he wanted you. Like he was two seconds away from either kissing you stupid or walking away before he could ruin everything. But he didn’t walk away, and that silence, thick and electric, was answer enough.

You didn’t give him time to argue again. You dropped to your knees in front of him— slow, controlled—watching the way his eyes went wide, then half-lidded with lust all over again.

“Fuck, wait—” His voice caught in his throat as your hands slid up his thighs, thumbs brushing just beneath the hem of his shorts.

He reached down like he might stop you, but his touch faltered the second your fingers looped into his waistband. “I’m serious,” He said, though there was no heat in it. “We can still walk away from this, and forget it all.”

You looked up at him with a smirk, easing his shorts down. “Then go.”

Lando didn’t move. He swallowed hard, biting the inside of his cheek, torn between guilt and desire. He wasn’t even looking at you anymore. His eyes were trained somewhere on the ceiling, like if he didn’t see you, he could pretend this wasn’t happening. That you weren’t happening.

Because fuck, you were Max’s little sister. You were off-limits for him, and he had no business in being this close to you, especially not like this—seconds away from crumbling for you, with your hands on his thighs while kneeling in front of him like this. So damn tempting, and so utterly unfair.

It was wrong. It was reckless. But it was inevitable.

His fingers flexed against the edge of the counter behind him, knuckles going white. He was using every last bit of restraint he had left—every warning, every memory of Max’s voice in his head—to stop himself from losing control. But you were there, looking up at him with those fucking eyes, and a mouth he had no right to want on him as badly as he did. All he could think about was how you’d felt the other night—how warm, how wet, how desperate you’d been beneath his fingers. How badly he wanted more.

A slow smirk curled on your lips, while observing his silent struggle. “That’s what I thought, Lan.”

And then you began—your secret, sweet mission, practiced in the quiet dark for months, now brought to life with every touch, every breath, every pulse between you.

You didn’t rush, not yet. You let your lips skim along the edge of his waistband, hot breath ghosting over the fabric as your hands tugged his shorts down slowly. Your fingers grazed along the hard line of him through his boxers, and the way he was already so hard it made your mouth water. 

His cock sprang free, flushed and already leaking, and you gave it a single, deliberate stroke, letting your thumb swirl over the head and smear the precum. He groaned, biting down on his knuckle to muffle it.

“Don’t fucking tease me, sunshine.” Lando warned, but his voice was strained, betraying him. He liked it. Liked the way you looked on your knees, like sin wrapped in summer heat and lipstick, ready to make him break.

“You didn’t mind teasing me the other night,” You murmured, voice silk. “Thought it’s only fair this way.”

That earned you a quiet, desperate laugh through his nose, but it was cut off the moment you fully wrapped your fingers around him—finally. Warm skin, heavy in your hand, already aching for you. You stroked him slow, deliberate, thumb swiping over the slick at his tip.

He hissed, eyes fluttering shut, jaw flexing like he was biting back a groan.

“Keep quiet, Lan,” You teased, tongue flicking out just enough to briefly taste him. “Wouldn’t want anyone to hear, would we?”

Lando didn’t answer, though. He just stared down at you like you were unreal, his hand tightening in your hair as you moaned softly—needy, and breathless.

“Holy shit,” He groaned, his hand tangling tight in your hair. “You’re unbelievable— fuck, Sunshine…”

You looked up through your lashes, licking a slow stripe up the underside of his cock. “Just for you, Lan.”

When your lips finally closed around him, the tension cracked. His hips jerked forward, breath hitching as you took him slowly and deliberately, desperate to feel every inch of his cock. His fingers tangled in your hair as he tried to steady himself, but every moan caught in his throat betrayed him.

“F-fuck—” His free hand flew over to his mouth, eyes wide as they locked with yours. “Don’t do that— d-don’t fucking look at me like that.”

Like what?

Like you were proud of this.

Like you wanted to ruin him.

Like you could anything to him in that moment.

You sucked him deeper, letting your lips glide down until the head bumped the back of your throat, and he made a broken sound that sounded too close to a moan for comfort. He gripped the counter hard as the hand from his mouth travelled down, trying to keep still—trying not to fuck your pretty little mouth with his dick, even though every part of him wanted to.

Oh, but you weren’t done, not yet. 

You set a rhythm, letting him slide deeper and deeper each time, your spit slicking down his length. You hollowed your cheeks, and slid up just to swirl your tongue around the tip, making Lando choke out your name.

When you finally pulled back just to stroke him, spit trailing between your lips and his tip, he looked down at you like he was going to fall apart.

“Where the hell—” He groaned, hips twitching involuntarily. “Where the hell did you learn how to do that?” You just smiled around him, refusing to answer. 

And fuck, if only he knew. If only he knew that you had spent months sneaking quiet moments at night while trying to keep quiet from your parents’ and Max. Earphones in, watching soft porn and imagining it was him, and not the actors, not the fantasy. 

You’d watched girls do this a hundred, even thousand times—perfect mouths, heavy eyes, desperate to please. Every single time you imagined it was him. Imagined you, on your knees, giving him what he deserved. Imagined his hands in your hair, voice ruined and strained whispering your name like a fucking prayer.

And now? Now it wasn’t a fantasy anymore. He was moaning for real, for you, trying so hard to keep quiet but failing more with every swirl of your tongue, every slow suck that made his knees threaten to give out.

“Sunshine— fuck, you know I can’t be loud,” He whispered, biting down on the back of his hand as your mouth moved expertly on him—tight, messy, and hungry. You couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down. Not now.

Lando whimpered your name like a prayer, “Yes, fucking amazing. What did I do to deserve you?” You moaned around him, sucking harder as he twitched on your tongue.

He was holding on by a thread—hips barely jerking, knees wobbling, knuckles white where he gripped the counter behind him. 

“Shit, baby—” He whimpered again, wrecked and desperate. “I’m gonna— fuck, if you don’t stop, I’m not gonna last long.”

You moaned in response, sending vibrations down his length that made him stutter and curse again. 

His hand tightened in your hair. “Fuck— you’re gonna make me—” Lando breathed, eyes glassy now, chest rising fast. “You keep going like that and I’ll come in two seconds, I swear to god...”

You pulled off with a wet pop, stroking him with your hand, spit shining down his length. “That bad, huh?”

“That good,” He corrected through clenched teeth. “That fucking good.”

And then you ducked back down, this time even more eager, letting him sink into your mouth again—deeper, messier, your fingers sliding to cup his balls, teasing lightly while your tongue worked him in every way you knew he liked. His thighs flexed under your touch. His hips rolled forward just enough to chase it—desperate now, so close it made your own thighs clench in sympathy.

The tension in his whole body wound tighter and tighter, until finally he groaned, raw and broken, “Shit, I’m gonna come, baby— I can’t hold it—”

And then you felt it—the twitch of him in your mouth, the sudden shaky breath he sucked in, the grip of his hand in your hair going rigid as his orgasm hit him hard. He spilled down your throat with a muffled groan, head dropping forward, eyes half-lidded and stunned, like you’d just taken every last bit of control he had left.

He bit back all the sounds, biting his knuckle, the other hand gripping your shoulder like it was the only thing anchoring him. His body was trembling from the pleasure you just gave him, head falling backwards, both of you lost in the moment.

You swallowed every single drop of his release, licking your lips slowly as you looked up at him—eyes dazed, smug, and soft. 

When you stood up, fixing your hair, Lando’s eyes were still hazy—dazed with pleasure, lips parted in disbelief. He stared at you like you’d just ruined him, only sending you a smirk.

“If your brother knew about this, he would literally kill us, Sunshine.” 

────୨ৎ────

The last day in Ibiza had arrived far too quickly, though the memories of the week already felt heavy and golden, threaded into your skin like sunlight. 

The trip hadn’t only been about hazy nights and crowded clubs pulsing with music—you had filled the in-betweens with memories that felt softer, and golden. 

Afternoons spent on being stretched out beneath the sun, skin sticky with salt, laughter echoing between you as you shared fruit and drinks that tasted like summer. Hours wandering through local markets, fingers grazing over handmade jewelry, colorful scarves, jars of honey that glowed amber in the light. A boat trip that left your hair wild with sea air, the water glittering endlessly around you as you couldn’t help but smile and laugh. 

Countless evenings were spent by the shoreline, your toes buried in cool sand while the whole group was trading funny stories, jokes and secrets, the waves softly rolling in and out in the background, as if the ocean itself was keeping you company. The sky turned from bruised purple to inky black, the stars pinpricking the quiet above you.

Every day had been eventful, and every night was brimming with restless energy. But this specific morning, you wanted something different. Something quieter, and something that belonged to just the two of you. You felt bold and you knew this idea was the best way of spending your last, normal morning on Ibiza during this trip.

The villa was hushed when you slipped out of your room, the air cooler in the early hour, scented faintly of salt drifting through open windows. The tiled floor was cool against your bare feet as you padded down the hallway, the silence broken only by the faint hum of cicadas outside and the distant whoosh of waves hitting the shore. Outside, the world was only just beginning to wake, the sky brushed with the soft blues with the moon still proudly shining on top of the sky. 

Behind the closed doors you passed, everyone was still wrapped in their sleep, their breathing heavy and unbothered after another long night. Everyone, except you.

Your heart beat faster the closer you got, until it was pounding in your chest as you stopped outside his door. You hesitated, just for a moment, fingers grazing the wood. He was in there, sleeping soundly, completely unaware. And you—dressed in your two-piece swimsuit, hair tumbling loose around your shoulders, nerves buzzing in every vein—were about to wake him up.The thought alone sent heat blooming low in your chest.

You pressed your lips together, swallowing the flutter of anticipation rising in your chest, and finally pushed the door open slowly. The hinges creaked faintly, though the sound was swallowed in the hush of the room.

It was dim inside, the curtains drawn, but not enough to block the soft seep of the early morning light. The air smelled faintly of him—clean, and warm, the trace of his perfume and suncream that clung to his skin all week.

Your gaze found him instantly. Lando lay diagonally sprawled across the bed, sheets twisted loosely around his waist. One arm was thrown lazily across his stomach, his bare chest rising and falling with steady breaths. His dark curls were mussed and flat on one side, his lips parted slightly as he slept. 

In the dim light, he looked impossibly young and yet unfairly beautiful, softened and peaceful in a way you rarely saw when he was awake and grinning or teasing.

You crept closer, each step careful, until you were crouched by the side of the bed. For a moment, you just looked at him, letting yourself take him in. His lashes curled against his cheeks, longer than they had any right to be. His skin was bronzed from the week spent beneath the Ibiza sun, golden and warm, dotted here and there with soft freckles. 

He was beautiful in a way that made your chest ache, unfairly so, and something inside you whispered that you shouldn’t be staring at him like this—but you didn’t stop.

Tentatively, you lifted a hand. Your fingers hovered in the air for a beat—heart in your throat, pulse roaring in your ears—before you finally let them brush against his cheek. His skin was warm, smooth, and under your fingertips you felt the faintest twitch of muscle as he stirred.

“Lan…” You whispered, the sound barely escaping your lips. Your breath hitched at how intimate it felt to say his name like that, soft and tender.

Lando stirred in his sleep, a small crease forming between his brows. His lips twitched, his breathing hitched just slightly. Then, slowly, his eyes opened. At first his gaze was unfocused, glazed with sleep. But the moment they found yours, recognition bloomed across his face, and with it came a slow, lazy smile that curled across his mouth, soft and genuine. It made something in your chest twist.

“Morning, Sunshine.” He muttered, voice low and rough, thick with sleep. It was the kind of sound that slid down your spine and made your stomach flip. 

Before you could even think, his hand lifted from where it rested against the sheets. He covered yours, still cupping his cheek, with his own. His palm was broad and hot, enveloping you in his warmth as if it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb brushed faintly against your knuckles, a fleeting unconscious gesture that made your stomach twist with happiness.

Your lips curved as you leaned in slightly, your voice soft, hopeful. “Everyone’s still asleep,” You whispered, leaning in slightly, lowering your voice like you were sharing a secret. “Are you up for a morning swim with me?”

His lashes blinked heavy, his eyes lingering on your face for a moment before he pushed himself up onto an elbow. His curls fell over his forehead, messy and boyish, and he squinted as if trying to process your words.

“Wait, what time is it?” He rasped, but there was a spark of curiosity there.

“Four fifty-five.” You admitted, unable to keep the grin from tugging at your mouth.

He groaned again, this time louder, more dramatic, and flopped back onto the pillow like the world around him had just ended. “Woman, you’re fucking insane.” He muttered, voice muffled from the pillow.

You couldn’t help the chuckle that bubbled out of you, shaking your head. “Maybe,” You teased, eyes glinting. “But you’re coming with me. Besides, the sunrise is in a couple of minutes. Are you really going to miss that… with me?”

You let the words hang between you, teasing, daring. And when he peeked out at you from beneath his arm—eyes sleepy but glinting—you already knew. 

He was coming. Because Lando Norris could never say no to you.

The villa was still asleep, every room sunk deep in silence, but the two of you moved through it like teenagers sneaking out past curfew. You held your phone in one hand, flashlight glowing faintly to guide the way over the uneven tiles. Behind you, Lando trailed like a reluctant shadow, his hair a wild mess of curls flattened on one side, hoodie thrown lazily over his shoulders, swim shorts hanging low on his hips. He was barely awake, dragging his feet dramatically, muttering under his breath.

“This should be illegal to wake up at such an hour,” He whispered, voice rough and still thick with sleep. “Five in the fucking morning. The moon is literally still out!”

“Shh!” You hissed over your shoulder, though your lips already twitched with a smile.

“You’re fucking insane. Go and seek help.” He groaned, louder this time.

You spun on your heel, nearly crashing into him. “Shut up, Lando. You’ll wake them up!”

That made him grin, teeth flashing in the dim glow of your flashlight. “You’re acting like we’re robbing the place.”

“We kind of are,” You whispered, pushing at his chest with your free hand. “Now move!”

He stumbled backward dramatically, accidentally bumping into a small table. A glass vase with fresh flowers in it wobbled on its edges, making both of you freeze in your movements, eyes wide, until it settled with a soft clink. For a moment, neither of you dared to breathe. Then you slapped a hand over your mouth, trying to mute your laugh in your palm. Lando was doubling over, muffling his chuckle into the sleeve of his hoodie.

“See?” You wheezed between your own quiet giggles. “This is exactly why I told you to be quiet.”

“The fuck? But you’re worse than me, Sunshine!” He shot back, grinning. “You look like a cartoon villain with that flashlight.” You rolled your eyes, swatting at him, but your laughter betrayed you.

The two of you stumbled down the hallway, shoulders bumping, your combined giggles echoing faintly. Every creak of the floorboards felt like a gunshot, but instead of worrying, you only laughed harder, hearts pounding with the reckless thrill of sneaking around. It felt like being a teenager again, sneaking out, except this time the stakes weren’t your parents catching you.

Finally, you slipped out the back door. The air hit you instantly, cool and crisp, smelling faintly of salt and jasmine from the villa’s garden. 

The world was suspended between night and morning. The sky was lika a shifting canvas—inky indigo at its highest point, softening into deep navy streaked with pale blue closer to the horizon. The moon still hung above the water, pale and luminous, while a faint wash of silvery light spread across the sand. The stars, dimmer now, still blinked stubbornly against the glow of dawn.

You hugged yourself against the early morning chill before glancing at him. Lando was watching you with that crooked, sleepy grin, shaking his head. 

“We’re actually insane for doing this.” He repeated, but his voice was lighter now, filled with amusement instead of complaint.

“Maybe,” You said softly, catching his hand and tugging him toward the beach. “But trust me. In the end, you’ll thank me.”

The beach was completely empty, untouched, just the two of you, the ocean, and the endless stretch of sky preparing for the sunrise.

You dropped your hoodie—which Lando insisted on you wearing—and the towel in the sand, shooting him a daring grin. “Race you!”

Before he could react, you bolted away. Your laughter split the quiet, the sand flying behind you as you sprinted toward the water.

“What the— hey, that’s cheating!” Lando shouted, his voice cracking with amusement as he tore right after you.

You squealed, pumping your legs harder, but the sand dragged at your ankles and the water’s edge loomed. You hit the shallows first, the icy shock biting into your calves and thighs, and you gasped, stumbling forward with a squeak. The next second, he barreled in behind you, sending water splashing high into the air.

“Fucking hell, it’s freezing!” He yelled, laughing through his shiver.

“Nah, you’re just dramatic!” You shot back, splashing him with both hands.

He retaliated instantly, water slapping against your face, your hair plastering against your cheeks. You shrieked, diving sideways to escape, only for him to lunge, grabbing at your ankle. You kicked free, giggling so hard you could barely breathe, then shot a wave of water straight at his chest.

“Alright, that’s it.” He grinned wickedly, charging at you with both arms open.

You screamed, laughing, trying to swim backward, but he was faster. His arms wrapped around your waist, lifting you slightly out of the water before dunking you under with a triumphant cheer.

You surfaced, coughing, hair plastered everywhere. “Are you insane?!” You spluttered, wiping the salty water out of your eyes.

He coughed, laughing so hard he could barely stand. “Absolutely.”

And just like that, it devolved. You chased each other in circles, splashing, squealing, darting beneath the waves only to pop up on the other side. At one point, you tried to sneak up and launch yourself onto his back, and he staggered, carrying you a few steps before flipping you both under the surface. The ocean became your playground, each wave rocking you into new fits of laughter.

When you surfaced, gasping and dripping, he was already there—hands finding your waist without even thinking, grounding you as the water tugged at your bodies. You looped your arms lazily around his shoulders, both of you breathless, grinning like idiots.

The chill of the water barely registered anymore. He was warm against you, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The playfulness between you softened, and the world around you seemed to exhale. 

The horizon was shifting—the blues started to bleed into pastel pinks and soft oranges. The moon still glowed faintly in the sky above, but already the light of day was spilling over it, chasing the shadows away.

Lando tilted his head back, watching the light spill across the waves. His curls dripped, droplets sliding down his temples, his skin glowing with the first trace of sunlight. Then his eyes dropped to yours, instantly softening, as if the sunrise had nothing on you. And for him, it clearly hadn’t.

“Okay, I have to admit it,” Lando murmured, voice low, reverent, his forehead nearly brushing yours. “It was totally worth it.”

Your chest tightened. Maybe it was the sunrise. Maybe it was the way his arms held you steady, as if he wasn’t letting go of you. Or maybe it was the fact that for the first time all week, it felt like the world only revolved around the two of you.

And as the sun climbed higher, painting the ocean in colors you couldn’t name, you stayed there in his arms—warm against the chill, held steady against the tide. Time slowed, stretched, until it felt like the sunrise belonged only to the two of you.

By the time you both finally trudged out of the sea, your bodies were heavy with the weight of saltwater and laughter. The horizon had shifted completely—what had been a watercolor wash of pinks and silvers earlier was now painted in golds and pale blues, the sun climbing steadily higher, its reflection glittering across the ocean’s surface like a trail of fire. Droplets rolled down your skin, catching the morning light, making you shimmer as you padded barefoot over the sand.

The chill of the water still clung to your body, but the warmth of the sun kissed your shoulders, drying you slowly. You each grabbed a towel from the spot you’d left them, wrapping yourselves up, though your hair clung stubbornly in damp strands, salt-stiff and wild. You laughed at the sight of Lando trying to shake his curls into submission, and he rolled his eyes, shooting a playful glare before flopping dramatically onto the sand.

You followed, spreading your towel beside his, lying back so the sunlight could soak into you. The sand was warm beneath the thin fabric, grounding you, while the air smelled like salt and wildflowers carried from somewhere inland. 

Around you, the beach was still deserted—just the hush of the waves, the occasional cry of a distant gull, and the gentle rhythm of his breathing beside you.

You started talking then, softly at first. Nothing important—just observations, half-formed thoughts, silly jokes about how insane you both were for being up at this hour. He teased you for dragging him out of bed, and you teased him for pretending he hadn’t enjoyed it. But slowly, the conversation meandered, stretching out like the sunlight itself.

His voice was lower in the morning, still rough with sleep, and it blended with the rhythm of the waves until you weren’t sure where his words ended and the ocean began. 

You talked about places you wanted to see, about old memories from home, about things that didn’t matter and yet felt like everything in that moment. At some point, you caught yourself watching his mouth as he spoke, the curve of his lips when he smiled, the way he bit down on the edge of his towel to wipe at his face.

And there, wrapped in warmth and salt air, you realized this was true happiness. Not the wild nights, not the crowds or flashing lights, but this. Slow, golden, stretched out like time had stopped just for the two of you.

The air was thick with salt and warmth, carrying the cries of seabirds and the slow hush of waves rolling in and out. For a while, you both just lay there, listening, breathing, existing. 

It was you who broke the silence, your voice hushed as though you might disturb the spell. “Do you realize that we might be the only people in the world who saw that sunrise from the water today?”

Lando cracked one eye open, turning his head lazily toward you. “Deep thoughts this early?” His lips curled into a teasing smile, but his voice was soft, as though he didn’t really want to ruin the quiet.

“I’m serious,” You protested, rolling onto your side to face him, propping yourself up on an elbow. “It felt like… like it was just for us.”

He gave a small hum, closing his eyes again. “Mhm. Don’t get used to it though. I’m never letting you wake me up before five again.”

You laughed, tossing a bit of sand at his arm. He flinched dramatically, brushing it off like it had been an attack, then retaliated by flicking his damp towel at your legs. That started a brief, ridiculous back-and-forth, both of you muffling your laughter, trying not to disturb the tranquility of the empty beach.

When you both settled again, breathless from laughter, he turned his head toward you once more. This time, his expression was softer, more open. “Still… it was worth it.”

The way he said it—quiet, almost shy—made your chest tighten. You wanted to bottle this moment, keep it safe forever.

It was nearly eight when you finally gathered yourselves, towels draped loosely over your shoulders as you made your way back to the villa. The sun was higher now, hotter, and the beach had begun to change—the distant figures of early walkers appearing further down the shore, the hum of a boat engine carrying faintly over the water.

Inside, the house was stirring. Doors slowly started to creak open, sleepy voices filled the hallways, footsteps padded toward the kitchen. People emerged, hair mussed, eyes heavy, yawns stretching their faces as they shuffled toward coffee and food.

No one asked where you’d been. No one looked at you too closely, or noticed the way your hair was still damp at the ends, or how faint grains of sand clung stubbornly to your legs. The secret of the morning swim was yours to keep—tucked quietly between you, something fragile and precious that belonged to no one else.

As you moved through the room, you caught Lando’s gaze across the table. His curls were still a bit damp, darker where they clung to his forehead, his cheeks faintly flushed from the sun and sea. His lips curved just slightly, subtle, private—as if he were remembering it too.

And in that moment, with everyone around and yet no one noticing, you knew you were both carrying the sunrise with you.

────୨ৎ────

The last evening in Ibiza had a softness to it, the kind that clung to the air when you knew something was ending. 

The villa was buzzing with chatter and laughter, the group still gathered around the long dining table, the remains of dinner scattered between half-drunk bottles of wine, cocktail glasses, and plates smudged with sauce. Someone was telling a story, voices overlapping, bursts of laughter echoing off the stone walls, but you slipped out quietly, your glass of wine in hand.

The terrace greeted you with the cool kiss of evening air. The heat of the day had softened, and a light breeze carried the faint tang of the ocean. You lowered yourself into one of the chairs, tucking your legs up beneath you, the glass cradled loosely between your fingers.

The view before you stole your breath. The sky was painted in layers—gold bleeding into pink, pink fading into lavender, and all of it slowly surrendering to the deepening blue of night. The sun hovered at the horizon, its last light shimmering across the water like molten copper. Already, the moon was visible, pale and patient, waiting for its turn to rule the sky. The waves rolled gently against the shore in the distance, the sound a low, steady rhythm beneath the hum of voices inside.

You sighed, the sound soft and almost wistful. 

Last night in Ibiza.

It had been more than just a holiday. More than just chaos and late nights. It had been a chapter, one you weren’t quite ready to close.

“Thought I’d find you here.” 

The voice made you glance over your shoulder. Lando stepped out onto the terrace, curls backlit by the glow of the villa, a drink in his hand. His white shirt hung loosely over him, the sleeves rolled up, and there was an ease about him that almost made your chest ache.

He leaned against the doorframe first, looking at you with a small, crooked smile. “Hiding?”

You rolled your eyes, though the corners of your mouth tugged upward. “I’m not hiding, just watching the sunset.” You tilted your chin toward the horizon, where the last sliver of sun was melting away. “Can’t believe it’s our last night here.”

He let out a hum, his gaze following yours toward the view. Then he pushed himself away from the doorframe and dropped into the chair beside you. His knee bumped yours as he sat, and neither of you moved away.

“Yeah,” He admitted, his voice softer now. “Feels like it went by in a blink.”

You laughed quietly, swirling the wine in your glass. “Probably because you all made me drink so much tequila I lost track of time.”

That earned you his laugh—the real one, unrestrained, warm enough to seep straight into your bones. He shook his head, curls falling into his eyes. “Hey, don’t blame me. You’re the one who tried to keep up with Max.”

At your brother’s name, you groaned dramatically, hiding your face in one hand. Lando’s laugh grew louder, and soon enough, you were laughing with him, the two of you caught in a bubble of your own amusement while the voices inside blurred into background noise.

The laughter ebbed into silence, but it wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable, and easy. The kind of silence you wanted to linger in. Your gaze drifted to him again. The last of the sunset light traced across his features, softening the sharp lines, making him look almost boyish while painting his skin in gold and rose. His lashes were long and dark against his cheeks, and his mouth—God, his mouth—was curved in that faint, unreadable smile.

He caught you staring. His eyes met yours, steady, curious, holding you in place. And suddenly, it felt like the air between you shifted, heavier, charged.

Your heart thudded—brave, and reckless. That spark inside you flared to life. Before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned in. Just a little at first, testing, your breath mingling with his. His eyes flickered down to your lips, then back to your eyes, and that was all the courage you needed.

Your lips gently brushed his. It was soft, barely a touch, the kind of kiss that could almost be passed off as nothing if you wanted it to be. But it was enough to send a jolt through your chest, enough to make the world tilt for just a heartbeat.

When you pulled back, Lando was frozen, wide-eyed, his lips parted as though he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

A grin tugged at your mouth, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t let Max know about this.”

For a beat, he just stared at you. Then a laugh broke out of him—quiet at first, then fuller and warmer, filling the night air. He shook his head, curls bouncing, his hand coming up to rub across his mouth as if he could hide the smile tugging at it.

“You’re insane, Sunshine.” He muttered, though his voice was laced with amusement. And something else. Something that made your stomach flip.

You laughed too, your cheeks flushed, giddy with the thrill of what you’d just done. “Maybe,” you teased, raising your brows. “But you didn’t exactly stop me.”

His eyes softened, his grin tilting crooked. “Didn’t want to.” He said, quiet but certain.

Your laughter tangled together again, mingling with the distant murmur of waves and the soft hum of cicadas in the garden. The villa’s noise carried faintly through the open doors, but out here, it felt like you were in your own little world.

Side by side, shoulders brushing, hearts a little too fast, you sat beneath the indigo sky as the first stars bloomed above. A secret smile pulled at your lips, mirrored by his.

Without saying it, you both knew—this trip wasn’t something either of you would forget.

────୨ৎ────

Later that night, when everyone finally decided to call it a day and went to their room, the villa had finally gone quiet. Somewhere down the hall a door creaked as someone went for painkillers and a glass of water, but otherwise the only sound was the faint hum of cicadas outside and the distant, lazy crash of waves on the shore. 

You sat propped up in bed, hair damp from your shower, skin still warm and sweet-smelling from the lotion you’d rubbed in. Lando’s oversized t-shirt slipped down one shoulder, brushing your bare thigh where your pajama shorts ended.

Your phone screen glowed faint blue in the dimmed room, but you weren’t really scrolling anymore—just staring, looking at the same posts without taking them in. Your chest felt tight, restless, like there was something waiting, pressing against your ribs.

The sudden knocks on the door came so soft you almost thought you’d imagined it. Four gentle taps, hesitant but still deliberate. Your brows furrowed, having in mind that everyone should already be asleep. You slid out of bed, heart already beating faster, and padded across the room on bare feet.

When you cracked the door open, the sight on the other side knocked the air from your lungs. Lando. He leaned against the doorframe like he hadn’t thought this through. His curls were mussed, eyes burning with something raw and urgent. A plain black tee clung to his shoulders, his grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, like he’d pulled them on in a rush.

You opened your mouth, but before you could get a word out, he spoke—his voice low, rough, like he’d been chewing on it all night. “I know I shouldn’t be here,” He whispered, jaw flexing as his fingers drummed against the doorframe. “I know I tried to stay away, but I can’t do this anymore.”

The words hung in the air, thick and heavy. His chest rose and fell too fast, his eyes flicking over your face like he was searching for something—permission, rejection, maybe salvation.

You gripped the edge of the door tighter, your pulse loud in your ears. “Lando…” You breathed, but he cut you off, stepping inside the room, the door slipping shut behind him with a soft click.

He raked a hand through his curls, pacing a step before turning back to you, desperation in every line of him. “Every time you laugh, every time you look at me— it’s fucking torture,” He said, his voice breaking around the words. “I’ve been trying, I swear I’ve been trying to be good, to respect all the boundaries Max had set, and to not cross a line I can’t uncross. But fuck…” His eyes found yours again, blazing. “I can’t. Not anymore.”

For a heartbeat, you just stood there, staring at each other. The room was silent but for his ragged breathing and the muffled crash of waves outside. His confession still vibrated in the air, still in your chest. 

Lando looked at you like he’d just confessed to a crime—like he was waiting for you to push him back out the door, to slam it shut and lock it forever. His fists were clenched now at his sides, his jaw tight, but his eyes were full of yearn.

And maybe you should have thought about it. Maybe you should have told him to leave. But instead, a slow smile curled at the edge of your lips.

“You know…” Your voice was soft, teasing, cutting through the tension like a spark in dry grass. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away from this forever.”

Before Lando could process your words, and before he could speak again, you stepped forward, grabbed the collar of his t-shirt, and pulled him down to you.

Your lips crashed together, desperate and hot, the kiss messy in the way it only could be when both of you had been holding back for far too long. His breath hitched against your lips, like you’d stolen it straight out of him, and for a split second Lando didn’t move. His body went rigid, every muscle taut, his breath caught somewhere in his throat. His hand hovered mid-air like he didn’t know whether to touch you or push you away.

It was wrong—so fucking wrong. He wasn’t supposed to want you nor need you. But then your fingers tightened in his shirt, keeping him close, and he felt the way you trembled against his mouth. That hesitation, that thin thread of resistance he’d been clinging to—it snapped.

Lando groaned into the kiss, low and guttural, like he’d been starved for this and suddenly couldn’t breathe without it. His body melted against yours in an instant, the hand that had been frozen now instinctively sliding to your waist, gripping hard, and pulling you into him as if he was afraid you’d disappear any second. 

When you finally broke away, gasping for air, his pupils were blown wide, his lips wet and parted, chest rising and falling like he’d just sprinted a race. He looked utterly wrecked already, the last of his restraint gone.

“Fuck,” Lando whispered, his voice ragged, forehead leaning against yours. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

And you couldn’t help it—you grinned, wicked and playful. “Can you finally fuck me now, Lan?” You whispered, throwing his own restraint back at him like gasoline on a flame.

He groaned at your words, low in his throat, the sound vibrating straight through you. Your laugh came out breathless, shaky, because you weren’t sure how much longer your knees could hold you up. His touch was fire, his words molten, and you knew with every nerve in your body, that this was only the beginning.

Lando’s lips found yours again, harder this time, hungrier. His hands were everywhere at once—sliding under his your shirt, skimming along the curve of your waist, and up your ribs. His touch was greedy, rough like he was making up for every single time he’d held himself back.

You gasped against his lips when he lifted you with ease, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. His grip on your thighs was bruising, his fingers digging into your skin as he carried you the few stumbling steps toward your bed. 

“You think it’s funny?” He growled against your mouth, teeth grazing your bottom lip. He pressed you down into the mattress, caging you with his body, curls falling into his eyes. “Smiling at me like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing to me?”

His hand slid up your thigh, fingertips brushing dangerously close to where you were already aching for him. You arched into his touch, your laugh breaking into a shaky breath. “What if I did know?” You whispered, eyes locked on him.

Lando smirked, dangerous and devastating. And he didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. He just kissed you again, slower and deliberate, like he wanted to memorize the way you tasted, the way you writhed beneath him. His palm pressed flat against your stomach, then lower, sliding past the waistband of your shorts, fingers teasing along your heat without giving in just yet.

“Lan—” Your voice cracked on his name, half-plea, and half-warning.

“God, you sound just like I remembered,” He murmured, lips dragging along your throat, nipping lightly at your skin. “Drove me fucking insane every night, replaying it over and over.” His fingers finally slipped where you needed him most, drawing a startled moan from your lips. “But this time, you’re not just in my head. You’re finally mine.”

Your hips bucked up into his hand instinctively, chasing more, but Lando only chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your neck. “This desperate already, Sunshine? Haven’t even touched you properly yet.” His voice was rough, the restraint barely hanging on by a thread. 

Lando slid one finger through your slickness, teasing, spreading it over you before pulling back just enough to make you whimper. “Fucking hell… you’re soaked. And all of that for me?”

Your answer came out in a gasp. “Always for you.”

That completely shattered him. His mouth crashed into yours again, desperate and messy, his teeth clashing against your lips like he couldn’t get close enough. His fingers pressed harder, stroking you until your thighs trembled. Then suddenly he pulled back, leaving you panting and wide-eyed on the bed. You nearly whined at the loss, but the sight of him tugging his shirt over his head shut you up fast. His sun-kissed skin glowed in the dim lamplight, golden and flushed, the lines of muscle shifting as he leaned over you again.

“That one night in the bar, when you leaned across the counter in that little dress, and asked me that ridiculous question… fuck, I almost lost it. Almost took you right there in front of everyone.” Lando said, voice husky, catching your chin between his fingers so you had to look up at him.

Your laugh came out breathless, nervous, but playful all the same. “Maybe you should’ve.”

The look in his eyes darkened. “Don’t test me.”

Your body lit up under his touch as he stripped you out of your pajama shorts and underwear in one smooth tug, tossing them carelessly aside. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, his hands pressing your thighs apart, and for a heartbeat, Lando just looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Your breath caught as he leaned towards you, his mouth ghosting down your stomach, teeth grazing lightly against your skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake. 

His voice was rough, low, vibrating right into you. “You have no fucking idea how much I wanted to do this after I caught you, moaning my name.” He murmured, his eyes flicking up to yours, pupils blown wide with hunger. His thumb stroked along the inside of your thigh, right where your pulse hammered. “I couldn’t forgive myself for not doing it. For just walking away.”

Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, your mouth opening but no sound coming out. You could only watch him—how he looked at you like he was starving, like you were the only thing that could fix him.

“But I’m not going to keep myself away from it now.” His lips brushed your hipbone, soft, hot, and teasing. 

The words struck through you, your whole body tightening in anticipation. You barely had a chance to inhale before his mouth was finally on you, his tongue sliding hot and eager against your slick folds, and every thought shattered. A broken gasp tore out of you, your hips bucking up into his mouth before you could stop yourself. His groan rumbled deep in his chest, his grip firming on your thighs as if to say, don’t run from this.

“Fuck, Lando—” Your voice cracked, desperate, still trying not to be too loud.

He lifted his head just enough to smirk at you, lips glistening with your wetness. “That’s right, baby. Say only my name.” Then his mouth was back on you, his tongue circling, teasing, dipping inside until your thighs trembled uncontrollably.

Every flick, every groan from him felt like it was unraveling you one string at a time. And you could feel it in the way he moved—this wasn’t just about making you fall apart. This was about making up for every second he’d denied himself, every second he’d forced the distance between you. But there was no denying that he wanted it just as much as you did. Maybe even more.

His grip on your thighs tightened as if he feared you’d slip away, holding you open for him like he’d been dreaming of it for weeks—maybe months. His mouth was merciless, tongue working you with a hunger that made your whole body quake. You tangled your fingers in his curls, tugging just enough to make him groan against you, the vibration rolling through your core until your back arched off the bed.

“Holy shit—” The words came out high, almost a sob.

He looked up at you through his lashes, his eyes dark and heavy, lips glistening as he dragged his tongue slowly up your folds before circling your clit with deliberate, devastating precision. 

“Fuck, you taste just as sweet as I remember, Sunshine.” He rasped, the words muffled against your skin.

Your hips bucked at his confession, and he pinned you down harder, his thumb sliding in to press right where his tongue wasn’t, overwhelming you with sensation. Every movement of his mouth was calculated—slow enough to tease, fast enough to destroy. He pulled back just slightly, his breath hot against your swollen, aching clit.

“You gonna come for me now?” He murmured, his voice low, hoarse with need. He nipped lightly at your inner thigh before flattening his tongue against you again, harder this time. “Right on my tongue? Let me have it, baby.”

Your whole body convulsed at his words, heat spreading so quickly you barely had time to gasp his name before it tore through you. The orgasm hit hard, sharp, your thighs trembling against his shoulders as you cried out, tugging his hair, desperate and raw.

But he didn’t stop. Even as your body writhed and your hips jerked, he lapped at you like he couldn’t get enough, like he was desperate to drink down every sound, every shudder. His moan vibrated through your core, drawing out the high until you collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving, sweat dampening your skin.

“Shit— Lando, I can’t—” You whimpered, your whole body still quivering, every nerve raw. 

When he finally lifted his head, his lips were wet, slick with your cum, his curls mussed from your fingers tugging at them. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand lazily, then leaned forward to press his tongue flat against your clit one last time.

The shock of it made you jolt, your thighs trembling against his grip. “Lando— please…” You gasped, but he only smiled against you.

“You think one orgasm’s enough for me?” Lando said, his voice wrecked, low. His index finger slid through your folds, circling slowly, dragging your sensitivity to the edge of unbearable. “Not when I’ve waited this fucking long.” He pressed two fingers inside you again, curling them just right, making your back arch off the bed. “I told you, Sunshine,” He muttered, eyes fixed on your face, “I’m not keeping myself from this anymore. Not from you.”

You squirmed under him, your hands clutching at the sheets, your breath breaking apart into desperate whimpers. Every time you were close, every time the heat coiled too tight, he slowed down, pulled away, forcing you to the edge but never letting you fall. 

“Lan— fuck, please… I can’t—”

“Yes, you can, Sunshine.” He cut you off, his tone sharp but dark with desire. His lips brushed your inner thigh before he bit it lightly, sucking just enough to leave a mark. 

You tried to grind against his fingers, desperate, but his free hand pressed firmly against your stomach, holding you down. His smirk grew when you let out a frustrated whine.

“Look at you,” He whispered, watching the way you squirmed. “So needy… you want my cock that bad?” He flicked his tongue over your clit, quick and precise, just enough to make your body convulse. “Beg me for it, Sunshine. Let me hear you.”

Your pride tried to resist, but the ache inside you was unbearable, your body trembling with denied release. Your nails dug into the sheets, your voice breaking as you finally gave in. “Please, Lan… fuck me already, I need you—”

He whimpered like the words alone had undone him, his lips parting as if the sound was too good, too addictive. Lando dragged his fingers out of you slowly, sucking them into his mouth with a moan before leaning over you. 

His lips brushed yours, teasing, so close but not giving you the kiss you craved. “Say it again.” He demanded softly, his breath hot against your mouth.

Your eyes fluttered shut, desperation spilling out of you. “Just fuck me, Lando. I’m begging you.”

That was all it took. He crashed his mouth back onto yours, hungry and rough, his body sliding against yours with the weight of everything he’d been holding back. His hands roamed around your waist, your thighs, and your breasts—touching you like he was making up for lost time.

You could barely breathe when you felt him grind against you, the hard line of his cock straining through his sweatpants brushing your slick folds through the thin barrier of his pants. The friction sent a desperate whimper tumbling out of you, and he swallowed it with another bruising kiss.

“F-fuck,” He muttered against your mouth, his voice jagged with restraint. His hips rolled once, slow, making your body jolt beneath him. His forehead pressed against yours, curls damp against your skin. “You’re gonna kill me, Sunshine. I can’t—”

His words broke off into a groan as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his chest rising hard against yours. Then, with hands trembling more from need than hesitation, he gripped the hem of your top and peeled it upward. The cool air kissed your heated skin, and his gaze followed every new inch revealed. His jaw clenched, his breath catching.

“Holy shit…” He whispered, like the sight of you had gutted him. His palms cupped your breasts, thumbs circling slowly over your nipples until your back arched. “You’re so beautiful.”

Your fingers tugged impatiently at the waistband of his pants, and he gave a broken laugh, shaking his head as if you were undoing him with every tiny move. “Yeah, fuck— don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

In a rush of clumsy urgency, he yanked his pants down, tossing it blindly across the room. His cock sprung free, heavy and flushed, and your breath hitched at the sight of him—thick and hard, precum glistening at the tip.

He noticed your stare and smirked, leaning down to kiss your neck, his voice husky against your skin. “Like you see something you like, huh?” He teased, his voice husky and wrecked, the cockiness in his tone making your cheeks burn.

Your laugh came out shaky, caught somewhere between breathless and needy, and the sound only made his grin widen against your skin. He didn’t give you a chance to answer—his touch lingered over your hip, firm yet reverent, before he leaned over to fumble in the drawer, cursing low under his breath until he finally pulled out a condom and tore it open with his teeth.

He sat back on his knees, chest rising and falling fast, the muscles in his arms flexing as he rolled the condom down over himself. The sight alone made your thighs press together, your body begging for him. 

When Lando’s eyes met yours again, they were full of hunger, but also something softer. He bent down, his lips brushing yours in a whisper of a kiss. “You ready, Sunshine?” He asked, his voice low, wrecked with both restraint and need, searching your eyes for any hesitation or restraint. 

And then—just as he slid the tip of himself against your entrance, your breath caught, panic flickering in your chest. “Lando— wait.”

Immediately, he froze. His forehead pressed to yours, his chest rising and falling in sharp breaths. His hands stayed steady on your hips, not forcing, not moving. “What’s wrong, Sunshine? Talk to me.”

Your throat felt tight, your lips trembling, but you forced the words out. “I…” Your voice broke. You shut your eyes, cheeks burning before finally admitting, “Fuck, I’ve never done this before.”

Silence.

When you dared to look, his expression was stunned, caught between disbelief and something achingly soft. His thumb brushed your cheek, gentle, grounding. “You mean…?” He swallowed, searching your eyes. “You’re still a virgin?”

You nodded, barely breathing, every nerve in your body screaming with fear that this would change everything.

For a long moment, Lando just stared at you, his jaw tight, his eyes blazing with something unreadable. Then he shook his head slowly, like he couldn’t believe what you’d just trusted him with. “Fucking hell, I didn’t know… I thought you—” His voice was wrecked, almost breaking. “And you— you’d give that to me?”

You lifted a hand to his face, brushing your thumb over his lip, steady despite your trembling. “There’s no one else I’d ever want to. Just you. Only you.”

His breath left him in a rough exhale, his eyes fluttering shut, and head hanging low as if the words undid him more than anything else ever could. When he opened them again, they were softer than you’d ever seen, raw and burning just for you.

“Are you sure?” He whispered, his forehead pressing to yours again. “Tell me right now if you don’t want this, and I’ll stop. I swear, I’ll stop.”

“I’m sure,” You whispered, your voice trembling but true. “Please, Lan. I want you.”

He kissed you then—not rough, not hungry, but slow and reverent, as if he was sealing a promise. His hand gently cupped your cheek, the other tracing slow, grounding circles on your thigh.

When he finally slid down, lining himself up with you, he did it with infinite patience. He pressed the tip against you, watching your face the whole time. 

“This might hurt a bit, Sunshine,” He murmured against your lips, voice thick with restraint. “But I’ll go slow. So fucking slow. Just hold onto me, and tell me if you need a break.” 

You nodded in response, and that was a green light for him. Lando pushed in, inch by inch, his jaw clenched tight as he held himself back, his breath ragged against your cheek. You gasped at the stretch, your nails digging into his shoulders, and he immediately froze, cupping your face. 

“Hey— look at me. You okay?”

You nodded quickly, even though your eyes watered, your chest heaving. “Yeah… yeah, I’m okay. Just… don’t stop.”

His face crumpled with something between agony and devotion. He kissed your forehead, your cheek, your mouth, whispering against your skin. “Good girl. You’re so perfect. Taking me so well…” 

And when he finally sank fully into you, he held still, buried deep, his whole body shaking with the effort not to move too fast. “F-fuck,” He groaned into your neck, voice breaking. “You feel like heaven, sunshine. Absolute fucking heaven.”

He stayed like that, kissing away your nerves, whispering sweet nothing until the pain dulled, until you shifted beneath him and whispered the words that tipped him over the edge of restraint. “Move, Lando. Please.”

He groaned like the sound alone shattered him, burying his face in your neck as his hips finally shifted. The first drag of him moving inside you was slow, his cock filling you in a way that made your chest tighten and your thighs tremble.

“Holy shit,” He breathed, his voice guttural, shaky with restraint. “You’re so tight—”

Each movement was careful, his hand gripping your thigh, the other stroking your cheek as if to remind you he was there, that you weren’t alone in this. He pressed kisses across your jaw, down your neck, his words tumbling out against your skin. It still hurt a little, but beneath it there was heat—sweet, dizzying sparks that curled low in your stomach. 

“Lando…” You gasped, nails digging into his back. “Don’t hold back— please.”

He pulled back then, just far enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, blown wide, but the softness was still there—woven deep into the hunger. “You sure?”

“Yes,” You breathed. “I want all of you.”

The groan that tore from him was broken, and desperate. His forehead dropped to yours, curls damp from sweat against your skin, before his hips snapped forward in a deeper thrust. You cried out, clinging to him, and he kissed you hard, swallowing every sound. His rhythm built, still controlled but heavier now, deeper, until every roll of his hips had you gasping into his mouth. His hands gripped your body like he never wanted to let go—one on your hip, the other tangled in your hair as if he needed you closer, always closer.

The heat inside you coiled tighter with every movement, your body matching his rhythm instinctively. You dragged your nails down his back, gasping his name like it was the only word you knew. “Lan— I think—”

“I know, baby, I know,” He panted, his lips crashing into yours again, hot and desperate. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”

And when it hit you—when your body clenched around him, your cry muffled against his mouth—he lost himself too. His thrusts stuttered, his hips pressing deep as he groaned your name, spilling into the condom with a shudder that rattled through his whole body. 

The world had gone quiet again, save for the sound of the air conditioning and both of your uneven breaths slowly settling into rhythm. Lando was still inside you, his body heavy and warm on top of yours, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His lips pressed absent, feather-light kisses along your collarbone like he couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.

Finally, after a long moment, he shifted with a soft groan, careful as he pulled himself out, and took the used condom off, throwing it away to the bin next to your bed.

Then, he came back to you, his hand rubbing soothing circles into your thigh. “You okay?” His voice was low, roughened by exhaustion, but so gentle it made your chest ache.

You nodded, brushing his messy curls from his forehead with shaky fingers. “I’m more than okay, Lan.”

His mouth curved into a tired, crooked grin before he leaned down to kiss you—slower this time, sweet and lingering. He pulled the blanket up over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders, then gathered you against his chest like you were something fragile.

“You’re amazing, Sunshine,” He whispered, pressing his lips to your temple. “Didn’t hurt too much, did it?”

You shook your head against him, smiling softly. “Only at first. But then it was perfect.”

He tightened his arms around you, his chin resting in your hair. For a while, neither of you spoke. You just lay there, tangled together, your leg hooked over his, his thumb tracing mindless patterns across your arm. The room smelled faintly of your shower gel and his cologne, mixed with the salt from the sea still clinging to his skin.

When you finally broke the silence, your voice was hushed, almost shy. “I meant it, you know. About not wanting anyone else. I’d only ever want you.”

Lando pulled back just enough to look at you, his aquamarine eyes glassy with something that wasn’t just exhaustion. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but instead he kissed you again, slow and deep, as if words couldn’t come close to what he felt.

He whispered your name softly when he finally pulled away. “You’ll ruin me, you know that?” You giggled softly, snuggling closer, hiding your face in his chest. He chuckled quietly too, his hand smoothing down your back, his heartbeat steady under your ear.

After a long silence, you exhaled shakily. “Can I tell you something?”

He hummed, pressing a kiss into your hair. “Always.”

“I was… scared to tell you it was my first time.” Your voice was so small it almost vanished into the space between you. “Scared you’d think I was… I don’t know. Less attractive or boring. Or—”

“Hey.” Lando’s hand stilled against your back. He tipped your chin up gently, forcing your eyes to meet his. His gaze was sharp, almost offended, but softened with warmth. “Sunshine, you’re insane for thinking that.” Your breath caught as his thumb brushed your cheek.

“None of it made you less attractive. Do you have any idea how much it meant to me that you wanted it to be me? That you trusted me like that?” His voice dropped lower, softer. 

Your chest tightened, tears prickling behind your eyes, but you smiled anyway, trying to shake the heaviness. “Still… I probably sucked at this, and looked clueless.”

Lando’s lips curved into a slow grin, his tone slipping into a teasing drawl. “Clueless? You? Oh, please.” He leaned closer, his breath brushing your ear. “You didn’t look like someone inexperienced in that bathroom, kneeling in front of me on the floor the other night…”

Your face burned instantly, and you swatted his chest, giggling despite yourself. “Lando!”

He laughed with you, the sound low and husky, wrapping you up in it as much as his arms. “I’m just saying,” He teased, his grin smug. “Pretty sure virgins aren’t supposed to look that sexy while also begging for me to fuck them.”

“Shut up.” You muttered, burying your face against him, but your laughter betrayed you.

He chuckled, kissing the top of your head, still holding you tight. “Never shut up about it. Not when it’s you.”

The night blurred into warmth, into shared kisses, and into the slow weight of Lando’s breathing evening out beside you. You had never felt so safe, so full, and so undone yet held together all at once. 

Eventually, exhaustion won, and you drifted to sleep in his arms. His chin was gently tucked against your hair, his thumb still brushing your skin like he couldn’t bear to let you go, even unconscious.

When the faintest pale light crept through the curtains, painting the room in shades of silver and lavender, you stirred. Lando was still there, one arm heavy around your waist, his curls messy, his lips parted in the softest, almost boyish way. For a moment, you just watched him, memorizing him like this—unguarded, and all yours.

But then he shifted, blinking awake slowly. His gaze found yours, sleepy but softened by a small smile. He pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering. “Morning, Sunshine.” His voice was hoarse, rough from sleep, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

You wanted to keep him there forever. But you both knew you couldn’t.

With a reluctant sigh, he pulled away, sitting up. “I think I should…” He glanced toward the door. “Before anyone notices.”

Your chest squeezed, but you only nodded, fingers catching his wrist before he could pull away. He looked back at you, and leaned back down. But this time, the kiss wasn’t rushed. It was slow, deep, like he wanted it branded into both of you. 

He pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips, breath warm, “Love you.”

When he whispered those two words, something inside you cracked open, soft and trembling, like you’d been waiting years just to hear those two words in his voice.

For a moment, you couldn’t even breathe. Because how could this be real? How could it be that the same boy you’d been hopelessly in love with since you were fourteen—the boy you used to watch from across crowded rooms, the boy who smiled at you like you were just Max’s little sister—was now in your bed, skin still warm against yours, telling you he loved you?

It felt impossible. Unreal. Like a dream you weren’t ready to wake up from.

You smiled through the sting in your eyes, tugging him close for one more kiss. “Love you too, Lan.” The words slipped out with ease, though your heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might bruise your ribs.

When he pulled away, forehead resting gently against yours like neither of you wanted to let go, you closed your eyes just to memorize the moment. His breath mixed with yours, his fingers brushed your cheek, and his love wrapped around you like it had always been meant to. 

Then he finally pulled back, quiet as he dressed, careful with every movement. Before going, he mouthed one last goodbye paired with a soft grin that made your heart ache. “I’ll see you in a bit, Sunshine.” 

And finally, the door clicked softly behind him.

Moments later, the sheets were still cooling from his absence as you lay there, staring at the ceiling with your heart aching in the sweetest, sharpest way. Because you were still that fourteen-year-old girl somewhere deep inside—still the girl who doodled his name in margins, who blushed when he looked your way, who whispered your feelings into the dark where no one would ever hear them.

And now… now he had finally said them back.

The hallway was dim, lit only by the faint blue of dawn slipping through the villa windows. Lando padded barefoot toward his room, every step quiet and careful—until he froze.

Max was standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed and hair wild, clearly just woken up. His eyes narrowed immediately, flicking from Lando’s disheveled curls to the wrinkled tshirt, then back to the door he’d just slipped out of.

Lando’s chest tightened, his heart dropping. He opened his mouth, ready to say something—anything—but Max just tilted his head, expression unreadable. His gaze lingered one second longer, sharp, suspicious, then without a word, he turned and disappeared back into the shadows of the kitchen. Lando exhaled silently, forcing his legs to move again. He ducked quickly into his own room, shutting the door with a quiet thud.

The storm hadn’t come yet, but the air in the villa was already heavy, humming with the weight of what Max had seen, and chosen not to say.

────୨ৎ────

21 & 25

The football match had ended hours ago, but neither Max nor Lando seemed ready to call it a night. They were sprawled across the couch in Lando’s apartment, an empty pizza box on the coffee table between them, cans of beer lined up like trophies from a war well fought. The city glowed faintly beyond the tall windows, muted in the haze of late evening.

Max leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head with a satisfied sigh. “You know what’s still the wildest thing to me?”

Lando arched a brow, sipping his drink. “What?”

“That you—” Max jabbed a finger at him, grinning like he’d caught him in some grand hypocrisy. “‘Mr. I’m not interested in dating’ actually managed to get yourself a girlfriend. Like, a real one. Not just a fling as you used to.”

The words made Lando’s heart skip, but he schooled his expression into something casual, even amused. He chuckled lowly, swirling the can in his hand. “Yeah, well… stranger things have happened, mate.”

Max laughed, shaking his head. “No, seriously. Never thought I’d see the day.” He leaned forward now, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “So… who’s the unlucky girl dating you, huh?”

For a split second, Lando froze. His mind flashed with the truth—the warmth of your hand in his, the curve of your smile, the sound of your laugh, the way you whispered his name in the dark when you both lay in his bed late at night. 

“Well— about that...” Lando started hesitantly, scratching his neck.

It’s your little sister—he wanted to say.

But his composure held. He smirked faintly, masking the way his pulse had spiked. “Wouldn’t you like to know, you nosy bastard.”

Max groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh, come on. Don’t give me that. You finally settle down with someone and you won’t even tell me who she is? What’s her name, at least?”

Lando only shrugged, leaning back lazily into the couch, as if the subject bored him. “She’s shy, and we’re taking things slowly. So some things aren’t for public knowledge yet.”

Max rolled his eyes, grabbing another can of beer from the table. “You’re fucking impossible. But fine, keep your little secret.” He smirked, lifting the can toward Lando in mock salute, “However. I can’t wait to finally meet her. Hopefully, you’ll introduce me soon.”

Oh, but he didn’t have to introduce you two to each other.

Lando’s lips quirked, a laugh caught in his throat. “Yeah… maybe one day.”

Before Max could press further, Lando pushed himself off the couch, dusting crumbs off his shirt. “Speaking of introductions, I’m introducing myself to whatever snacks are left in the kitchen. You want anything?”

“Sure.” Max muttered, distracted by the match highlights flickering on the TV.

Lando padded into the kitchen, his heart still racing from the conversation. His apartment was dim, the only light coming from Monaco's skyline outside, bathing the living room in a muted orange glow. The hum of the fridge and the regular tick of the kitchen clock were the only sounds, except for Lando’s muffled cursing as he dug through the kitchen cupboards.

“I swear to God, I need to fire whoever stocks my pantry,” Lando called, his voice light, oblivious. “Where the fuck are my tortilla chips and Kinder chocolates?”

Max chuckled dryly from his spot on the couch, lounging lazily, one ankle perched on his knee. “Maybe you should stock your bloody kitchen by yourself, mate.”

“Not when I’ve got friends like you bringing me beer and all the goodies.” Lando shot back with a grin, still hidden from view.

Max shook his head, grabbing his own beer from the table. His fingers tapped absent-mindely against the can, eyes drifting over the clutter in front of him—controllers, half-empty takeout boxes, and Lando’s phone buzzing lazily against a coaster. He didn’t mean to look. He really didn’t. But the screen flashed again, bright and insistent in the dim light.

And as he leaned to see who texted him, the name on the notification twisted his stomach into a knot.

Sunshine:

see you later, Lan <3

His blood turned cold. For a second, Max thought maybe it was the beer messing with him, maybe his mind was playing tricks. But the way his chest clenched, sharp and suffocating, told him otherwise. He furrowed his brows, blinking once, twice. His brain stuttered over the words. The casual familiarity of the message—the nickname—clung to his mind like a hook.

Lan.

His stomach twisted. He swiped his tongue across his teeth, blinking as if to reset his thoughts. He let out a slow, measured exhale through his nose, the weight of that message sinking deeper than it should have. His fingers tightened slightly around the can as the pieces began to stir, forming a puzzle he had been too blind—or too unwilling—to solve.

The first day you met him. You always being somewhere around them. Ice skating. The whole Ibiza trip. You in Lando’s shirt as a pajama. That one morning when Lando walked out of your room, hair messy, shirt wrinkled. The way you always laughed a little too loud at his jokes. The way Lando’s gaze had started to linger on you—longer and softer, like you were the only person in the room. The gentle touches. The way you had always hovered near him, always watching, always… there.

He had been a fucking idiot. He had been blind. Or worse—he had ignored it.

But this? This message? This felt like a punch to the gut. His little sister, and his best mate. Holy fucking shit. Max felt the sudden rush of adrenaline through his veins, ready to kill both of you.

How could you do this to him?

The sound of footsteps on tile jolted him out of his spiraling thoughts. Lando returned, snack bag in hand, a lopsided grin tugging at his lips. “Alright, no tortilla chips but I found pretzels and those spicy peanuts you—”

“Lando.” Max’s voice wasn’t loud. But it was sharp, lethal in its stillness.

Lando froze mid-step, bags of snacks dangling from his hand. He glanced up, casual smile still lingering—but faltering the moment his eyes met Max’s. “What?”

Max’s head tilted, slow, deliberate. His gaze was sharp, dripping in a cold fury that had Lando’s throat tightening instantly. He leaned forward, forearms braced against his thighs, beer can hanging loose from his fingers, but his body was coiled, electric with tension.

“We need to talk.”

A moment of silence stretched, the weight of those words suffocating.

“About what, man?” Lando asked, his tone light, attempting casual, but his body betrayed him—shoulders stiffening, grip tightening on the snack bag as if it could shield him.

Max smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Don’t fuck with me, Lando.” 

Lando’s mouth opened, ready to toss a joke, deflect, anything—but the weight of Max’s stare pinned him in place.

“Was it nice to play behind my back?” Max continued, tone low, dangerous. “You really thought I wouldn’t figure it out?”

Lando’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Max, it’s—”

“It’s what?” Max snapped, cutting him off. “It’s nothing? You gonna tell me that text was nothing too?”

Lando’s stomach dropped. So, that’s what this was about. He cursed internally as his pulse was racing. His first instinct was to joke, to deflect, but the weight of Max’s glare pinned him to the floor. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.” His voice was quieter now, threaded with truth. “It just… happened.”

Max’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together as his fists curled at his sides. “You think that makes it better? You sneaking behind my back? You sneaking into her fucking bed, Lando?”

Lando stepped forward, hands up in a placating gesture. “Max, look at me. I didn’t sneak, and I didn’t manipulate her. I didn’t— she’s not a kid anymore, mate!”

Max scoffed, shaking his head with a bitter chuckle. “Don’t. Don’t you fucking dare tell me what I know.” His voice dropped, a deadly whisper now. “You were supposed to be her friend.”

“I am!” Lando said firmly, standing his ground now, eyes burning. “I am her friend. But I’m also in love with her.”

The words hit like a sledgehammer. The truth, raw and unavoidable, hung in the charged silence that followed. It made Max’s chest ache in a way that wasn’t just anger—it was betrayal, confusion, and protectiveness, all tangled in a knot he couldn’t untangle fast enough.

Max scoffed, dark and bitter. “You fell for her? Christ, Lando. What the fuck!”

Lando didn’t flinch. “Yeah, I fucking did. And if you’d open your eyes, you’d see this a long time ago, and not only now.” Max’s breath hitched. Because deep down, some part of him knew. He had always known that despite how much he had tried, it was inevitable. 

But knowing and facing it—those were two very different things.

Max didn’t even realize how hard his fists had clenched until his nails dug into his palms, a sharp sting that barely registered. His breathing was shallow. Every time he tried to speak, the words just burned his throat. “You—” He started, but it fizzled into nothing. 

His thoughts were a mess, tangled between anger and something deeper. Betrayal? Guilt? Loss? He didn’t know.

The words hung heavy in the air, the room suddenly too small to contain it. “You don’t get it,” Max’s voice was low, dangerous. “She’s not just someone you can fall for. She’s my little sister.” He growled, his voice dropping. “You know she’s always been off-limits for you.”

Across from him, Lando wasn’t fidgeting anymore. He stood still, but his jaw was tight, the muscle ticking. His eyes weren’t apologetic, they were certain.

“Max…” Lando’s voice was quieter now, not as defensive, not cocky. Just real. “I’ve loved her for a long time. You just never wanted to see it.”

And that—that hit. 

“You think this is about me not seeing it?!” Max snapped, his voice louder now, shattering through the apartment. “You think this is about me pretending? You’re my fucking best friend, Lando. And she’s my little sister. You’re both all I’ve got.”

The air was thick, suffocating. The room felt too small for the both of them, as if the walls themselves were bracing for impact. Max’s fists trembled at his sides, and for a second, Lando wondered if this was it—if the fistfight was about to happen, if years of their deeply-rooted friendship were about to shatter right here, right now. But Max didn’t move. He just stood there, shaking his head slightly, lips pressed into a razor-thin line.

Finally, he muttered, almost to himself, his voice low and ragged. “I can’t deal with this shit right now.” 

The words dropped heavy between them. Max turned abruptly, his footsteps sharp against the floor as he stalked toward the door. Lando flinched at the slam of the front door rattling the frame. And then—silence.

Lando’s chest tightened painfully. He didn’t want it to be like this. Not with Max. Not with you. You both had wanted to tell Max, together, carefully. Not… like this.

Outside, the city lights flickered against the night sky, but inside the apartment, the air crackled with unspoken truths and the weight of inevitable consequences.

And Lando knew—he was fucked. This wasn’t over, not by a long shot.

But now, the secret was finally out. The lines were blurred, and rules were broken. She was off-limits from the very beginning, and he knew it. She knew it. Yet what’s forbidden always tempts the most, and they had been tasting it for far too long. 

After all, the forbidden taste is always the sweetest, and it’s just impossible to resist it.

© haniette | 2025, all rights reserved.

reuploads and likes are highly appreciated ♡

@norristrii <3 xx

[kofikit]

DP x DC: Smoke & Mirrors

Tim gets hit by a sleep spell. Y'know the ones - where you have to want to wake up and escape your perfect fantasy.

One moment Batman is yelling in his ear that he taught Tim better than rushing in blindly, like Tim had a choice with Nightwing's impulsive leap.

Yeah, sure... the choice of not watching Nightwing's back.

People always thought it was Jason or Damian who were the impulsive ones. But really it was Nightwing, and then Spoiler, and then Damian. Jason was just hotheaded and loud, which gave the impression but in fact he was one of the more cautious Bats when entering a place.

When Tim 'wakes up' someone he hadn't seen since he was twelve is in front of him. Danny Fenton reaches out to him softly and asks, "Hey, are you okay?"

Like the boy hadn't died in front of Tim, Sam and Tucker in his parents' lab.

He looks good. He looks healthy. Older. The baby fat gone from his cheeks to become a sharp jawline. Narrow frame that Tim's experience with awareness of his surroundings automatically categorized as five foot nine swimmer's build. Same as his mom, Maddie. His eyes were different though, more green in them now, like his sister's.

They're in a coffee shop and Danny is handing Tim a drink with one hand and brushing hair away from Tim's forehead with another.

Tim replies, "Yeah. I'm fine now," and then they go about their day.

There's hints. Missing time, changed clocks, how touch and heat and cold sometimes feel dulled and sometimes too sharp. Faces that pass through the day are always familiar and out of place in the roles they are given. For some reason every street light is red all the time.

He ignores it all desperately, because Danny says he loves Tim like it had been said a million times. And it hurts. Because Danny said that all the time when they were children, but it didn't mean the same thing when they were little kids playing house with Jazz.

Tim supposes those words said so easily shouldn't seem odd to him seeing as Danny had said 'love you' to him the most out of anyone in Tim's life.

His parents were only home during school vacations, and the Bats weren't very vocal about it. But Danny had always said it liberally. As if an 'I love you' were money and he wanted to make his friends and family rich as hell.

Even though Tim hadn't seen Danny in a decade he had still heard it more in total from Danny than all other people summarily.

The day drifts. They go to visit Jason's grave - over the course of their walk they'd left behind the Gotham coffee shop and Gotham graveyard. The air smells like wheatgrass and gravestones became polished as they let the rusty always-unlocked gate swing shut to Amity Graveyard. Danny doesn't have one there even though Tim remembers where it should be, and leaves a flower.

Danny gets scared when he says that, holds Tim with both hands cradling his face and reassures that he didn't die that day, it only made him half ghost and he's still here.

Tim cracks to pieces being held by him as he sobs, and the world warps. Danny takes him home to their apartment. Tim knows that's not how it works and he's missing something. It doesn't feel real-

Danny stops him and says he teleported them. Which all of a sudden makes sense to Tim, of course that was all. He remembers now. Danny has too many powers to name, even Tim forgets them all sometimes. (Don't think about it.)

These days there are so few ghost attacks in Amity with Danny running things in the Realms. Danny doesn't need to use powers like teleportation often. Tim usually tries not to think about those harsh days when the halfa was tripping into new abilities left and right while Tim had to watch the ghosts break his bones in the middle of the street. He's been so out of it today, drifting, worrying Danny.

But Danny understood. He'd been a hero for a long time from an early age. There were so few people who understood Tim. His earliest childhood friend didn't mind him having bad days. He said as much in the graveyard when Tim cried where Danny's grave should be.

They go to sleep early but Tim feels like he didn't sleep at all when he watches the red, cloudy sunrise through the window. Something about it is- he's drawn to it, struggles to remember- why red, his parents' summer cottage home in Illinois didn't have red skies-

Danny flinches away from the light in his sleep and Tim's hit with fury. He slips away from being held for a short moment to snap the shades shut. Ghosts fear light the way humans fear the dark. They shouldn't have been open anyway. He won't let anything hurt Danny, even as small as nightmares.

They get up, shower, make breakfast, Danny keeps helping him remember what happened in missing time, and holds him fiercely in reassurance that it's okay. He doesn't mind helping Tim remember if it means he stays.

The day is a fog; at the diner the waitress sets down a plate of waffles and begs Tim to wake up, tells him dreams aren't real happiness and that she loves her boyfriend even if they are messy and hurt and have to gently rebuild brick by brick - she wants to do that with him if he would just wake up.

Danny punches the waitress in the face so hard she stumbles back into the bar, and snaps at her with eyes glowing neon that this was the way things were supposed to be.

It was stolen from them once.

Danny wasn't going to let him go ever again.

Tim's confused - Danny had never died. Tim hadn't had to let him go. He'd grown up in that summer cottage with his parents, and spent all his life hearing Danny say 'I love you' in different ways.

Summers filled with the Illinois haze of pollen and heat, neon lights of the FentonWorks sign and sleepovers under glow stars, making lightsaber noises as he and Tucker chased each other around at the playground under the shade of the trees, summer storms rife with thunder as they all screamed and ran outside into the rain to throw mud at each other in gratitude for the cold, sand under his bare toes and the night sky stretched overhead with a bonfire on the shores of Lake Eerie. His parents home from digs for the hot season and he got to see them every single morning before he went off to play. The crisp crunch of leaves as they began to turn before school started back up and Tim was returned to Gotham's boarding schools and the usually lonely city penthouse.

What did the halfa mean by it being stolen from them? Tim was right here.

It's a workday though, and after Danny takes Tim and bolts from the diner, he mulishly gives him rough kiss goodbye then drops him off at work.

The routine of it settles him. The familiarity and knowing what to expect. Tim may as well be a messenger boy today, going back and forth between his office where he would video call the managers of various Neon Knights centers, and the financial division to turn in request forms.

He falters his way through conversational Russian with the newest center they opened out there, ends up chatting about taking Tae Kwon Do with the rep in Hong Kong, and has to argue in Mandarin for three full hours to secure a contract with a company to send sports equipment to the Neon Knights center in England.

Tim hacks his way into a full folder of basic data about four kids that Gotham's Neon Knights centers had informed him were interested in attending Gotham Uni, a record high for the week, and put it all together in a way that made them look like wonderful scholarship candidates.

He throws open the door to the CEO's office with a wide grin and too excited to remember he'd loosened his tie and undone the bottom two buttons of his shirt. "Four! Four kids told the new counselor they want to join the Martha Foundation's scholarship-"

"Tim, son," Bruce interrupts him with voice pleading. "I'm so proud of you, and I never tell you that enough. Please wake up. Please come back to us. I know we aren't perfect, but that false fantasy - it's fake, and there are real people that love you waiting. Wake up, Tim."

Wide-eyed, Tim stumbles a step back.

The mirror on the wall cracks. The coffee on the desk tilts to spill on the floor. Bruce doesn't react.

"Tim!"

And Danny's there, cupping his face and pleading with Tim to stay calm. Reassuring him that he's safe with eyes pinched like he was going to cry from watching Tim so upset and terrified.

He pulls Tim away and Tim clings to him with the reflex of the damned drowning in water, that claw for a hold on their rescuer only to drag them both under with their struggles.

Danny had brought him lunch at work knowing he was likely going to forget given how much trouble Tim was having lately. There's nothing in his eyes but worry and patience.

He cares. Bruce is wrong, Danny has always loved him. Bruce may care but Tim had to earn any love or loyalty there bit by bit - by baring his throat for them to hold a knife to, working himself exhausted to earn it... and it was conditional.

If Tim left his job that love would leave too. He's seen it before when people retired. It was obvious from the chat with Cissie and Greta that had the last message sent two years ago when they happened to be visiting Gotham and asked to meet up for lunch. But Tim had already been in San Francisco by the time they did.

Tim never had to earn it with Danny. Danny expected nothing beyond the basics of communicating in their relationship and reciprocating affection, never wanted him to be useful to earn praise, never gave him the cross to bear of a title of responsibility to be the better person like 'Damian's brother' or 'Replacement', had never wanted Tim to fight even if the halfa had to.

Danny never wanted him to be anything. Danny just wanted him.

Tim is clinging to Danny as Bruce's words turn to static in his ears and the world crashes around him like the glass from the mirror did - and everything twists again. Right, teleporting.

It's suddenly late afternoon near sunset. Tim is sitting in a chair at the table, calm, staring at the steaming coffee in front of him. There's the rhythmic sound of a knife on a cutting board somewhere, along with a pissed off nightingale outside the window chasing another songbird through their tree, the faint rushing of wind and leaves.

Danny's arms are both around him and he's leaning against Tim's back with chin on his shoulder gently rocking them.

"Back with us, baby?" Is murmured to him, and Tim finally raises his head to blink and then nod slowly.

Danny tilts his head to the side towards him with a touch to the chin and kisses him so softly Tim can barely stand it. Tim shifts a knee to try and halfway turn around for easier access and returns it with just as much feeling.

Why did it feel like no one has touched or kissed him like this in years? Shouldn't he be used to it?

Tim frowns when they part. "... How long have we been together by now?"

"Officially? Well, prom was... you turned thirteen around... Mm, ten years?"

Tim blinked. It has truly been so long, since the lab?

He had spent half his life without Danny? Might've- would have, if Danny weren't halfa.

He remembers it now that Danny said it, like being told unlocked the memories. Talking, laughing, their first kiss while Danny was in physio after the accident and he had been able to write his name again for the first time - Tim had spun him around as they yelled in joy and then found himself pulling Danny in for it. Then they pretended it never happened as they scrambled though the Bi crisis. Gentle kisses exchanged in secret and even more hesitant gestures of affection they pretended were just friends being supportive. They were so tiny.

Tim could never survive that loss, he thinks. Half his life alone would become a majority and he couldn't stand the thought of that. Of experiencing more of life without Danny than with him.

Why did he keep thinking he was going to lose Danny?

There was a scraping sound from the kitchen as a knife was wiped off on the edge of a cutting board, then a sizzle. Hot oil and the smell of roasting.

Kon, chopping the onions since the juice couldn't hurt his eyes and make them tear up. He always did that for them when anyone cooked.

Danny hesitates and gives Tim a careful look. "Why do you ask? More brain fog, are you okay?"

"Just orienting myself I guess." Tim answers.

He becomes aware of voices in the living room after a loud bang from there. Bart, Cassie, Sam, and Tucker all laughed.

Of course Danny had called them when Tim blanked out again. How many times was that this month? He feels horrible, guilty, for being a burden-

"Hey, no," Danny rubs a thumb over his cheek. "They enjoy their time here sunshine. You're no burden. They like spending time with you even when you're having one of these... Moments. They just prefer you more present because it's better for you. And they're my friends too you know, just like Sam and Tucker are yours."

Tim feels something in him coil up in bitterness at the last part - Sam's screaming still echoes in his ears sometimes, after what happened to Danny. She hates him.

But there was still history there, a long one, they were too important to each other to let sleeping dogs lie.

The hesitance about Sam is secondary to hearing the softness in Danny's voice, the laughter in the other room, the clack of the spatula in the kitchen and vague smell of caramelized onion drifting on the air.

"I love you." Tim tells Danny on reflex.

It felt like ages since he last said that to Danny.

"Stay with me then, okay?" Danny smiles and pokes him lightly in the side, half playful half affectionate. "And I'll wait as long as you need to see your eyes light up like this again. Needing breaks is okay. I just want you to rest. I'll always be here when you zone back in, okay space cadet?"

Tim kisses him, and remembers what it's like to feel like home is a person. It makes him feel like a little kid again.

"It's his favorite," Alfred says as he sets down the plate of fancy stuffed mushrooms next to them. He'd chosen a mix of cream cheese and caramelized onion for the filler of them today. It was the differing fillings that Tim liked most, always something new to try, he liked the variety. "They say the smell of coffee can wake the dead. You lot certainly do look like zombies, stumbling down the stairs following it."

"He's not dead!" Kon snaps from the entrance to the kitchen.

The suddeness, the yelling, and the jarring way it tore apart the warmth in his chest that his lungs could barely contain make Tim flinch. His shoulders drop forward as he all but cowers with head bowed towards the still-hot coffee.

Danny covers Tim's ears and puts up a barrier to seal the spaces between his fingers, and then Tim watches the halfa's mouth move silently like the world was on mute while Danny yelled his lungs out at the two in sheer neon-eyed rage.

Danny would never let them hurt him. Tim knows it down to his soul. He remains relaxed, lets his head lean against one of the other's shoulders.

Eventually Alfred leaves and Kon goes to the living room with the others. Tim cards a hand through Danny's hair until he's calm. They breathe together to slow their racing heartbeats, and Danny's hands eventually stop shaking.

When Danny finally opens his eyes they flash red once before settling back to his usual gorgeous northern lights green. "Tim. As long as you want it - want this. I'll keep you safe, I'll keep you here. I promise."

Tim nods slowly. He has vague flashes - Bruce and Dick standing and screaming in the entryway of the manor, his mother hissing in low cold about the Drake heirship, his father pulling a gun on Bruce and yelling that Tim is his son after finding out about Robin, Damian's loud haughty voice and way of twisting simple words into cruelty... Tim would hide in his room whenever he was at home. Jason told him once that Bruce and Dick didn't fight in front of him like that as a child. Tim was trained to be a soldier instead of a son so they didn't care by then, and fought in front of him all the time.

"... I hate it when they yell." Tim whispers.

Danny's eyes burn with anger and determination, and he presses a kiss to Tim's temple. "Then I'll make sure you never hear them again, since they're only going to upset you. Okay?"

Tim exhales and melts into him, basking in the affection as all five of their best friends talk in the other room, waiting for the two to be ready to join them. "Okay."

.

.

.

The cave is nearly full with a more-colorful-than-you-would-think array of Gotham vigilantes as the rush of air and electrical whine of the Zeta power down.

"Zatanna," Bruce says, jaw tight. "Thanks for coming."

Zatanna nods at him. "Batman. You said it was a magically induced sleep state?"

Batman makes a small sound on confirmation and turns to lead the way to the medbay.

"Right. Let's get the kid on his feet. Don't worry, it won't take long to wake him up."

[lewdcookies]

Something about your monster best friend had changed as of late. Whenever he saw you there was a brief look in his eyes, and more than once you had noticed him giving the same look you over whenever he thought you weren't looking. His eyes slowly wander over your body with a hungry, almost predatory gleam in his eyes.

At first you played them off as a trick of your mind. But as time went on, and his hungry glances continued, your imagination began to wander. It started simple; you feeling him up close to you, a clawed hand brushing against you or his hot breath against your neck. All the while those eyes, with that same hungry gleam to them, seemed to devour you.

Over time your dreams and fantasies about him slowly turned naughty. He started to become more eager, more possessive. Him pressing his body up closely against yours. Hands roaming all over you, touching, exploring, squeezing, groping. The sound of his heavy breath in his ears as he touched you, his eyes eating you up. Then he began to strip you naked, tearing your clothes into tatters and leaving you feeling vulnerable and exposed before him. You shuddered when you felt his claws dragging over your exposed skin. His sharp claws against your skin, never drawing blood, made you whimper and moan. Feeling his sharp teeth against the neck, either lightly biting or dragging over your skin, was always the thing that brought you to a violent climax.

You couldn't help but to notice the way he kept crossing his legs whenever he was around you, as if trying to keep something in control. It didn't take long until you began to wonder what he had between his legs. What it looked like, how big it was, how much he came. Not to mention the taste, both of his cock and of his cum. In your fantasies he never went all the way, never spearing you on his shaft and claiming you as his. But it was always there, and every time he seemed to have a different cock; sometimes it was one from your own collection, other times it was ones you had seen online. But it was always hot and throbbing hard for you. Sometimes you imagined it rubbing against you and whenever he came, either by his hand or yours, he covered your body with his load. Other times you used your mouth, worshipping it like a god, until he flooded your mouth with his load. With you savouring every drop of it.

The more he crept into your fantasies, the more intensive your webcam sessions became. You never said it out loud, but he was always the one fucking you. Regardless of the toy you were using, it was him. It was he that you rode on top of. He was the one that pounded you from behind. You even ended up buying a fuck machine, just so you could imagine him fucking you into a screaming, climaxing mess with his cock. In your dreams, you belonged to him and no one else.

Now, whenever you see him, seeing how he undresses and devours you with his eyes, a naughty thrill runs up your spine. All you can do is wonder when he finally crosses that threshold to claim you as his. Or maybe you should offer yourself to him. You had been looking at collars and leashes recently after all.

Monster Bestfiend Accidentally Finds Your Only Fans

Monster best friend that accidentally finds your only fans. As soon as he sees your face, he goes to get off your page, but when he sees the giant monster dildo in your hand, he pauses. His finger hovers over the play button, his mind at war with itself on whether to see more. His conscience screams at him to put the phone down and forget he saw you there, but everything else screams at him to see more.

He gives in and clicks on your page, and his cock throbs as he realizes that every video is of you playing with all different monster dildos. He starts a video and can’t help but moan as you bounce up and down on a very large dildo, clearly modeled after a werewolf cock. Your tiny cunt stretched more than he would have thought possible for a little human. 

His hand is immediately wrapped around his throbbing cock and stroking in time with your movements. He growls as he watches your face scrunch up in pleasure, feeling his own release getting closer, far faster than he would like. 

As you let out a scream and gush all over the dildo, he finally cums, shooting all over his hand and the floor. He releases a small moan as he glances at his phone and sees the cum covering the screen over your naked body. 

The guilt slowly creeps in as he comes down from his high, and he vows he will never do this again. And he continues to break that vow every night as he crawls into bed, his cock cumming hard as he watches your videos, only to swear it’s the last time all over again. 

And when he sees you next, and his cock starts hardening immediately, he knows he is truly fucked. He’s just going to have to find a way to claim you for himself. At least he knows you have a thing for monsters and riding monster cock. He can’t wait to see you bouncing on his. 

[sweet-halsey]

off limits

Chapter 15 – A place that feels like mine

fourteen | fifteen | sixteen

lando norris x reader

summary: lando wants her, badly. she has a boyfriend, but that’s not going to stop him. he won’t quit until she’s his.

Two weeks passed.

Long enough to settle into something new. Long enough to feel the absence of routine but not long enough to forget the way things used to be.

My new flat was small, tucked above a bakery in Notting Hill and flooded with light in the morning. The walls were bare, the furniture mismatched, but it felt like mine. Like a fresh page.

Oddly enough, it was Lando who helped me find it. He’d sent a link late one quiet night little listing that had just gone up, not even on the major sites yet.

@lando.jpg: just saw this, screams you. also bakery = bonus.

At first, I rolled my eyes but the next morning, I went to see it. He was right It was perfect in my budget, near enough to a train station and somehow... peaceful. I signed the lease within days.

Now, I was unpacking slowly, one box at a time. My clothes hung awkwardly on temporary racks. There were no curtains yet, not a set piece for a shared channel, not a half-decorated flat that belonged more to Morgan than to me. Just mine.

Lando and I hadn’t seen each other since Soho, but he hadn’t gone quiet. If anything, he'd doubled down.

Texts, calls, memes and little videos of his day. Instagram comments under my posts that were just suggestive enough to make me blush, but subtle enough to fly under the radar.

lando.jpg: “don’t wear that unless you want a problem”. (under a pic of me holding a coffee in a cropped sweater and cute jeans)

lando.jpg: “soho lighting hit different but u already knew that”. (on a selfie where golden hour hit my best face card)

His voice notes were the worst, that lazy smug tone he always used when he was trying to get under my skin.

“You think that new hoodie hides anything? You underestimate my attention span.”

“Send me a pic of your new setup. I need to see if the vibe matches your chaos.”

“You miss me yet?”

The last one had stayed in my inbox, unanswered, but not unread. I’d listened twice, maybe three times.

I didn’t miss Morgan, that part had become clear. But I hadn’t figured out what I wanted from Lando. Not fully.

Tonight, though, he was coming over.

He’d been teasing the idea all week.

@lando.jpg: dinner? i’ll bring dessert if you cook.

@its/you: What makes you think i’m cooking?

@lando.jpg: manifesting.

So i cook. Sort of. Pasta, store-bought sauce, garlic bread from the shop downstairs. Something simple, comforting, easy to clean up.

When he arrived, I was barefoot in my kitchen, trying to light a candle that refused to stay upright.

“Wow” he said, stepping inside with his usual swagger. “Real adult behaviour, is that ambiance I see?”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t be annoying.”

“Too late” He placed a small box on the counter. “Tiramisu, told you I’d bring dessert.”

He looked around slowly, hands in his pockets. “This place suits you.”

“Yeah?” I tried to sound casual.

He nodded. “More windows than your last place. More light.”

“You never even saw the last place properly.”

He shrugged. “I notice things.”

Of course he did.

We ate at my tiny table, knees brushing occasionally, the music low and familiar in the background. Conversation was easy about his last race, my latest brand project, gossip we’d both seen online.

He didn’t bring up Morgan, neither did I.

But at one point, between bites, he glanced up at me and said, “You seem... lighter.”

“Lighter? How so?.”

“Yeah, like you’re not carrying something all the time.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I just offered a small smile and went back to my food.

Later, after the plates were rinsed and the candles burned low, we sat on the floor with our backs against the couch, sharing spoonfuls of tiramisu straight from the box. His shoulder was warm where it leaned into mine and the occasional clink of our spoons was the only sound for a while.

“You really did all this for me?” he teased quietly, glancing sideways.

I smirked. “You brought dessert, felt like a fair trade.”

Lando turned slightly, his knee brushing mine. His tone changed softer, more honest. “I meant the flat. The food. Letting me in.”

I didn’t know how to answer that. So I didn’t. I just met his gaze.

We were close now. Too close to pretend it was still casual.

“Lando…”

But before I could finish, he leaned in. Slow. Certain. Giving me time to stop him but I didn’t.

The kiss was soft, nothing dramatic, just his lips on mine, warm and tasting like espresso and cream. Familiar and really sweet. When he pulled back, our foreheads rested together.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time” he murmured.

“I know” I whispered. “Me too.”

A breath passed between us and I could feel his heartbeat in the quiet, just as steady and real as the moment. But still, something nudged at the back of my mind, unwelcome and sharp. I didn’t want to ask and ruin the moment but I also couldn’t not ask.

"...Who is she?"

Lando blinked. “Who?”

“The blonde” I said softly. “The one in the pap photos.”

There was no flinch, no guilt in his eyes, just a small sigh and a look that said he’d been waiting for this.

“That wasn’t real” he said gently. “It was PR. Sophie, head of my marketing team, she came to me about it a few weeks ago. Said I had merch dropping, we needed buzz, attention, clicks. All that fake-glam crap.”

I didn’t say anything, just let him keep talking.

“She’s not... anything to me,” he said. “Her name’s Miri. She’s dating Sacha, one of my best mates since I was like, fourteen. They both knew about it, I’d never do that to a friend.”

He reached into his pocket, unlocked his phone, and held it out to me.

Text messages with a Sophie lit the screen.

SOPHIE:

Okay, we’ve lined up Miri so you’re familiar with her, maybe a cheeky kiss for pap interest. We’ll control the narrative.

You okay with it? It’s just for a night.

LANDO:

not ideal but yeah, fine. for the drop.

SOPHIE:

Yeah you know at the end of the day PR is PR and people just talk about it.

I handed the phone back. My stomach twisted less from jealousy and more from how normal it all seemed to him.

“Welcome to my marketing world” Lando said, his voice lowering now. “I have an image to sell.” He paused, looking at me with steady eyes. “I only agree to things when my PR team controls everything. That way, I know it’s completely fake, just for the cameras and I always have the final say, so you don’t have to worry about it.”

“Okay, now who is the one pretending uh?” I said with a little smile on my face.

“Oh shut up love”

“Make me” I said, the challenge laced in my voice and a dare in my eyes.

His mouth was on mine in a heartbeat, no hesitation this time. The kiss was deep, fierce and full of everything we hadn’t said out loud. His hand slipped to the back of my neck, pulling me closer like he couldn’t get enough and I didn’t want him to stop, not now. Not ever.

He didn’t leave that night and I didn’t ask him to.

Because in the quiet dark of my bedroom, we lay side by side on my half-made bed. The city hummed outside the window, soft and distant.

Lando’s hand found mine under the blanket. His fingers traced mine lazily, over and over again. At one point, his arm came around my waist, pulling me closer until my back was pressed against his chest.

No rush, no pressure just warmth.

He buried his nose into the space behind my ear. I felt his breath when he whispered, “This is nice.”

“Yeah” I said, eyes fluttering closed. “It is.”

We didn’t sleep right away. Just stay like that together for a while, limbs tangled, his thumb smoothing along the curve of my hip under my hoodie. It wasn’t sexual not really, just grounding. 

He didn’t push, I didn’t overthink.

Eventually, his breathing evened out behind me.

And for the first time in weeks, I slept without holding back and dreaming out loud.

•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•*´¨`*•.¸¸.•

Chapter sixteen🤍

Just 5 chapters left aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Taglist: @biblioteca-da-meia-noite, @spidybaby, @margo-justine, @jaydensluv, @lorena-mv33, @jsprien213, @sagestack, @annie115, @blooming-glooom, @saudisack, @jule239, @seonaw, @dontsupressthejess, @il0vereadingstuff, @hurtblossom, @itssueed, @mel164, @skylandori, @harrysf1girl, @julvrs, @im-an-overthinker, @blackstarpapaya, @imagine-it-was-us, @swiftlyboring, @katyshiftz, @a-beaverhausen, @neon-simp04 and @meghannnnnn

Also english is not my first language and I don't want it to be. Any mistakes are made out of pure hatred and disrespect for this language. The English have taken enough from this world, I will not let them have my tongue as well.

Thank you.

[sajakissed]

I just saw your post for the boys finding out the reader is a demon but how would they react if the reason why was to stay immortal with the boys? Would it be any different then?

he is the reason you became a demon too

tags: headcanons, gn!reader, demon!reader, established relationship, hurt/comfort

part 1 | part 2

🫧 Masterlist

🎐 MYSTERY

When he learns the truth, he freezes. Because out of all the selfish reasons he imagined you could’ve done it, this is the one that hurts the most. You gave up your soul and chose eternity with him.

He blurts, “You shouldn’t have,” but his voice cracks halfway through. He doesn’t move to leave this time, just stands there trembling.

In private, he confesses that it terrifies him. The thought of dragging you into the same endless cycle of shame and fear he’s never escaped.

When you insist it was your choice, he exhales like the weight of the world is pressing into his ribs, then cups your face so gently it’s like he’s afraid you’ll break. “Don’t regret me,” he whispers.

In battle, the panic is still there. But now when he shields you, there’s a softness after, a fleeting brush of his hand on your back. His silent way of saying, If forever is what you want, then I’ll hold you through it.

🌀 BABY

The moment he realizes you did it for him, his anger collapses like a house of cards. He laughs — broken, disbelieving — and mutters, “You’re so damn stupid…stupid for loving me this much.”

He tries to keep up the sharp tongue, but his insults lose their edge. They sound more like prayers. “Don’t ever scare me like that again, you hear me?”

Sometimes he looks at you and his eyes are glossy, like he’s seeing the life you could’ve had and hating himself for being the reason you didn’t take it.

At night, he curls around you tighter than usual. For the first time, he lets you see him cry instead of hiding it. He buries his face against your shoulder and says, “You picked me over living a good life. How the hell do I live up to that?”

He never admits it outright, but every time he holds your hand, his thumb traces places where your pulse was supposed to be like he’s reminding himself you’re still here, still you.

🎶 JINU

The truth leaves him breathless. He covers his face with his hands and just says, “You didn’t have to tie yourself down just to stay beside me.”

Jinu’s protectiveness doubles. He doesn’t just shield you from hunters, but even from Gwi-ma himself. Every glare, every subtle defiance is his way of saying, this one’s mine, you can’t touch them.

In quiet moments, he’ll trace the markings on your skin with reverence, whispering, “You shouldn’t have to carry this, but since you do, I’ll carry the weight with you.”

He tells you often, quietly, “You didn’t have to sacrifice yourself. But there’s a selfish part of me that’s glad you did.” His voice is heavy with guilt and devotion all at once.

When you break down due to Gwi-ma’s voice inside your head, he lets himself break too, pulling you against him and whispering, “If you’re lost, I’ll find you. Always. That’s my eternity with you.”

🍿 ABBY

Abby doesn’t know whether to scream or cry when you admit the truth. He grabs your shoulders, staring at you like you’re his whole world, and says, “Forever wasn’t supposed to cost you this.”

He pulls you into his arms so suddenly you almost stumble, and he chokes out, “I would have found you in your next life. I would have waited.”

The first time you tell him you don’t regret it, his face crumples. He pulls you into his chest, mumbling, “You’re breaking me, you know that? I should feel guilty but I don’t because it means I get to keep you.”

Abby hates himself for being relieved — relieved that now you’ll never leave his side, never fade away with time. The relief makes him love you harder, softer, deeper.

At night, he holds you so close you’re practically lying on top of him. He whispers into your hair, “If this is forever, then I’ll spend every second making sure you never doubt it was worth it.”

🌷 ROMANCE

When he understands why you chose this path, his smile breaks completely. He cups your face with trembling hands, whispering, “You gave up your soul…for me?” like it’s the most devastating gift he’s ever received.

He can’t stop telling you how much he loves you. His words spill out endlessly, desperate to make sure you know that you were already enough without sacrificing anything.

Romance becomes your biggest anchor, filling your days with laughter, warmth, and tender moments, trying to keep the darkness at bay with the brightness of his love.

Sometimes he cries against your shoulder, voice muffled as he says, “You shouldn’t have to prove forever like this. I would’ve loved you even if we only had one lifetime.”

But when the grief quiets, he’ll take your hands and kiss each knuckle, eyes shining with fierce devotion, “I’ll keep choosing you. Every day. Every moment. Forever.”

[niftybottle]

#i'm FROTHING at the mouf#they've been living together for so long it's normal to walk around half-undressed at this point. it's Normal. that's why mira doesn't even#think about it when she walks into rumi's room pants-less and says 'hey have you seen my - ?' only to get cut off by the discordant sound#of rumi hitting a sour chord on her guitar. rumi; who's looking at her. Really Looking at her. so different from the way she had so many#years ago; dragging her eyes up her bare legs and naked torso before remembering they were supposed to be on their way up to meet her eyes.#the guitar gets set aside as she says 'come sit' and mira forgets what she'd even been looking for; focused only on stepping closer;#pulled by rumi's gravity; much as she has been all these years - forever drawn to her; orbiting her; helpless to resist the insatiable#desire to be near her. and as she draws closer; she realizes only a split-second before she complies that she understands#the seat rumi is offering. she settles one knee just outside of rumi's hip and slings her other knee up on the other side; straddling her;#listening to the sharp breath rumi takes as she slides her arms over her warm broad shoulders and settles fully into her lap.#heat brims just under her skin; a hot little buzz of desire zipping up her spine when rumi gently; Carefully; strokes a hand up her back#and cups the back of her neck; looking up at her like she never wants to look at anything else; holding her like she's something precious;#and god. fuck. no one has ever looked at her or held her this way before; with this much tenderness; and now mira is ruined forever.#when rumi opens her mouth; it's to sigh out a breathless 'you're so beautiful mira'

#something she's said so many times before; but something that feels Undeniably Different this time; with mira sitting half-naked in her lap#rolling her hips into her abs with a quiet noise of desperation; because if she doesn't Shut Up - Fuck.#mira closes the last bit of distance and kisses her because she Has to; because if she doesn't now she'll Die; because maybe this has been#exactly what she's wanted since the first time she'd sat on the floor with rumi and listened to her play her guitar and sing.#and god. rumi hums into the kiss and pulls her closer; lips soft; tongue sweet; and mira has to reach up and cup her face because it#doesn't feel real - this brave; beautiful; resilient woman underneath her can't possibly want mira as much as she wants her.#but then rumi is tugging at her lower lip with her teeth and coaxing out a hitching gasp; the hand in her hair slipping down to stroke over#the bare skin of her side; down to brush over her outer thigh and Squeeze; a low noise rumbling out of her throat when that makes mira#jerk her hips forward with a soft whine. she kisses mira harder; more tongue more teeth more hunger; fingers splaying low over her belly;#pinky dipping just under her waistband. and fuck. Fuck. mira wants it so bad. Needs it more than she needs air. lifts her hips into her#hand; asking without asking; and rumi smiles against her mouth and slips her fingers down and -#she's pretty sure they both moan when rumi touches her; pretty sure she forgets how to kiss as she whimpers and pushes into her hand#wanting more; needing more; Begging for more#and rumi gives (and gives and gives) - @littlemousejelly

shut up

[bithewayellie]

Rafe teaching reader how to ride him, she’s usual a bottom gal and never goes on top but she’s in her second trimester and has to go ontop!

bumpin' around

rafe cameron x baby!mama!reader

warnings: pure filth, pregnancy fetish? 18+ mdni, read at your own risk lol

wc: 0.8k

a/n: sorry this took me so long anon! i've been working on like 3 different series' at the same time, whilst also watching tsitp and mlwtwb hahaha blame @mariechristine00 🤭

rafe cameron masterlist

Rafe was always on top. From the night he took your virginity, to this exact moment, where your bump has started to swell, and he still wants to make you feel good. 

‘He’s in the way, Ray,’ you murmur, feeling Rafe creeping closer between your legs, unintentionally pushing down on your swelling belly with his rock-solid abs. Every time you see him shirtless, you remember exactly why you landed yourself in this predicament.

He’s sculpted like a Greek god.

He instantly notices your discomfort, his kisses on your neck slowing down as he pulls back to assess your face. ‘We don’t have to if you’re not comfortable, baby,’ he coos, tucking your hair behind your ear.

You shake your head. He’s gotta be joking. These pregnancy hormones are no joke. You’re hornier than ever, and you’ll be damned if you’re not having sex for the next three and a half months.

‘I want to. Like… Really fucking want to,’ you breathe, dragging his lips back down to yours, arms sliding up the toned lines of his biceps as he hovers over you. He smirks into the kiss, brushing his nose against yours.

‘C’mere mama,’ he drawls, guiding you up with one hand cradling your belly. ‘I’ll show you how to sit pretty on me instead.’ His voice is soft, but commanding, and your cheeks heat instantly.

‘What if I’m bad at it?’ 

He chuckles, shaking his head as he leans back against the headboard, hands steadying your hips. ‘Bad? You couldn’t be bad if you tried. Your body was made for me, baby.’

His fingers smooth over your skin, worshipping every second of the sight of you hovering above him. He looks at you like you’re the most intoxicating thing he’s ever seen, because to Rafe, you are.

‘Look at you,’ he beams, lips quirking into a lazy grin. He’s made it clear since you began showing that he loves every part of your pregnant body, especially your bump. You’re carrying a part of him, and it drives him wild.

You shift nervously on your knees, avoiding his gaze, but his voice pulls you back.

‘Baby, you look so fuckin’ hot like this. Don’t hide from me.’ 

That’s all it takes. His hand wraps around the base of his cock, guiding himself to your soaking cunt, the heat of his tip teasing exactly where you ache. He leans forward, stealing your breath in a kiss as your palms brace against his chest.

‘Feel that?’ His voice drops to a husky growl as his tip nudges inside you. ‘That’s mine. Always has been, always will be.’ 

You whimper, grinding down without a second thought, and his jaw tenses. The stretch is sharp, intoxicating, both of you unraveling with each inch that sinks into you. A shaky breath escapes him, control hanging by a thread.

Your gasp breaks the silence when you finally bottom out, your hips instinctively rolling to test the fullness.

‘Fuck, that’s it mama. Just like that.’ His praise drips filth, but there’s a tenderness behind it that makes your chest tighten. ‘Bounce for me.’ 

With his encouragement, you rise and fall in a rhythm, each drop making your thighs quake as his cock drags against every fluttering nerve inside you. Your moans grow louder as your orgasm builds, Rafe’s thumb toying with your clit at a torturous pace.

‘You’re so wet f’me. You hear that?’ His voice is ragged, words broken by the sound of your slick every time you sink down onto him. ‘That’s my cock doin’ that to you.’ 

Your thighs tremble as he grinds up into you, the stretch almost overwhelming. His other hand palms your belly, as if he can’t stop reminding himself that you’re his, inside and out. 

‘Look at you,’ he groans, eyes locked on the way your tits bounce with each desperate grind. ‘Bouncin’ on me with my baby inside you. You’re filthy, mama. Filthy and perfect.’ 

You whimper, walls clenching tight around him. ‘R-Rafe–’

‘Yeah, say my name. Don’t stop. Ride me, baby, fuckin’ ride me ‘til you cum.’ His thumb circles your clit faster, his jaw ticking, the strain in his voice betraying how close he is. ‘Wanna feel you make a mess all over me.’ 

Your nails carve into his chest as the tension finally snaps, pleasure detonating through your veins, your whole body trembling as his name pours from your lips. Rafe breaks with you, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he bucks up hard, bruising grip on your hips as he spills into you.

‘Fuck–fuckkk, there it is. Take it baby. Take my cum like the good girl you are.’ 

You collapse against him, trembling, as he locks you down on his cock, holding you there while his release floods you deep. Your forehead drops to his, a smug smirk playing on both of your lips. 

‘That’s my girl.’

taglist: @mariechristine00 @cokewithcameron @emmiesummers @rcwhore @lmg-stilinski24

if you'd like to be added to my taglist, comment, reblog or message me <3

[orobaxis]

to your rescue

jack castello x fem!reader

Jack sees you at the Golden Tip Gas Station and assumes that you are looking for Dreamland. As he approaches you, the look on your face is not full of lust, but fear. You whisper, “Help me.” Someone’s been following you.

The neon glow of the Golden Tip Gas Station flickers against the wet pavement, casting sharp reflections in the late-night drizzle. You stand by one of the pumps, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, your coat pulled close as if it could shield you from the stares burning into your back. The night hums with the low growl of engines passing by, but your world feels narrowed down to the sound of your quickening breath and the crunch of footsteps lingering too close behind you.

You glance over your shoulder—he’s still there. The man in the tan coat, his hat pulled low, pretending to check his lighter as he leans against a post. He’s been following you since you left the diner, his shadow slipping between pools of streetlight like smoke. You told yourself you were imagining it, that people don’t just follow strangers in a city like this—at least not in the open. But when he smiled at you, slow and deliberate, something cold settled in your chest.

You reach the station because it feels safer, brighter, but even here your pulse hammers. You’re out of place. The gas station is empty except for two attendants by the office and a man at the far pump—broad-shouldered, tall, in a dark leather jacket. His hair catches the glow when he turns, and his eyes—blue, sharp, but softened by curiosity—land on you. He notices the way you’re standing, rigid and wary, like someone ready to run.

Jack Castello wipes his hands on a rag, tossing it onto the hood of a gleaming Packard. He’s used to women looking at him, but this is different—there’s no invitation in your gaze, no flirtation. Just fear. You glance past him again toward the street, and that’s when Jack sees the man—the one in the tan coat—hovering too close, his eyes trained on you like you’re something he already owns.

Jack starts walking toward you, slow and easy, like a man approaching a skittish deer. He figures maybe you’re here for… well, that—the kind of business Ernie’s station is known for. The way you keep glancing around, the way you look lost—it wouldn’t be the first time someone new didn’t know how this worked. But when he gets close enough to see your face in the flickering light, he realizes it’s not confusion written there. It’s terror.

“Evenin’, sweetheart,” Jack says warmly, his voice steady, meant to soothe. His smile is easy, like this is nothing unusual. He stops a foot away, careful not to crowd you. “You lost?”

You shake your head hard, your lips barely moving as you whisper, “Help me.”

Two words. Quiet. Fragile. They hit him harder than a punch.

Jack doesn’t hesitate. His posture stiffens, like a soldier. He doesn’t even glance at the man behind you, though he feels his stare like static on the back of his neck. Instead, Jack steps in close—close enough that the smell of oil and cologne clings to him—and tilts his head like he’s greeting someone he knows. Then he does something bold. His arm slides around your waist, gentle but firm, pulling you flush against his side. The warmth of him is immediate, his presence solid like a wall between you and the rest of the world.

“There you are,” Jack says, his tone shifting to something intimate, familiar. He leans down just enough for the words to brush your ear. “Play along.”

You nod almost imperceptibly, your fingers clutching his jacket like a lifeline. Jack kisses your temple—not lingering, just enough to sell it—before turning toward the street. His voice rises, cheerful and sharp enough to cut. “Sorry I’m late, honey. Car trouble, you know how it is.”

The man in the tan coat freezes, his expression souring as Jack stares him down with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Jack keeps his arm around you, the picture of a husband reunited with his wife, and tilts his head toward the Packard. “Let’s get you home.”

The stranger lingers a beat too long, his jaw tightening. Jack doesn’t break eye contact. The war taught him how to hold a stare, and he uses it now like a weapon. Finally, the man mutters something under his breath and slinks off into the shadows, his footsteps fading into the night.

Only when he’s gone do you feel Jack’s grip ease, though his arm stays around you like he knows the fear hasn’t left yet. He guides you toward the car, opening the door like a gentleman. “You okay?” he asks softly, his voice stripped of the easy charm now, replaced by something genuine.

Your throat is tight, but you manage a nod. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice shaking.

Jack studies you for a moment, his brows drawn together. Up close, your face is lit by the neon glow, and he can see the strength beneath the fear. You’re beautiful—not just in the obvious way, but in the way that makes him want to shield you from every ugly thing in this city.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says with a small smile. “Come on. Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

He doesn’t ask for details, doesn’t press. He just makes sure you feel steady as you slide into the car. When he circles to the driver’s side, he throws one last glance over his shoulder, scanning the shadows for any sign of tan wool and malice. There’s nothing but night and neon now, but Jack stays sharp. Because something about that look in your eyes—it’s the kind of thing that makes a man want to keep watch.

As the Packard pulls away from the curb, the city sprawls out ahead—bright lights and dark corners, a place that chews people up. Jack glances at you in the passenger seat, your hands still clenched in your lap, and he makes a silent promise: whoever that guy was, he’s not getting near you again. Not on Jack Castello’s watch.

[harryspurpleloofah]

Draped in You

a fabric shop hook up

summary: she works at one of the most high end fabric stores in London. The store gets high profile shoppers, a few influencers every now and then is common. But what's not is her boss telling her to close the shop for regular customers as Mr Styles will be personally choosing some materials for his next collection. Even less common is hooking up with him in the dressing room after he's tied her up with a strip of the silk he just bought.

TW: swearing, tit sucking, p in v sex, fingering, praise

The bell above the door chimed softly, a delicate sound that fit the mood. Afternoon sunlight poured in through the windows, catching on the displays of satin, chiffon, and silk, making the whole shop look like it shone. It was usually quiet at this time of day...maybe a stylist rushing in before a fitting, a bride-to-be searching for replacement lace nervously.

She was halfway through folding a bolt of satin after putting a closed sign up when the door opened. Her head lifted and froze.

Harry Styles was in the doorway.

Even though she knew he was set to come today, she thought she must’ve imagined him..he was so distinctly out of place, too noticeable against the tidy backdrop of fabrics and polished wood. But then he stepped inside, letting the door close behind him, and the boutique seemed to shrink around him.

He was dressed really casually loose brown trousers that hung perfectly from his hips, a plain white shirt half-tucked in, curls falling across his forehead. Sunglasses were pushed up into his hair, a string of pearls clinging to his slightly sun-kissed neck. On anyone else it might’ve looked careless but on him it was purposeful.

“Afternoon,” he spoke. His voice low, warm, and magnetic.

She swallowed, caught herself staring, and forced a professional smile. “Hi. Welcome. Looking for anything in particular?”

Harry took his time, letting his green eyes wander the length of the shop. He brushed his hand along a roll of emerald silk, then trailed his fingers across deep burgundy velvet. The rings on his fingers flashed in the light, heavy and silver against the fabric.

“Something…decadent,” he said, a small curve tugging at his mouth. “I’ve got an idea in mind. Needs to feel right. Soft. delicate.”

She stepped from behind the counter, fingertips grazing fabrics as she moved closer. “There are a few things that might work,” From the shelves she pulled a length of royal blue silk, letting it spill across her arms. The sheen caught every shift of light.

Harry closed the space between them with slow steps, the air different with him nearer. He reached out, touching the fabric, but in the process his knuckles grazed her wrist. The contact was way more intimate than it should’ve been.

“Mm,” he hummed, testing the fabric between his fingers. His eyes flicked up from the silk to her, sharp but unreadable. “Feels good. But..uh... think I’ll need to see how it looks draped properly.”

His words hung with something heavier than simple curiosity.

She hesitated for a second, then nodded, carefully draping the fabric over his him to demonstrate. Harry didn’t move away.

Instead, he cocked his head, watching her with the same half-smile, like he was testing what she was like.

The world moved along as usual, but in the boutique it was quiet, hidden in light and silk and his attention. Every movement felt magnified..the brush of fabric, the scrape of a ring against skin, the steady rhythm of his breath.

“Not bad,” Harry murmured, low enough that she almost missed it. “But maybe we should try another… just to be sure.”

She nodded as she hurried off to get another sample for him. The shop couldn't have a bad review from Harry fucking Styles. He wasn't as bratty as some of the people she had come across working here. But she needed to be sure. It would take a bit more to get her to relax.

She brought over the new piece. "Are you gonna sew it yourself sir?" She asked, her voice still testing the waters.

Harry looked up t her from the maroon piece that had caught his eye, "oh absolutely not. I'm hopeless with a sewing machine. I'm just here to bring my designer what he's working with for the next tour. Last time a lot of the outfits were made of harsher materials and it was just so hard to move."

"Ah, I see. Well no worries sir. You won't have to worry about harsh materials with our fabrics. They're all very delicate."

"Thanks. Some of my favourite pieces in the collection I had last year were made of silk. And I have a lot of friends who are models. They let me know about this place."

About a half hour passes as she helps Harry look to find what would suit him. Now the sun was fully setting as he stood at the counter. She'd realized he wasn't bratty at all. He was honestly really fun to talk to.

“Alright,” he said, gesturing toward the pile. “Think we’ve got a few winners. Charmeuse, the twill…maybe that champagne number.” His grin flickered.

She smiled softly. “If you wear it on stage, you’ll look like you were born in it. Champagne silk doesn’t lie. Especially on customers like you who look good in anything.”

His brows lifted, eyes sparking with amusement. “That sounded close to flirting.”

“Maybe it was just good sales technique,” she replied. “Convincing clients they’ll look incredible is most of the job.”

“Mm...could be. Or maybe you just think I’d look incredible regardless.”

The way he said it made her bite back a smile. She occupied herself rolling the fabric, though she could feel his gaze lingering.

Harry pushed off the counter, slipping his wallet from his pocket. “I’ll make sure to leave a proper tip. And I’ll tell my team you’re the one to call from now on. You’ve been more helpful than you know.”

“Helpful’s my job,” she said lightly, though the giddiness you get after a compliment crept up the back of her neck at the sincerity in his voice.

He smirked, sliding a card across the counter. “Still. Doesn’t hurt that you make it look good.”

She paused, then met his gaze, allowing herself a small, bold smile. “Careful, sir. That really does sound close to flirting.”

After a few more laughs, he paid for everything and got ready to leave.

Harry slid his card back into his wallet and picked up the small stack of chosen fabrics, his rings shining. “Reckon that’s me sorted, then.” His smile was so hot. “If the outfits turn out the way I hope, I’ll be back. Maybe make a habit of stopping in here before tour.”

She nodded, polite, though her chest tightened at the thought of him walking out so soon. He shifted toward the door, fingers drumming lightly on the counter. It felt like a goodbye, but not a final one.

“Wait,” she heard herself say. His brows raised she hurried on. “If you’re picking pieces for the stage, you should at least see how the colours sit against you. Light in here is tricky what looks good on the roll can turn out different under spotlights.”

Harry tilted his head, curiosity sparking. “You want to drape them on me again?”

“Just for the pieces you haven't tried. It’ll only take a minute,” she replied. “I’ve got a dressing room in the back. Better mirrors.”

For a second, he studied her. Then he smiled, slow and knowing. “Lead the way, then.”

She walked him to a secluded section of the shop. The little boutique was very quiet. Not in the sort of way where you would assume it was doing badly in business and had no customers.

More in the way that just by walking in you'd know it wasn't any old store. It wasn't supposed to be packed with customers ruffling the fabrics and fighting with the employees for discount.

But rather littered with people who understood fashion. Who knew exactly how captivating a piece of art using these materials could be.

The dressing room was quiet, the kind of space meant for wedding fittings: tall mirrors, a little platform, soft lighting that glowed across pale walls. She carried the fabrics in, heart thudding harder than she wanted to admit, and gestured toward the center.

Harry stepped up onto the low platform, hands slipping into his pockets as if he did this sort of thing all the time. Maybe he did. Still, there was something different about seeing him here, framed by mirrors and waiting for her.

She unfolded the first length of fabric, a baby blue silk, and draped it across his shoulder. It poured down the line of his chest, gleaming against the plain white of his shirt.

“See?” she said softly, stepping back to catch the reflection. “The colour holds. It doesn’t dull out, even in softer light.”

Harry glanced toward the mirror, then back at her. “Looks good.” A pause. “Or maybe it just looks better ‘cause you’re fussing over it.”

Her lips curved, but she ignored the tease, reaching for the champagne silk next. She let it slide over his other shoulder, pale and glowing against his skin. Standing close, she adjusted the drape with careful fingers, smoothing where the fabric clung to the line of his arm.

“This one brightens you,” she explained, voice low but steady. “Makes your skin look warmer. Under stage lights, it’ll read effortless.”

Harry’s eyes caught hers in the mirror. “Effortless,” he repeated. “Can’t complain about that.”

She swallowed, suddenly aware of how close she was, of how her fingertips had lingered longer than necessary on his sleeve. Still, she reached for the third fabric, determined to keep her tone professional.

Only when she stepped behind him to adjust the drape across his back did he murmur, “Y’know, if this is how it usually goes, I’ve been missing out.”

She was just about to pick up another bolt when Harry’s fingers paused on another bolt of the rich maroon silk, the one he was looking at before, the deep hue catching the light in a way that made it look almost liquid. He held it up, eyes flicking from the fabric to her.

“You know,” he said slowly, flipping the bolt over in his hands so the shimmer faced her, “this one would look really good on you.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Me?”

“Yeah,” he said, grin wide. “You should get something made. Maybe a little top or a dress. Something to show off how it looks on you.”

She chuckled softly, stepping back. “Honestly, despite working here, I rarely buy anything. Even working in a shop like this, I don’t exactly make enough to just…pick up silk whenever I feel like it.”

Harry raised a brow, but not mockingly so. “That’s a shame. You’d look incredible in it. High-end shop or not, I think this silk was made for you.”

She laughed again, more genuinely this time, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Thanks. But I’ll leave it to the clients who can actually afford it.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, though the playful sparkle in his eyes didn’t waver. “Still, the thought counts. Maybe one day you’ll be able to get it.”

She shook her head, but there was a small smile tugging at her lips. The shop felt smaller suddenly, the air warmer.

Harry held the bolt of maroon silk up again. His gaze shifted from the fabric to her, lingering in a way that made her pulse quicken.

“or you know…” he said slowly, almost casually, “I could just…buy this for you.”

She froze, unsure what to say, and so she said nothing.

“Thought so,” he murmured, his tone playful but confident. Without warning, he stepped closer, moving behind her. The silk slipped from his hands into hers, then draped naturally over her shoulders. His presence was warm behind her, close enough that she could feel the faint brush of his chest against her back.

“Turn a little,” he said softly, guiding her gently. She obeyed, catching her reflection in the full-length mirror. The maroon silk framed her shoulders and chest perfectly, the colour deep and rich, almost glowing under the soft light.

Harry’s hands rested lightly on the fabric, steadying it, but it was the weight of him behind her, the warmth and proximity, that made her stomach flutter.

“See?” he murmured, his voice brushing against her ear. “Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.”

Her breath hitched, heart racing. She swallowed, turning slowly in his arms to face him. Their eyes met in the mirror first, then in real life, and for a moment the world outside the shop didn’t exist.

And then, softly, their lips met.

Harry’s lips lingered against hers, warm and teasing, when he pulled back just slightly. His gaze caught hers, half-smile in place, fingers still brushing the silk draped across her shoulders.

“So… can I actually buy it for you?” he murmured against her lips, voice low, almost a growl.

She thought. “You—” she started, then blinked at him, heart hammering. The audacity, the charm.....and the truth was, she wanted him to.

“ok-thank you,” she whispered, letting the word slip between them, soft but firm.

He grinned, eyes sparkling with mischief, and kissed her again, just long enough to make her forget the world for a heartbeat. Then he pulled back just enough to speak clearly.

“Alright,” he said, voice steady now. “Let’s get it rung up.”

They stepped toward the front of the shop, moving carefully around bolts of silk and racks of fabric. Harry carried the maroon bolt in one hand, his other brushing hers occasionally as they passed. The register was mundane, but the air between them was charged, electric.

Transaction done, he glanced down at the silk, then back at her. “Now…I just need a pair of scissors.”

She blinked. “Scissors?” Curiosity flickered across her features.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, voice casual but commanding. Before she could say anything different, he took her hand gently and tugged her toward the back of the shop.

The dressing room.

She followed, mind buzzing with questions—but mostly with the thrill of why he had brought her back. She could feel him close, the warmth of his body brushing against hers as they stepped inside. The maroon silk hung between them, an excuse...but neither of them needed it to explain the chemistry that had built between them in just a few minutes.

Harry held the bolt of maroon silk in his hands, letting it drape between them. His eyes met hers.

“This,” he said, voice low and deliberate, “is mine now. So…I can do as I please, yeah?”

She nodded, breath catching. The weight of his gaze pressed against her, daring her to protest..and she didn’t.

With a slow motion, he cut a strip of the silk, letting the edges flutter between his fingers. He stepped close, brushing it lightly against her wrists before tying them together with delicate care, testing the tension to make sure it was secure but gentle.

Her pulse quickened and not just from the physical sensation, but the quiet thrill of letting him take control, even slightly.

“Comfortable?” he murmured, hand grazing hers in a featherlight touch.

She nodded again, barely trusting her voice.

Harry smiled, then cut another strip from the bolt, letting it fall softly between them. This time, he placed it over her eyes, draping it as a blindfold. She blinked through the fabric, senses instantly sharpening.

“Perfect,” he whispered, stepping behind her. Every movement, measured and intimate. The silk bound her just enough to heighten the tension, the blindfold transforming every sound, every touch, into something more charged.

His hands moved over the silk blouse she wore, gliding lightly across her tits. Every touch was delicate—supposed to tease and awaken, never hurried. She shivered under his fingertips, aware of the silk’s texture, the subtle pressure, the thrill of his closeness.

“Feel that?” he murmured softly, just behind her ear.

She nodded, fingers curling slightly in the blindfolded tension.

After a moment, he drew back, letting her savour the memory of his touch, and then he pressed two fingers to her lips. She parted them instinctively, tasting the warmth of him, the faint trace of skin and reality that grounded the thrill.

The contact was brief but electrifying, teasing without rush, leaving her pulse racing and her senses taut.

“Good?” he whispered, almost playfully, and she nodded again, unable to speak around the lingering weight of sensation. "You ok with this, angel?"

"I-yes, sir."

The silk bound her wrists, the blindfold obscured her sight, and every sound, every brush of movement, every gentle tease was magnified. The tension between them hung thick in the quiet boutique, the promise of more hanging in the air with each careful action.

With the hand he wasn't using he unbuttoned the top few buttons of her blouse, also made of silk. He couldn't take the whole thing off because her wrists were tied.

He unbuttoned it all the way down and attached his lips to one of her nipples, swirling his tongue along them slowly.

She moaned-he let her take two fingers in her mouth again as he reached round to pull her closer and undo her bra clasp.

He cupped her pussy through her work trousers and gently rubbed as he kissed her.

His teeth came down gently on her lip before he licked over it and kissed her again, barely giving her a chance to react.

He unzipped her trousers and got his hand in the opening he'd made, brushing her soaking pussy with his fingers through her panties...surprisingly not made of silk.

She started to grind against his fingers, blindly holding on to his tattooed arms and letting her head fall back as her lips parted.

He pulled the trousers down fully and inserted a finger in her dripping cunt. "Fuck-angel you're dripping."

She just let out another breath filled gasp.

"Is this really all for me?"

"yeah-oh god."

"Crazy how wet you can get in just a few minutes. You were being such a sweetheart draping me in all that silk, showering me with compliments hm?"

"I-um"

"Did you like that? Helping me out, doing stuff for me?"

She stammered.

He chuckled, "You were amazing, angel. Do one last thing for me and just wrap those gorgeous legs round me."

She does as he says.

"Good girl. You on the pill?

"Fuck...yeah."

"Prepared. Alright then, love."

He enters her gently, sinking in inch by inch till he was fully buried in her. She used his shoulder to smother her moans as he started moving.

He decided to help her out by reaching up and sliding her blindfold down so it was a makeshift gag instead.

Her eyes met his with overflowing lust as she clawed at his back, pulling him closer as if she wanted him to drown in her.

He kept thrusting into her, littering her neck and collarbone with evenly spaced, open-mouthed kisses.

They came at the same time.

Harry let her come down from the high before attempting to place her back on the ground to see if she could stand. She wobbled a bit but she was ok. He grabbed some tissue from a nearby box and cleaned up her thighs.

"Love you were so good for me, you know that?"

He took off her gag and makeshift handcuffs, stuffing the wrist ties that now smelled like her perfume in his pocket.

He kissed the corner of her mouth. "Give me literally a week and I'll be back for more...silk. Would you like that?"

She nodded vigorously. He smiled and pecked her lips again.

He buttoned her shirt back again gently after putting on her bra.

When she said goodbye to him afterwards it didn’t seem like a hookup. She knew very well he could’ve just been saying he’ll come back in the moment. But for some reason she really did believe him.

She had a giddy smile on her face like a teenage girl who’d just had her first kiss. She watched him walk down the road, looking as handsome as he did when he came in, just this time, she knew he had a piece of silk in his pocket.

The one that had been tied around her perfume doused wrists when he fucked her against the wall.

She saw the maroon silk he had bought her.

She turned around and tried to get back to work.

But instead of seeing the silks and velvets as she would before today, all she could think about was how good Harry would look in that one. How his eyes would sparkle in that one. And she was content. Because she knew she’d get to show him. Next time.

[munsonify]

can’t help falling in love

pairings. bob reynolds x fem!reader; bucky barnes x fem!reader; john walker x fem!reader; yelena belova x fem!reader; ava starr x fem!reader

summary. the thunderbolts when they realize they’re in love with you

a/n. do you guys like posts like this yes or no… also first time writing for yelena and ava

———

bob reynolds

cw. fluff, established relationships, r knows how to sew. | wc. 632

the pout on bobs face was unmistakable. in his hands was his favorite flannel, something he was excited to tug on today. it was finally cool enough for him to begin sporting his warmer clothes, and the one thing he wanted to wear had a large hole in the shoulder. he reckoned he could patch it up himself, that it couldn’t be too much different than giving stitches. though, even if he wanted to, he couldn’t. he didn’t have any supplies.

so, instead, bob stood in front of his closet pitifully, fingers poking through the hole and inspecting the loose threads. he had another three flannels hung right there, ones that were fully intact and ready to wear. still, he stood mourning the slight loss of this particular flannel. he was forced to tear his eyes away when a knock at his bedroom door startled him, despite knuckles hitting against it gently.

you were stood outside of it, waiting patiently when bob answered. upon laying eyes on you, he realized you had a similar idea. you had a warm, dark brown sweater on to shield you from the cool air outside. his pout was replaced with a small smile at the sight of you. with the flannel twisted in his hands, he lets you in, listening intently to your words.

“everything okay?” you question, eyes carefully trailing his face in attempts to read him properly.

“yeah, yeah, i’m okay,” bob brushes your concern off quickly, eyes narrowing down to the fabric in his hands. “the flannel i was gonna wear had a hole in it, that’s all.”

“thats your favorite one,” you comment quietly.

your bottom lip juts out in a pout much like bobs when you notice, gently grabbing the flannel out of his grasp. you hold it up until you locate the hole, inspecting it for a few moments as you think. your eyes flicker back up to him once you’ve made up your mind.

“i can fix it if you want, it should only take me like 15 minutes.”

“i didn’t know you knew how to sew,” bob whispers. not accusingly, just curiously.

“my grandma taught me years ago,” you say. “i’ve got more than just my beauty, ya know.”

you grasp bobs hand gently, tugging him towards your room after you tease him. he almost mindlessly follows behind you, his fingers linking with yours out of habit.

“of course,” he agrees.

bob sits down on your bed when you find your way inside. he simply watches you as you find your supplies, sitting down next to him on your bed when you’ve got everything. he watches over your shoulder as you slowly walk him through it. even if he doesn’t remember everything you show him, something is better than nothing. besides, he’d watch paint dry if it meant being next to you.

once you were finished, you handed it to bob excitedly for him to try it on. and, while the extra threads you added may not be an exact color match, you’d closed it up perfectly. he hummed appreciatively as he eyed it up in the mirror, another small smile creeping up on his lips. you come up behind him with a smile to match his, looking right into the mirror. instead of staring at the now closed hole, your eyes found him. his shaggy hair, his pretty blue eyes, his charming smile.

when your arms wrapped around his waist, bob’s heart thrummed with something unexpected. this was new. an intense feeling of admiration filled his body, something stronger than just a liking. it was then that he realized he’d fallen in love with you. how could he not? you just fixed his flannel without a second thought, all because he looked a little upset over it.

———

bucky barnes

cw. fluff, established relationships, r being called beautiful | wc. 460

on a normal day, you’d be complaining up a storm over how the tower needs better furniture. the cushions don’t have much give to them, and no matter how you turn, it never quite feels right on your back. this morning, however, you couldn’t care less about how comfortable you are. you were knee deep into the hobbit. there wasn’t much that could stop your flow or interrupt your focus.

a few nights ago, bucky told you in a whisper about all of his favorite books from when he was younger back in the 40’s. he had a whole list he was excited to list off. one that you recognized was the hobbit. you’d never gotten around to reading it before, though you admit you always wanted to give it a go. this seemed like the best time to start it now that you knew he loved it.

that’s how bucky found you that morning, curled up in an awkward position on the couch with the book in hand. he crept up on you at first, silently walking towards you as he eyes you up. the moment he recognizes the title, his face lights up, a content hum releasing from his chest. your eyes snapped up to look at your boyfriend, heartbeat speeding up for only a moment while your brain catches up with your eyes.

“hi beautiful,” bucky greets.

with a careful grasp, he lifts up your feet to sit right where they were just resting, settling them back down after he relaxes against the couch. it wasn’t all that comfortable to him, either, though he wouldn’t dare complain.

“hey buck,” you smile, your focus now entirely on him. you can see his eyes flickering down to your book, and before he could inquire about it, you speak some more.

“oh, yeah, the hobbit. you said it was one of your favorites, so i figured i’d give it a read,” you shrug.

you said it so casually that it nearly startled bucky. he’s so used to others giving him recommendations for modern literature that it didn’t even cross his mind that it could go the other way. not until now, at least. he wasn’t even asking you to read it, he simply just mentioned it. you always found a way to make him feel heard and seen, even if it wasn’t intentional. a lot of the time, you were just being you.

the next thing that startled bucky was the realization he was, in fact, head of heels in love with you. he grasped at your calf in attempts to ground himself in the moment, eyes taking in the perfect sight in front of him. this was real. you were real. the love he had for you was real.

———

john walker

cw. fluff, established relationships, working out/training, r being referred to as pretty | wc. 465

there are many words to describe walker. stubborn, hotheaded, prideful, obnoxious. what shined through that all, at least to you, was his determination and his discipline. he took his training and his responsibilities seriously. he takes orders and executes them well, even if he gets into an argument halfway through it. you admire how hardworking he is. you also strived to be good, to do better. it’s what connected you two the most.

that’s why it wasn’t a surprise to catch walker during a workout early this morning. he was shirtless with his back turned towards you, hair stuck to his neck, sweat clinging to every inch of him. with one last right hook to the punching bag, he turned his head to assess who had joined him so early.

“fancy seeing you here,” you say, dropping your gym bag next to his.

“i could tell you the same thing,” walker quipped. “you’re never up this early.”

“there’s a first time for everything,” you tell him with a shrug.

after slipping on your old beaten up gym shoes, you prance over to walker, eager to join in on his workout. it wasn’t often you got to be down here with him, especially alone like today. you were hoping to get some help and practice on your offense, and he was glad to be of service. he spent nearly 40 minutes going through different tactics and letting you try them out. you’re a quick learner, so it didn’t take long for you to pick up on things and add to it.

and, as trained as walker is, you found yourself a step or two ahead of him occasionally. one of the perks of being with him is knowing his tells. the moment you realized they translated to fighting was the moment you knew you could get the upper hand. that’s how he ended up with a punch to the chest, firm and controlled. he let out a huff of air as your fist lands, jaw clenching slightly.

“i could totally kick your ass if i wanted to,” you chuckle. your hand opened up flat to pat his chest gently, before taking a few steps back.

“i’m going easy on you,” walker defends. “i’m 10x stronger than you.”

“wrong answer,” you shake your head, eyes narrowing at him. “you’re supposed to tell me it’s because i’m too pretty.”

“two things can be true at the same time,” he smirks.

something about the banter you two had going on knocked something loose in his chest. something strong that he hadn’t felt since olivia. even then, this was different. this flirty back and forth was fueling a fire in his body that could only be described as love. walker just wasn’t expecting it to hit him like this.

———

yelena belova

cw. fluff, established relationships, r being referred to as a girlfriend | wc. 569

yelena’s hair was growing out a little awkward. it’d been a long while since she’d cut it properly, and it was beginning to show. her cowlick was more pronounced than before, and strands were constantly in her face. she can only blow out out of her eyes so much before it gets frustrating. she stood in front of her bathroom mirror one morning simply staring at her mess of a hair as she thought.

gel was one of yelena’s options. it’s what she’d been doing for a while now, slicking it back out of her face. after a while, though, it started to become a hassle to deal with. cutting it was another one of her options. she could get it back to where it’s not so much in her face, where it’s easier to manage.

while pushing her hair back out of her eyes, yelena’s bathroom door creaked open further, startling her for just a moment. you peaked in soon afterwards. her features softened at the sight of you, sleep evident in your drooping eyes, your body sluggish. you shuffled behind her, arms wrapping around her waist as you hug her. smiles appeared on your lips in unison. after resting your chin on her shoulder, your eyes gaze into the mirror, taking in the sight of her.

“what’re doin’ up so early?” you mumble, trying not to let your eyes drift shut.

“i promised i’d help bob train this morning,” yelena informs.

you hum out in acknowledgment, nodding slightly against her shoulder. yelena pulls away from your body moments after. before you could protest, she’s wiggling her way around in your grasp, turning to face you properly now. in the process, hair shifts down her forehead and into her eyes. you give her a sleepy smile as you tuck her hair behind her ear.

“i’m thinking about cutting it,” she informs.

“oh yeah?”

“yeah,” yelena hums. “i don’t like it being in my eyes so much, but it’s too short to pull up.”

your fingers start to fiddle with her hair, carding your fingers through the soft strands as you think. you take the chunk that fell into her eyes and pin it back momentarily. biting your lower lip, you take that chunk again and begin to gently braid it, before pinning it once more. you let yelena turn to the mirror, holding it place as she takes a look at your work.

“do it on both sides and pin it back, maybe,” you murmur, eyes scanning her features rather than her hair.

yelena shuffles through one of her drawers until she finds a bobby pin, taking the braid from your grasp and pinning it back on her own. by the looks of it, she seems quite fond of the new look. you move to carefully braid the other side, too, getting all of the loose strands out of her eyes properly. her face lights up at the finished product, smiling at you through the mirror as she admires your work.

“i’ve got a genius for a girlfriend,” yelena confirms.

as much as that was true, it’s not exactly what was going through her mind. it struck her then that she’d undeniably fallen in love with you. something as simple as you helping her with her hair had her heart running amuck. this was new for her, though she didn’t shy away from it. not for a second.

———

ava starr

cw. fluff, established relationships, fake jealousy, r being referred to as “my girl” | wc. 490

you loved spending sundays resting. laying in bed on a day off like this was irresistible. there wasn’t much that could draw you away from the comfort of your bed, and there was a lot less that could drag you away from ava’s. that’s where you were this sunday, tucked under her blankets that smelled just like her.

ava was up showering, despite your many attempts to keep her next to you. she left you with a kiss and a promise to come back to you soon, and you trusted her with that. even if she takes a little while. she was gone long enough for alpine to find her way to her door, pawing at it in a weak attempts to get in. other than ava, alpine was one of the only things that could get you up right now.

she joined you in bed without any hesitation. you tucked yourself back into bed, drawing a hand up to pet her gently. she leaned into your touch happily, purring at the feeling of your nails raking through her fur. there wasn’t a better place for her to be right now, and you were more than glad to give her this attention.

you heard the bathroom door creak open a few minutes after alpine had joined you. you didn’t look up, though, not until you heard ava let out a dramatic gasp at the sight in front of her. you lift your head up hurriedly, eyes scanning over your girlfriends body to try and assess what was going on.

“i was gone for 20 minutes and you’ve already replaced me?” ava questions, shoulders slumping to add to her dramatics.

“can you blame me? look at her!” you exclaim, letting alpine lick at your knuckles.

even through her award-winning pout, you knew she wasn’t truly upset with you. still, you decided to play into it, letting her have her moment. she sulked over to the bed, hair still damp from her shower. you moved alpine enough to give her space to lay down next to you, and she did rather quickly. you brought the hand that wasn’t petting the cat to ava’s face, cupping her cheek gently.

“you know you’re my favorite,” you reassure, running your thumb against her smooth skin.

ava bit back a smile at your words, head moving slightly to kiss your palm. she settled down into bed next to you, letting her blankets engulf her in the warmth you were already basking in.

“you’re my favorite, too,” ava whispers back. “always my girl.”

something new blossomed inside of her then. she wasn’t quite sure what it was at first, it wasn’t like anything she’s experienced before. she realized after a few minutes of laying with you that it was love she was feeling. she was never close enough with anyone to feel this way towards them. this was different, scary. she’s glad it’s you she’s scared with.

[st4rfckerz]

Closer

ʚ word count: 2.8k

ʚ summary: Clark shows up at your door, and what begins with awkward silences on the couch quickly turns into something you both can’t bring yourselves to stop.

ʚ warnings: mdni 18+, unprotected sex, tit sucking making out, dirty talk (?)

Two weeks. That’s all you have left in Smallville. Part of you is ready to slip back into the noise of the city, the comfort of your own space, the pace you’re used to. But another part of you isn’t ready at all. Not ready to leave your grandparents’ house, where the days seem to carry a gentler weight. And not ready to leave Clark.

Something has shifted between you and him, and you feel it more with every passing day. Being around him has started to feel different — more charged. His voice catches your attention in a way it didn’t before, his smile pulls at you until you have to look away, and sometimes you catch yourself replaying the smallest details of his touch long after he’s gone. Even thinking about him now leaves your chest tight and your skin a little too warm.

It makes the thought of leaving harder than you expected. You tell yourself not to dwell on it, to just enjoy the time you still have here, but it’s impossible to ignore the fact that every glance, every word, every brush of his hand makes you want more.

Rain patters softly against the window, a steady rhythm that fills the quiet house. Your grandparents left for town earlier, their voices trailing off with the slam of the screen door, and you’d decided to stay behind. The solitude feels heavier today, like the weather pressed it down onto the walls.

You sit curled at the desk in your room, journal open, pen hovering over the page. The words come in fits and starts — half reflections about your time here, half scattered thoughts about Clark you can’t quite bring yourself to name outright. Every time you try, your chest tightens and you scratch the words out, ink smudging under your hand.

The rain gives you cover, though. It makes the silence less sharp, gives you the excuse to sink into your own head and let your thoughts run unchecked. You write about the way the air smells after a storm, about how restless you’ve been lately, about how two weeks doesn’t feel like enough.

But mostly, without meaning to, your writing circles back to him.

You finally set the pen down, staring at the last line until the ink dries. A sigh escapes you, shoulders slumping as if the weight of the page somehow settled into your body. Snapping the journal shut, you push back from the desk and stretch, the faint crack of your joints loud against the steady hum of rain.

The house feels even quieter as you make your way down the stairs, each step creaking beneath your bare feet. In the kitchen, the soft light through the window glows muted and gray, rain streaking down the glass. You open the fridge and lean against the door as the chill rushes out, grabbing a glass of water just for something to do with your hands.

You take a few sips, but it doesn’t do much to clear the knot in your chest. You’re stuck trying to sort out everything that’s been bubbling up lately — how Clark seems to linger in your mind longer than you’d like to admit, how even the memory of his hands has a way of making your skin feel warmer. It’s a mess of feelings you can’t quite put into words, not even in the journal.

Before you can get too lost in it, a knock sounds at the front door. Sharp, quick, cutting through the quiet like it doesn’t belong there. You freeze, glass still in your hand, heart thumping a little harder.

You set the glass down, already figuring your grandparents must’ve come back earlier than planned. With a small sigh, you pad to the front door and pull it open.

Instead of them, you’re met with Clark — standing there in the drizzle, his hair damp and curling at the ends, droplets clinging to his jacket. For a second, you just stare, hand still on the doorknob, the sound of the rain filling the space between you.

Clark shifts on the porch, glancing past you like he’s making sure no one else is around.

“Is the old man home?” he asks with a small smile, voice low but casual.

You shake your head. “They just went into town.” you say, stepping back so he can come inside

He exhales, almost like that was the answer he was hoping for. The air is cool against your skin once you close the door behind him, the rain still pattering faintly against the windows. “What do you need?”

He gives a quick, almost guilty smile. “My dad sent me over to see if he had that old tool he lent him last month. Something about our tractor giving him trouble again.”

He pauses, then adds, softer, “But, I also wanted to see what you were up to.”

You arch a brow, lips tugging into the faintest smirk. “How kind of you,” your tone was just shy of teasing. “Nothing special. Just writing, wasting time while the rain does its thing.” you add over your shoulder as you settle onto the couch.

Clark nods as he slides onto the other end of the couch. His eyes flick to you and then away again like he’s trying not to stare too long. “Sounds better than wrestling with a tractor,” he mutters with a crooked grin, brushing a damp strand of hair from his forehead.

You fold your hands loosely in your lap, eyes wandering toward the rain-streaked window. The steady patter fills the room until the quiet between you sharpens into something noticeable. There’s always an awkward silence when you’re alone with him.

Clark shifts beside you, his arm draped along the back of the couch, and then he breaks it. “You’re doing it again.”

Your head turns toward him, brows knitting. “Doing what?”

His lips tug into the faintest, knowing smile. “Thinking about it. About us. I can tell.”

Your lips part, searching for something, anything to say, but all that tumbles out is a broken mess. “I — I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stammer, the words tripping over themselves. Heat blooms in your chest, your voice thin, unconvincing.

Clark leans back slightly, his tone more blunt than careful. “If you don’t want this, we can stop.”

The weight of his words hangs heavy in the space between you. Your throat tightens, but the thought of pulling away feels unbearable. You can only shake your head, quick and certain, afraid your voice will betray how badly you want him.

His eyes search yours, lingering on the silent answer, his pulse quickening as he reads the truth in it.

Clark watches you for a beat, then nods once. “Good,” he murmurs, the word thick with relief.

He leans in before you can think twice, his mouth finding yours again, deeper this time. Between hungry kisses, his voice slips out, low and unguarded. “I don’t want to stop.”

The confession settles against your skin just as heatedly as his lips, each kiss pulling you closer, each word unraveling you further.

You melt into him without resistance, your hands curling into the fabric of his damp shirt as if they’d been waiting for this exact moment. Clark’s kisses grow deeper, more insistent, until he gently guides you backward.

The cushions dip beneath your weight as he eases you down onto the couch, hovering over you with his breath warm against your skin. For a second, he just looks at you, like he’s trying to memorize the way you look beneath him, before bending down again and kissing you with a heat that makes your chest ache.

Your fingers paw at his shirt, tugging and fumbling with the damp fabric until he lets out a quiet laugh against your lips. The sound is low, almost breathless, but he leans back just enough to pull the shirt over his head, tossing it aside without care.

His skin is warm despite the rain, the contrast almost dizzying as your hands press against his chest. Clark dips back down, kissing you harder, the weight of him sinking you deeper into the couch cushions.

Clark’s hand bunches the hem of your shirt, shoving it up with little patience until the fabric gathers beneath your arms. His gaze drops, lingering shamelessly on the sight of you bared for him. For a moment he just stares, chest rising and falling quick, before his mouth curves into something soft and wanting. He dips down, lips wrapping around your breast, tongue flicking against sensitive skin as his hand steadies the weight of the other.

A sharp breath tumbles out of you at the sudden heat of his mouth, your back arching off the couch as if to give him more. Fingers curl into his damp hair, tugging gently when his tongue circles and teases. The sensation shoots low and fast through your body, and a quiet whimper escapes before you can stop it.

Clark pulls away just long enough to drag his mouth back up, trailing kisses over the swell of your chest, the hollow of your throat, and finally your lips. His kiss is messy, all heat and want, and when he breaks for air he buries himself in the curve of your neck, breathing you in like he can’t get close enough.

“I need you, Clark,” you whisper, the words tumbling out between shallow breaths. There’s no hesitation in your voice, just raw, aching urgency.

Clark stills for a moment, his lips hovering against your skin. “Are you sure?” he asks, voice low and rough like he’s holding himself back.

Your answer comes without hesitation, soft but insistent. “Please.”

That single word breaks him. He moves quickly but not carelessly, tugging your shorts and underwear down in one fluid motion, discarding them somewhere forgotten. His hands fumble at his belt, unbuckling with urgency, then shoving his jeans and briefs just low enough around his thighs to free himself, his chest rising and falling as he looks back at you.

Clark grips the base of his cock, dragging it slowly against your soaked cunt. Each pass makes your breath hitch, the blunt tip catching just right as slickness coats him in steady strokes. His jaw tightens, eyes dark as he watches the way you tremble under the tease, every grind building the anticipation higher.

When he’s certain he’s coated enough, he shifts his hips, lining himself up with you. The first push is slow, deliberate, his breath breaking as he begins to sink inside, the stretch pulling a gasp from your lips as your body welcomes him in.

The stretch burns at first, a sharp sting that makes your fingers clutch at his shoulders. He notices instantly, his hand smoothing over your hip, steady and grounding.

“Breathe for me,” Clark murmurs, voice a low drawl against your ear. “Nice and slow, let me in.”

You try, chest rising unsteadily as he eases deeper. The ache softens with every inch he works in, until finally, after one last push, he bottoms out, groaning low at the feel of you wrapped fully around him.

Clark pulls back, the drag of him almost unbearable, before thrusting back in with a slow, steady push. His hips set an unhurried rhythm at first, each stroke making the couch creak beneath you.

Your breath falters into soft whimpers, the sounds slipping out despite how hard you try to bite them back. Every movement has you tightening around him, every slow thrust pulling another helpless sound from your throat.

“God,” he groans, forehead pressing to yours as he keeps that steady pace, like he’s savoring every second.

Your voice trembles, a breathy whisper between the sounds leaving your lips. “Clark, kiss me. Please.”

His heart squeezes at the sweetness of it, the way you ask like it’s the only thing that matters. He leans in instantly, capturing your mouth with his, pouring everything into the kiss while his hips keep moving against you.

The taste of him and the intoxicating drag of his cock inside you blur together, and his soft groan hums into your mouth as if he can’t get close enough.

Clark’s pace quickens, his thrusts hitting deeper, steadier, as he buries his face against your neck. His lips trace over your skin before fastening gently, sucking just enough to leave behind faint marks.

Your breath catches, hips tilting toward him as each kiss sends a shiver racing down your spine. His pace doesn’t falter, if anything it sharpens, driven by the way you melt beneath every mark he leaves behind.

Your whimpers spill out, soft and helpless, and his breath hitches at the sound. “You needed this so bad, huh baby?” he murmurs against your skin, the words roughened by a low groan. “Yeah, I know you did.”

The teasing lilt in his voice makes your chest tighten, but it’s the warmth in it; sweet, almost reverent, that leaves you trembling as he keeps pistoling his cock inside you.

Clark’s thrusts deepen, every drag of him making your breath stutter. His hand slips to your cheek, guiding you until your eyes meet his. “Look at us,” he pants, voice thick with awe. One hand leaves your hip to press at the small of your back, angling you so you can glance down between your bodies.

The sight makes your stomach flip — his thick cock disappearing into you with every roll of his hips, your bodies moving in perfect sync.

“See that?” Clark groans, his voice rough but laced with wonder. “Look how good you take me, how well we fit together.”

The words make heat bloom low in your belly, a whimper breaking from your throat as you clutch at his shoulders, the image seared into your mind as he drives deeper, his chest heaving against yours.

The rhythm he’s built has you unraveling, your body arching up into him, clutching at his shoulders like you might come apart if you let go. The words slip out before you can stop them, breathless and broken. “Clark, I’m so close”

The sound of your voice does something to him. His jaw tightens, and without missing a stroke, his hand slips down between you. His fingers find your clit, circling in time with the deep drive of his hips.

His thrusts turn rougher, each one stealing more air from your lungs. His voice comes ragged, right against your ear. “Come on sweet girl, you got it,”

His fingers work you in steady circles, coaxing you higher and higher until the tension inside you snaps. You break with a cry, clinging to him as your orgasm rips through you. Clark holds you tight, groaning at the feel of your body pulsing around him, forcing himself to stay buried and still so he can savor every shudder of you coming undone.

By the time you collapse back against the couch, boneless and trembling, he finally pulls out with a sharp breath. His hand wraps around himself quickly, working with desperate strokes. “God, you’re perfect,” he chokes, and a moment later he spills across your stomach, thick heat streaking your skin as he groans your name.

The room settles into breathless quiet, the sound of rain outside suddenly loud again as Clark leans over, brushing a shaky kiss against your temple. Your chest still heaves as the high slowly ebbs, every nerve buzzing.

“You did so good.” He leans away just enough to reach for the box of Kleenex on the side table, tugging a few free. His touch is gentle as he wipes you clean, careful not to make you flinch. The silence between you is soft, not heavy — his quiet praise lingering in your ears while his hands take care of the rest.

He takes his time cleaning you up, each touch gentle, almost reverent. When he’s finished, his thumb brushes over your hipbone like he can’t stop touching you, even now.

You blink up at him, half-dazed, and whisper, "You're staring.”

Clark huffs a quiet laugh, dipping down to press another kiss to your hairline. “Can’t help it,” he says softly.

You both move slowly, reluctant to break the spell. Clark finds your shorts crumpled on the floor, brushing the fabric off before gently guiding your legs back into them, his touch careful as though he’s still handling something fragile. He tugs your underwear up too, pressing a kiss to your knee before standing to fix his own jeans.

Once the pieces of clothing are back where they belong, you curl into the couch cushions again, Clark dropping down beside you. His arm slips under your shoulders, pulling you into his chest, and the two of you lie there in a hushed sort of calm, listening to the steady rhythm of rain against the windows.

Minutes pass like that before he exhales, his voice quiet. “We probably don’t have too long before your grandparents get back.”

You tilt your head, lips brushing his jaw. “Yeah, I know.”

Still, neither of you move right away. The quiet stretches, warm and steady, and though nothing is said, you both feel it—the shift, the pull, the newness of something you can’t quite name yet.

[namiusedbubble]

Baby Fever

Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader Fandom: Superman 2025 Description: You've been with Clark for three years now, and you've decided it's time to take the next step in your relationship. Notes: Mention of pregnancy, and very, very sappy vibes. I'm not used to writing things this soft and domestic, so I hope I did okay!

The apartment was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the fridge and the distant honk of a cab three stories down. Metropolis never really slept, but this was as close as it got. No emergencies. No calls from Bruce or the Justice Gang. No cities imploding, no fires breaking out, no Lex Luthor trying to collapse a star or take over the Middle East.

Just Clark. Home.

He sat on the sofa in the soft lamplight, laptop balanced on his knees, working through edits for tomorrow's article. His glasses, which he didn't need but wore anyway, had slipped down his nose as he concentrated, that little furrow appearing between his brows that you'd always found endearing.

You stood in the doorway for a moment, just watching him. Three years together, and sometimes you still couldn't believe this man, this literal superhero, chose you. Chose this quiet, ordinary life with you when he wasn't saving the world.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. You'd been thinking about this for months, turning the words over and over in your mind until you caught yourself dreaming them. But thinking and saying were two very different things.

Clark's head lifted slightly. He'd heard you, of course. His enhanced senses meant you could never really sneak up on him, though he was gentleman enough to pretend sometimes.

"Hey," he said softly, setting his laptop aside without hesitation. "Can't sleep?"

Instead of answering, you padded across the room in your fuzzy socks, the ones with little penguins on them that he'd bought you last Christmas, and his sleep shirt.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

You nodded. Hesitated again. Then you climbed into his lap, knees to either side of his hips, your arms winding around his shoulders like it was the only safe place left on Earth. Your face pressed to his chest. His arms moved around you instinctively, wrapping you up like he’d been waiting for this exact moment all day.

“You sure?” he murmured.

You nodded again, but this time you spoke, voice muffled, almost shy.

“I want to have a baby.”

Clark froze. Not in a bad way. Just … like he'd been caught off guard.

You pulled back just enough to peek up at him, terrified of what you might see on his face. But his eyes, those impossibly blue eyes, were soft and filled with something that looked like awe.

"Really?" His voice cracked slightly, and you watched as a slow, beautiful smile spread across his face. "You want to…"

You nodded, tears pricking at your eyes. "I know we haven't really talked about it before, and I know there are complications with you being … well, you. But I want to have your baby. Our baby."

His hands came up to frame your face, thumbs brushing away the tears that had started to fall. "Sweetheart," he breathed, and then he was kissing you, soft and deep and full of promise. When he pulled back, his own eyes were suspiciously bright. "There's nothing I want more. Nothing."

"Really?"

"Really." He shifted you in his lap so he could look at you properly, his hands never leaving your face. "I've been thinking about it too. About little feet running through this apartment. About teaching them to ride a bike, to throw a baseball. About you singing them lullabies." He laughed, like he was embarrassed to admit how much he wanted it. "I've been dreaming about it, actually. I just didn't want to pressure you."

You smiled, watery but genuine. "We're two idiots, aren't we? We could have started trying ages ago if we'd actually just talked to each other instead of being afraid of it."

"We'll figure it out," he promised, pulling you close again. "The complications, the fears, all of it. Together."

You settled against him, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. His arms around you felt like the safest place in the universe, and considering who he was, it probably was. "I love you," you whispered.

"I love you too," he replied, his chin resting on top of your head. "Both of you."

It took a moment for his words to sink in. You pulled back sharply, eyes wide.

"Clark Kent, are you using your x-ray vision to-"

"No! No, I meant future tense. Our future baby." He paused, then added, more teasing than anything. "Though now that you mention it, I could check if you wanted to know if …"

You put a hand over his eyes and snorted. "Don't even think about it. We're doing this the normal way. With sticks and some semblance of surprise."

"Deal," he agreed, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to the back of your knuckles. "Though my hearing might pick up a heartbeat pretty early on …"

"Clark!"

"I'll act surprised," he promised, all faux-solemnity. "I have enough practice. You can ask anyone at the Planet about my reaction to Superman's latest adventures. They don't suspect a thing."

"Idiot," you huffed, but settled back against him.

"So," he said after a moment, voice dripping with innocence. "Should we start practicing? I mean, I want to make sure we get this right …"

You swatted his chest playfully, but he was already standing, lifting you in his arms without effort, and carrying you toward the bedroom.

He made love to you like it mattered.

Like it was sacred.

He took his time undressing you, smoothing his hands over your curves like he was re-learning you. Memorizing. Marking. Worshipping. He laid you back against the sheets and kissed every inch of your skin like it was his to protect.

“I love you,” he whispered again against your collarbone, and again against your stomach, his hands cradling your hips as he kissed lower. “Everything about you.”

And when he pushed inside you, slowly, deeply, every inch making you cry out and cling to his shoulders, you felt it.

That weight. That promise.

The way he held your gaze while he rocked into you.

The way he cupped your cheek when your breath hitched and told you, “You’ve got me. I’m right here.”

The way he came with his forehead pressed to yours, breathing your name like a prayer, as if you were the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth.

You fell asleep afterward with his arm around your waist and your back to his chest, your fingers laced in his, your body still aching in all the best ways.

In the morning, he made you breakfast before your legs could fully stop shaking.

Because of course he did. What else do you expect from a man who rescues kittens and makes French toast like it’s a love language?

And he was already dreaming of tiny fingers curled around his pinky. Of first words. First steps. Of a home full of laughter, love, and the soft weight of your future curled up in his arms.

[hat-trick-hearts]

Our Little Secret QH43

Summary: When Y/N discovers she’s pregnant, she and Quinn Hughes navigate love, family, and the public spotlight, discovering that their quiet relationship is about to grow into a lifetime of new beginnings.

Word Count: 7150

Requests: OPEN

Masterlist

ONE

Y/N had always been good at keeping things private. Maybe it was the way she grew up—guarding her heart carefully, choosing who she trusted. Or maybe it was just the way life with Quinn Hughes had unfolded: quietly, naturally, away from prying eyes. Whatever the reason, their relationship had been theirs alone for nearly two years, tucked away from the chaos of NHL headlines, Twitter rumors, and constant interviews.

She liked it that way.

There was something sweet about having a love that existed entirely in the space between four walls—the nights spent sprawled on the couch watching shows, Quinn’s socks scattered on the floor, her favorite mug always “mysteriously” finding its way into his hands. They lived in that bubble, and the bubble was perfect.

Still, even perfection had its moments of doubt.

It started small. Y/N had been feeling off for a week or so. The usual rhythm of her body was disrupted—she’d been more tired than normal, the kind of tired that sank deep in her bones. Morning coffee suddenly made her nauseous, which was strange, because coffee had always been her lifeline. At first, she blamed stress, maybe a lingering flu. But when her best friend casually pointed out that she had missed her cycle, Y/N froze.

That night, she sat on the bathroom floor with the shower running in the background, trying to steady her breathing. She hadn’t taken a test yet. She wasn’t even ready to say the word. Pregnant. It was terrifying and thrilling all at once.

Quinn, of course, was blissfully unaware.

He came home from practice in his usual whirlwind of energy, tossing his duffel bag in the hallway before seeking her out. She was curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, pretending to watch Netflix but mostly staring at the screen in silence.

“Hey,” Quinn said softly, leaning down to kiss her temple. His curls were damp from the shower at the rink, his hoodie smelling faintly of his body wash. “You okay? You look tired.”

Y/N forced a small smile. “Yeah, just one of those days.”

He sank onto the couch beside her, his arm looping naturally around her shoulders. She leaned into him, letting his warmth ground her.

These were the moments she cherished most—the quiet, unremarkable evenings where he wasn’t Quinn Hughes, NHL defenseman. He was just Quinn. Her Quinn.

But beneath the comfort, her mind raced.

She thought about the time he’d told her he wanted kids “someday,” the way his eyes softened when he held his baby cousins, the patience he always showed with fans’ children who begged for autographs after games. He’d be an amazing dad. She had no doubt.

The question was whether “someday” was now.

—

A week later, Y/N found herself in the same bathroom, this time with a pregnancy test clutched in her hand. She hadn’t told Quinn she was taking it. Part of her felt guilty for keeping it from him, but she wanted—needed—to be sure before bringing him into it.

The seconds stretched out painfully. She stared at the little stick, her heart hammering in her chest. When the word appeared, bold and undeniable, she felt the world shift beneath her.

Pregnant.

Her throat tightened, tears filling her eyes. Not out of fear, exactly—though fear was there, too—but out of sheer overwhelm. She pressed a hand against her stomach, not even showing yet, but already feeling different, protective.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. A text from Quinn lit up the screen: On my way home. Want me to grab dinner?

She laughed through the tears. How ordinary. How normal. And yet, everything had just changed.

—

Quinn noticed her distance over the next few days. He was patient, but perceptive.

“You’re quiet,” he said one night, after dinner. They were washing dishes together, his hand brushing hers when they both reached for the sponge. “Something going on?”

Y/N swallowed hard. The words perched on the tip of her tongue, begging to come out. But instead, she shook her head. “Just tired.”

Quinn studied her, his hazel eyes soft but searching. He didn’t push. That was one of the things she loved about him—he never demanded more than she could give.

Still, she knew she couldn’t keep it from him much longer.

—

One night, she woke at 3 a.m., unable to sleep. She padded quietly to the living room, wrapping herself in a blanket and staring out at the city lights. Everything looked so peaceful from up here, like the world wasn’t on the verge of changing forever.

A few minutes later, Quinn appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. His hair was messy, sticking up in every direction.

“You okay?” he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep.

Y/N nodded, though her chest ached with everything she hadn’t said.

He crossed the room, sat beside her on the couch, and pulled her close. She melted into him, her cheek against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

In that moment, she knew she’d be okay. They’d be okay.

Because if there was anyone she trusted to face this with, it was Quinn.

—

Of course, outside their bubble, the world was still curious.

Rumors had popped up here and there over the years—Quinn spotted with someone at a café, or fans speculating on Instagram about who he might be dating. But he always brushed it off, always kept their relationship private. It wasn’t about hiding Y/N; it was about protecting what they had.

Still, Y/N sometimes wondered how long they could keep it quiet. Once the pregnancy became visible, the whole world would know.

And with that realization came another wave of nerves.

She wasn’t just carrying a baby. She was carrying the beginning of a whole new chapter. One that would be lived both in private and in the spotlight.

But as she lay back down beside Quinn that night, his arm instinctively curling around her waist, she felt a surge of calm.

Whatever came next, they would face it together.

TWO

The kitchen felt impossibly small, like the walls were closing in as Y/N stood across from Quinn. Her palms were damp, her heart thudding so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

Quinn tilted his head, hazel eyes full of concern. “You’re scaring me a little,” he admitted, his voice soft. “What’s going on?”

Y/N swallowed hard. The words she’d rehearsed all day scattered from her mind like leaves in the wind. There was no script for this moment, no perfect line that would make it easier.

She took his hand, grounding herself in the familiar warmth of his fingers laced through hers.

“I…” Her throat tightened, but she forced herself to keep going. “I took a test.”

Quinn’s brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. “A test?”

“A pregnancy test.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Quinn’s mouth parted slightly, his eyes widening as the words sank in. He blinked once, twice, like he was trying to make sure he’d heard her correctly.

“You’re…” His voice cracked, uncharacteristically unsteady. “You’re pregnant?”

Y/N nodded, her free hand instinctively drifting to her stomach. “Yeah. I found out a few days ago. I wanted to tell you sooner, but—I don’t know—I wanted to be sure, and I didn’t know how to say it.”

For a long moment, Quinn just stared at her, as though the weight of what she’d said was too big to process all at once. Y/N’s chest tightened. Fear prickled at the back of her neck.

And then, slowly, Quinn’s expression shifted. His lips curved upward, a small, stunned smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You’re pregnant,” he repeated, this time with awe in his voice.

Tears welled in Y/N’s eyes. “Yeah.”

He let out a breathy laugh, running his free hand through his curls. “Holy crap.”

Y/N’s nerves spilled over into a shaky laugh of her own. “That’s one way to put it.”

Quinn squeezed her hand, grounding both of them. His eyes were shining now, soft and warm in the way that always made her melt.

“We’re… we’re gonna have a baby,” he said, the words sounding both foreign and perfect on his tongue.

The way he said we made her heart ache with relief.

“You’re not upset?” she whispered, her voice small.

Quinn’s expression softened instantly. He stepped closer, cupping her cheek with his hand. “Upset? Y/N, no. Surprised? Yeah. Scared out of my mind? Definitely. But upset?” He shook his head. “Never.”

Her tears spilled over then, hot and fast. She threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest as he held her tightly. His hand moved gently up and down her back, steady and reassuring.

“I was so nervous to tell you,” she admitted, her words muffled against his hoodie.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “You don’t have to be nervous with me. Ever.”

They stood there for a long time, holding each other in the quiet kitchen, the reality of their new future settling in around them.

—

Later, they ended up curled together on the couch, Thai leftovers untouched on the counter. Quinn sat with Y/N nestled against him, one of his hands resting lightly on her stomach, as though already protecting the life growing there.

“I’m gonna be a dad,” he whispered, almost to himself. He said it like he still couldn’t quite believe it, but the smile on his face was brighter than Y/N had ever seen.

She laughed softly, wiping at her still-damp cheeks. “You’re gonna be an amazing dad.”

He turned his head to look at her, his expression earnest. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” she said firmly. “You’re patient, and kind, and you have the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever met. Our baby is so lucky.”

Quinn swallowed hard, his eyes glistening. He kissed her forehead gently. “You’re gonna be the best mom.”

They fell into a comfortable silence after that, both lost in thought. Y/N could practically see his mind racing, just like hers had for days.

Finally, Quinn chuckled. “My mom is gonna freak out.”

Y/N laughed too, imagining Ellen Hughes’s reaction. She’d always been so warm and welcoming, treating Y/N like family from the beginning. But this? This would be something else entirely.

“Your brothers are gonna be wild,” Y/N said with a smile.

“Oh, Jack’s never gonna let me live this down,” Quinn groaned, though his grin gave him away. “And Luke… he’s gonna want to teach the baby to skate before it can walk.”

The thought made Y/N’s heart swell. She could already picture the Hughes family doting on their child, surrounding them with the same kind of love that had shaped Quinn into the man he was.

Quinn must have been picturing it too, because his smile softened again. “This baby’s gonna be so loved.”

Y/N leaned her head against his shoulder, whispering, “Yeah. They really are.”

—

As the night wore on, practical questions began to surface.

“When’s your doctor’s appointment?” Quinn asked gently.

“I haven’t made one yet,” Y/N admitted. “I was waiting until I told you.”

“Okay. We’ll call tomorrow,” he said firmly, already slipping into protector mode.

She smiled at his choice of words—we’ll call. Always we.

“What about…” She hesitated, biting her lip. “What about the team? And the media?”

Quinn’s smile faltered slightly, though his grip on her hand tightened. “We don’t have to think about that yet,” he said. “We’ll tell family first. The rest… we’ll figure it out when it’s time.”

Y/N nodded, relief washing over her. She wasn’t ready to share their secret with the world, not yet. For now, it was just theirs.

—

That night, when they finally crawled into bed, Y/N curled up against Quinn, her head on his chest. He held her close, his hand once again resting protectively over her stomach.

“I love you,” he whispered into the dark.

Y/N’s throat tightened with emotion. “I love you too.”

There was a beat of silence before he added, voice thick with awe, “And I love our baby.”

Y/N closed her eyes, her heart full to bursting.

For the first time since that little stick had changed everything, she didn’t feel scared. She felt ready.

THREE

The plan had come together almost too quickly. One moment, Quinn and Y/N were curled on the couch whispering about their future; the next, Quinn was suggesting they take a weekend trip to Michigan.

“It’s perfect,” he’d said with a grin, already pulling out his phone to check flights. “We can see my parents, spend time with Jack and Luke, and… you know… tell them.”

Y/N’s stomach fluttered with nerves. Telling Quinn had been hard enough, but telling his family—the Hughes family, the tight-knit, loud, loving crew she’d only ever wanted to impress—was another thing entirely.

Still, she couldn’t deny the warmth in Quinn’s eyes as he talked about sharing the news. He was so sure they’d be excited, so sure their baby would be celebrated. His confidence became her anchor.

—

The Hughes’ lake house was buzzing with its usual chaos when they arrived that Friday evening. Ellen greeted them first, wrapping Y/N in a hug that smelled faintly of cinnamon.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said warmly, ushering them inside.

Quinn’s dad, Jim, came next, pulling his son into a bear hug before clapping him on the back. Jack and Luke weren’t far behind—Jack bounding down the stairs two at a time, Luke right on his heels.

“Quinner!” Jack shouted, ruffling his brother’s curls with a mischievous grin. Then his eyes landed on Y/N, and his grin widened. “And Y/N! You survived another season with him, huh?”

“Barely,” she teased, though her smile was genuine.

Dinner was its usual affair—lively conversation, plenty of laughter, and the occasional brotherly jab thrown across the table. Y/N tried to soak it all in, but her nerves buzzed under the surface, making it hard to focus.

Quinn kept squeezing her hand under the table, silently reassuring her.

Finally, when plates had been cleared and everyone was lingering with dessert, Quinn cleared his throat.

“Uh, we actually have some news,” he said, his voice a little shaky.

The room fell quiet instantly. Six pairs of eyes turned toward them, curiosity flickering across each face.

Y/N’s pulse raced. She glanced at Quinn, who gave her a small nod, his thumb brushing comfortingly over her knuckles.

Taking a deep breath, she said softly, “I’m pregnant.”

The silence lasted only a heartbeat before it broke into a chorus of exclamations.

Ellen gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as tears welled in her eyes. Jim’s face split into a wide grin. Jack let out a loud, “No way!” while Luke’s jaw dropped before quickly morphing into a huge smile.

“You’re kidding,” Jack said, though his grin suggested he already knew it was true.

“Nope,” Quinn said, his voice thick with pride. “We’re having a baby.”

Ellen was out of her chair in an instant, pulling Y/N into a hug so tight she nearly lost her breath. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. “Congratulations. You two are going to be such wonderful parents.”

When Ellen pulled back, her eyes were shining. She cupped Y/N’s face gently, smiling through her tears. “Thank you for telling us. We’re so excited.”

Jim hugged Quinn again, clapping him on the back with a proud father’s grin. “You’re gonna be a great dad, son.”

Jack and Luke were already talking over each other, their voices loud with excitement.

“I’m gonna be the fun uncle,” Jack declared.

“No, I am,” Luke shot back. “You’re just gonna teach the kid bad habits.”

Y/N laughed, relief flooding her chest. All the nerves she’d carried for days melted away in the warmth of their joy. The Hughes family had welcomed her from the start, but this—this was something deeper. She could feel their love expanding to include not just her, but the baby too.

Quinn caught her eye across the room, his smile wide and unguarded. He mouthed, Told you so.

—

Later that night, when the house had quieted and everyone else had gone to bed, Y/N and Quinn sat on the back porch wrapped in a blanket. The lake stretched out before them, calm and glimmering under the moonlight.

“They were so happy,” Y/N whispered, still a little stunned.

“Of course they were,” Quinn said, pressing a kiss to her hair. “This is their first grandkid. You have no idea how spoiled this baby’s gonna be.”

She laughed softly, imagining Ellen already shopping for tiny sweaters and Jim plotting fishing trips years before the baby would even be able to hold a rod.

Her heart swelled with gratitude. “I’m glad we told them together.”

“Me too,” Quinn said, his hand finding its familiar spot over her stomach.

They sat in silence for a while, the weight of the moment sinking in. This was real. Their baby was already loved by so many.

—

The next step was Y/N’s family.

That Sunday, she and Quinn sat side by side on her parents’ couch, her mother fussing over them with coffee and cookies while her dad asked Quinn about the upcoming season. Her younger sister lingered nearby, scrolling on her phone but clearly listening to every word.

Y/N’s nerves returned in full force. Her family was different from the Hughes—more reserved, less boisterous. They loved her deeply, but she wasn’t sure how they’d react to the news of her pregnancy.

Finally, she set her coffee cup down and cleared her throat. “Mom, Dad… there’s something we want to tell you.”

Her mom looked up instantly, brows furrowing in concern. “What is it?”

Y/N took a steadying breath and reached for Quinn’s hand. “I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, silence hung heavy in the air. Her dad blinked, her mom’s mouth parted in shock. Even her sister froze mid-scroll, eyes wide.

Then, slowly, her mom’s expression softened. “You’re… you’re having a baby?”

Y/N nodded nervously.

Her mom’s eyes filled with tears, and before Y/N could react, she was pulling her into a hug. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Congratulations.”

Her dad stood, still looking stunned, but his smile grew as he embraced them both. “Wow. This is… this is big news.”

Her sister finally spoke, grinning ear to ear. “I’m gonna be an aunt!” she squealed, throwing her arms around Y/N. “This is the best news ever.”

Y/N’s heart swelled again. Relief, joy, and love all tangled together as her family embraced her, their excitement quickly replacing the initial shock.

Quinn stood beside her the whole time, his hand never leaving hers, his smile steady and sure.

Later, as they drove back to their hotel, Y/N let out a long breath. “Well… that went better than I expected.”

Quinn squeezed her hand. “Told you. Everyone’s gonna be excited. This baby’s already got a whole army of people who love them.”

Y/N turned to look at him, her chest tight with affection. “And the best dad.”

He blushed, ducking his head with a sheepish grin. “And the best mom.”

She leaned over to kiss him softly, her heart full.

For the first time, the future didn’t feel scary. It felt like home.

FOUR

For weeks, life felt like it existed in a beautiful secret bubble. Y/N went to her first doctor’s appointment with Quinn by her side, his knee bouncing nervously in the waiting room until the nurse called them in. They heard their baby’s heartbeat for the first time, a quick, steady rhythm that made Quinn’s eyes instantly fill with tears. He held Y/N’s hand so tightly she thought he might never let go.

“Do you hear that?” he whispered, voice breaking.

Y/N nodded, her own tears streaming down her cheeks. “That’s our baby.”

In those moments, it didn’t matter that the rest of the world didn’t know yet. Their baby was theirs alone, a growing little miracle cocooned in their love.

But secrets never stayed secrets forever. Not in the world Quinn lived in.

—

The first ripple started innocently enough. Y/N had been spotted leaving a doctor’s office by a fan who worked at the coffee shop across the street. Nothing definitive, just a passing, curious observation that made its way onto Twitter.

“Pretty sure I saw Quinn Hughes’ gf at the OB clinic?? 👀”

Most of the replies brushed it off as baseless speculation, another in a long line of fan theories. Still, it left Y/N unsettled. She’d always known the public part of Quinn’s life would eventually seep into hers, but she wasn’t ready for strangers on the internet to discuss her body—or their baby.

Quinn noticed her scrolling one night, her expression tight. Gently, he took her phone from her hands and set it aside.

“Hey,” he said softly, cupping her cheek. “Don’t let that stuff get to you. They don’t know anything. And when we are ready to tell people, it’ll be on our terms.”

Y/N nodded, trying to absorb his calm. He always made it sound so simple.

—

The real shift came a week later during a post-game interview. Quinn had just helped lead the Canucks to a win, sweat still dripping from his curls as he stood in front of the cameras. Y/N watched from home, curled up on the couch, her stomach doing flips that had nothing to do with morning sickness.

The questions started off normal enough—defense strategies, the team’s playoff push, his performance on the ice. Quinn answered with his usual quiet confidence, his voice steady and thoughtful.

And then one reporter, clearly fishing, asked, “Quinn, there’s been a lot of talk lately about your personal life. Can you confirm if you’re in a relationship?”

Quinn blinked, caught slightly off guard. He glanced down for a moment, then back up at the cameras.

“I usually try to keep my personal life private,” he said carefully, “but… yeah, I’m in a relationship.”

The room buzzed instantly, reporters leaning forward, microphones shifting closer.

“Can you tell us who?” another pressed.

Quinn’s lips curved into the smallest of smiles, the kind Y/N knew meant he’d already made up his mind.

“Her name’s Y/N,” he said simply, his voice warm. “She’s amazing.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

“And there are rumors she might be pregnant,” a third reporter added quickly, clearly seizing the moment. “Is there any truth to that?”

For a beat, Quinn was silent. Y/N could see the hesitation flicker in his eyes, the private part of him warring with the public role he played. Then, slowly, his smile widened.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice full of quiet pride. “We’re expecting. And we’re really excited about it.”

The room erupted—questions overlapping, flashes popping—but Quinn didn’t elaborate further. He gave a polite nod, said, “That’s all I’ll say for now,” and walked off.

—

Y/N’s phone lit up instantly. Friends, old classmates, distant relatives—everyone wanted to know if it was true. Her social media notifications exploded, messages pouring in faster than she could open them.

But before she could even think about responding, Quinn was calling.

“Hey,” he said the second she answered. His voice was calm, steady, just like he’d sounded in the interview.

“Quinn,” she breathed, her heart still pounding. “You just—”

“I know,” he cut in gently. “I didn’t plan to say it tonight, but when they asked… it didn’t feel right to dodge it. Not when I’m so proud of you. Proud of us.”

Her throat tightened with emotion. “You really mean that?”

“Of course I do,” he said firmly. “Y/N, you’re the most important part of my life. And our baby? That’s something I want the whole world to know I’m grateful for. No rumor, no speculation. Just the truth.”

Tears pricked at her eyes. He had a way of making her feel safe even when the entire world seemed to be watching.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you too,” he said softly. “Both of you.”

—

The next few days were a whirlwind. Articles popped up on every sports site, headlines blaring:

“Quinn Hughes Confirms He’s Expecting First Child”

“Canucks Captain Opens Up About Relationship”

“The Hughes Family Legacy Grows: Quinn to Become a Dad”

Some of the coverage was invasive, speculating about due dates and details they hadn’t shared. But there was also an outpouring of support—fans posting congratulations, teammates sending texts and calling, people expressing genuine excitement for them.

Jack FaceTimed the next morning, grinning ear to ear. “Bro, you’re trending. Mom said she almost cried watching the interview. Nice work, Captain Dad.”

Luke popped onto the screen beside him, adding, “Yeah, and now we officially get to spoil the baby in public. You’ve unleashed chaos.”

Quinn rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop smiling.

Ellen called later, her voice full of pride. “You spoke so beautifully, Quinn. I’m glad you’re protecting Y/N while also celebrating her. That balance… it’s not easy.”

Y/N listened quietly on speaker, her heart swelling. The Hughes family’s unwavering support wrapped around her like armor against the outside noise.

—

Still, not all moments were easy. Paparazzi began lingering outside games more than usual, hoping to catch a glimpse of Y/N. Random strangers left comments online speculating about her body, about whether she “looked pregnant yet.”

It was overwhelming at times, but Quinn never wavered. He shielded her from as much as he could, refusing to let negativity seep into their little world.

One night, when she was particularly anxious after seeing her name trending again, Quinn pulled her close on the couch.

“Listen to me,” he said firmly, his hazel eyes locking on hers. “You don’t owe anyone anything. Not explanations, not pictures, not access to our life. The only people who matter are right here.” He brushed a hand over her stomach gently. “Me. You. And this little one.”

Y/N’s chest ached with love. He made it sound so simple, and maybe it was. Maybe the noise didn’t matter, not when the most important things were already in her hands.

—

A week after the interview, Y/N posted her own small announcement. Just a simple photo of her and Quinn on the couch, his hand resting on her stomach, both of them smiling softly. The caption read:

Our little secret isn’t so secret anymore. We can’t wait to meet you, baby Hughes.

The comments were flooded with love. Teammates left blue heart emojis, friends from back home sent congratulations, and even strangers wrote kind, encouraging messages.

Y/N scrolled through them that night, her heart lighter than it had been in days.

“See?” Quinn murmured, kissing her temple. “The world can be loud, but it can be good too.”

She leaned into him, smiling. “Yeah. It really can.”

For the first time, she didn’t feel afraid of their love being known.

Because their love wasn’t just theirs anymore—it was growing, expanding, taking root in the world. And nothing could overshadow that.

FIVE

The nursery wasn’t finished, but it was coming together in ways that made Y/N’s heart swell every time she walked past the doorway.

A crib sat against the far wall, freshly built by Quinn and Luke on one of Luke’s visits, both of them grinning proudly like they’d just won the Stanley Cup after tightening the last screw. A rocking chair rested in the corner, draped with the soft blanket Ellen had knitted. Stacks of baby clothes were folded neatly on the dresser, tiny onesies in every shade of blue, yellow, and green.

It was still a work in progress, but the room already hummed with a kind of magic.

One evening, Y/N stood in the nursery, her hand resting over her growing belly. She was well into her second trimester now, the curve of her stomach undeniable. Every flutter, every tiny kick, reminded her that their baby was real and coming sooner than she could truly grasp.

Behind her, Quinn leaned against the doorway, watching her quietly. His curls were messy from practice, his hoodie hanging loose around his frame, but his eyes glowed with a softness reserved only for her.

“Pretty crazy, huh?” he said.

Y/N turned, smiling. “What is?”

He stepped inside, moving to stand beside her. His gaze swept over the room. “This. All of it. We’re really gonna have a baby in here.”

She laughed softly, leaning into him. “Yeah. We really are.”

He wrapped his arms around her from behind, his hands sliding over hers on her stomach. For a moment, they stood in silence, breathing in the stillness of the room, the weight of what it meant.

Then, almost as if on cue, the baby kicked.

Y/N gasped, her eyes widening. “Did you feel that?”

Quinn’s hands stilled. “Wait—” And then it happened again, a gentle but unmistakable thump against her belly. His mouth dropped open, his face lighting up with awe. “I felt it! Oh my God.”

Tears pricked Y/N’s eyes as she turned in his arms, laughing through her emotions. “It’s saying hi to you.”

Quinn bent down immediately, pressing his lips to her stomach. “Hey, little one,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s your dad. I can’t wait to meet you.”

Y/N’s heart melted. She threaded her fingers through his curls, whispering, “You’re already the best dad.”

—

Life didn’t slow down. Quinn balanced practices, games, and captain duties, but somehow he always made time for Y/N. He went to doctor’s appointments when he could, asked the nurses a million questions, and proudly carried every ultrasound photo in his wallet like they were trophies.

His teammates teased him about it constantly.

“It’s not even here yet, and you’re already obsessed,” Elias Pettersson joked one day, catching Quinn staring at the latest ultrasound picture.

Quinn just shrugged, smiling softly. “Yeah. I am.”

And he didn’t care who knew it.

—

The Hughes family remained just as excited, their group chat buzzing daily with name suggestions, nursery ideas, and unsolicited parenting advice. Jack was still campaigning to teach the baby to skate before it could walk, while Luke insisted he’d be the one to buy the first pair of tiny skates.

Ellen sent weekly check-ins, offering gentle encouragement and endless love. Jim promised to handle “all the grandpa duties.”

Even Y/N’s family, quieter by nature, had thrown themselves into the anticipation. Her mom sent recipes for hearty meals, her dad offered to build shelves for the nursery, and her sister sent links to baby clothes at least twice a day.

Their baby wasn’t even born yet, and already they were surrounded by love.

—

One quiet Sunday afternoon, Quinn and Y/N curled up on the couch with her head in his lap, the TV playing softly in the background. His fingers brushed absentmindedly through her hair while she rested a hand over her belly.

“Have you thought about names?” he asked suddenly.

Y/N tilted her head to look up at him. “All the time. You?”

He chuckled. “Yeah. But every time I think I’ve found the perfect one, I second-guess it.”

“Same,” she admitted with a smile.

They tossed ideas back and forth, laughing at some, lingering thoughtfully on others. Eventually, they admitted they didn’t need to decide right away. The right name would come, just like everything else had—with time, love, and patience.

—

A few days later, they went to another appointment, this one to check on the baby’s growth. As the doctor moved the wand over Y/N’s stomach, the grainy black-and-white image appeared on the screen.

“There it is,” the doctor said cheerfully. “Heartbeat looks strong. Baby’s growing right on track.”

Quinn squeezed Y/N’s hand, his smile wide. “They’re perfect,” he whispered.

Y/N’s eyes filled with tears. She knew every parent felt that way, but hearing it from him, seeing the awe in his eyes—it made her fall in love all over again.

On the way home, Quinn kept his hand on her stomach the whole drive, his thumb tracing soft circles. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy,” he said quietly.

Y/N turned to look at him, her chest tight with love. “Me neither.”

—

The final weeks before the baby’s arrival were a blur of preparation. They attended parenting classes, practiced swaddling dolls until Quinn declared himself a “swaddling master,” and argued playfully over car seat installation.

Their home slowly transformed, baby items filling every corner—diaper stacks in the bathroom, bottles lined on the counter, stuffed animals perched on shelves.

One night, after finally finishing the nursery, they stood together in the doorway, taking it all in.

“It’s perfect,” Y/N whispered.

Quinn slid an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “Not as perfect as you,” he said softly. “You’ve done so much, Y/N. I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

Her throat tightened with emotion. “We’re lucky together.”

He kissed her forehead, his voice quiet but steady. “This is the start of everything.”

—

On a late summer evening, long after the sun had dipped below the horizon, Y/N sat in the rocking chair, gently swaying. The baby wasn’t here yet, but she could feel them moving, little kicks and flutters that filled her with anticipation.

Quinn sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her, his chin resting on her knee. His eyes were soft, tired from practice but glowing with peace.

“You know,” he said, his voice low, “I used to think hockey was the best thing in my life. That nothing could ever top it.”

Y/N brushed her fingers through his curls, waiting.

“But then I met you,” he continued. “And now… now I know this—” He rested a hand gently on her stomach. “This is it. This is what matters most.”

Tears filled Y/N’s eyes as she leaned down to kiss him. “Me too.”

They stayed like that for a long time, the world outside fading into nothing. Just the two of them, their love, and the promise of the little life about to join them.

It wasn’t the end of their story. It was only the beginning.

[sturnioz]

your hand slips under shy!chris’ hoodie while you guys are making out on the couch, and instead of telling you to slow down — that anyone could catch you two — he just purses his lips while you explore his body

STOP. (DON'T STOP) shy!chris

word count. 754 warnings. making out, awkward ramblings, touching, light nipple play, cumming in pants.

chris' hands lay awkwardly on your hips, fingertips curling into the fabric of your shirt while you straddle his hips to guide his mouth with yours, the soft, wet sounds of your lips connecting filling the silence of the living-room.

his lashes lay across his flushed cheeks when he closes his eyes, his breath hitching with each movement of your lips.

"y-you're really—" he tries, his words breaking as your lips claim his again, "—mmph—making me feel crazy, i—" another kiss given by you swallows the rest, but he still continues to mumble against your mouth. "dunno what to do with my hands, am i hold—"

"shhh," you murmur as you tilt your head, catching his bottom lip between yours in a slow kiss to stop his rambling. he swallows hard, his shoulders loosening while his fingers stop fidgeting, sliding up your sides to find a more comfortable place to rest.

every little noise he makes—those breathless hums, quiet gasps, audible whines—has a smile threatening to spread across your mouth, but you force your amusement aside as you coax his lips open with yours, swallowing every shaky exhale he lets out.

his fingers twitch at your sides when your head tilts to taste his lips from a different angle, curling tighter into your shirt, and the vibration of your soft hum makes him melt against you.

you shift above him, moving your hands from his shoulders to slip them beneath the hem of his shirt, his skin hot against your palm, and the moment you start tracing upwards, you feel his stomach tense—just slightly, but he doesn't pull back.

not at first, anyway.

it's only when your hands slide higher, brushing over his ribs and up his chest, that he breaks the kiss, his breath catching in his throat. he doesn't speak, though. he just presses his swollen-kiss lips together, cheeks flushed a deep pink, and his hazy eyes flick down and back up repeatedly like he's caught somewhere between hesitation and curiosity, trying to figure out what to do with himself.

you know what's going through his mind, and it's the worry about someone walking in and catching you both in such an intimate moment—you straddling him, hands tucked beneath his shirt, out of breath and lips wet. but beneath his hesitation, you can see the familiar look in his gaze, the quiet curiosity to see how far you'll go... or to see what you'll do to him.

you decide to push forward, letting your hands roam slow and deliberately. one palm spreads across his chest, thumb tracing lazy circles over his nipples, watching him squirm and tense while the other slips lower along his side, lightly grazing across the angle of his hip.

chris' chest dips under your touches, a strangled whine sitting at the back of his throat, his pulse thumping against your palm as you continue thumbing at his nipple. he jerks forward, then sinks back into the couch, eyes squeezing shut as the words tumble out half-formed and breathy.

"i—we're—that—" he starts, his voice cracking, the sentence collapsing into a hiccupped whine as hands, which have been frozen at your hips, tighten in grip. "i'm going to—i'll get all messy—i'll cum if you keep—"

you shut him up with a kiss, pressing your mouth firm and warm to his. your thumb tweaks over his nipple once, twice and a third time for extra measure just to hear him whine against your lips and feel him tremble beneath you.

deciding to take it a step further, you subtly rock your hips on his, rubbing your ass against the growing bulge in his pants to give him some relief while you play with his nipples, and you stifle a laugh when he suddenly tenses up.

a choked moan gurgles at the back of his throat, then a sharp gasp, his eyes wide and cheeks flushed as one last brush of your thumb over his nipple makes him spill inside his boxers, cum leaking through the material and creating a dark patch on the front of his sweatpants.

you can feel every twitch and pulse, pulling your lips from his to peer down at the stickiness coating your inner thighs, watching his cock twitch beneath the fabric repeatedly as more cum spurts from his tip, making a mess.

"i told you," chris croaks out, panting heavily as he squirms. he meets your eyes with a sheepish look, blinking as he murmurs embarrassingly. "i told you i'd cum if you keep doin' that..."

©STURNIOZ est 2025 𐔌 . all rights reserved.

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Hi! love your work. Can you please write about Orpheous' wedding day, but with reader accompanying Dream as his wife/partner? I love the little snippet we had of him as a father and I would love to read some more about it.

Morpheus X F!Reader: In the light of love

a/n: i think i ended up focusing more on the readers and Dreams relationship (the fatherly aspect is still present though). Hope you enjoy it even so!

Warnings: none this is just fluff and cuteness, no use of y/n, not proofread

Word count: 2.3K

“Don’t pout.”

“I am not.”

You gave Dream a look that said, Yes, you are. He was pouting, but not because he was angry or in one of his moods. He was pouting because… well… that was just his face.

You made your way over to him, leaning your head on his shoulder. Dream would not let many get this close to him, be this affectionate toward him. But you were different. Not just because you were his wife and queen of the Dreaming, but because you made him feel understood. So he did not fear being vulnerable near you.

You pressed your nose into his neck as your hand moved to caress his locks. He closed his eyes, letting out a deep sigh.

“Come on, Morpheus. We’ll be late if we don’t get going.”

He stared at the paper in his hands. There was much work to be done, but he would not miss his son’s wedding day. Still, he lingered, standing before his desk.

“What’s bothering you, my King?”

Dream let out a soft smile at your question. You were always able to read him like an open book. It should frighten him, just how much you understood him—but it didn’t. If anything, it brought him a small comfort.

“It is because of Calliope?”

Dream tensed a bit at the mention of her name, and you felt it, your arms moving to wrap around his waist, pressing your chest gently against his back in a soothing manner.

“You have nothing to worry about, Morpheus. Calliope bears no ill will toward you. She hasn’t for a long time.”

“It’s not me I worry for.”

You let out a small scoff, unwinding your body from his. Stepping to the side, you walked to the other end of the desk. Dream watched as you moved, his gaze flitting from the papers on his desk to you. You poised yourself at the opposite end, crossing your arms.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Dream. I’m not some fragile creature.” You nudged a small ball that sat on the desk. “And Calliope doesn’t wish me anything but luck.”

“Luck?”

“Well, she of all people knows how difficult you can be.”

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face at Morpheus’ disdainful look.

“Difficult, am I?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing in a way he rarely allowed.

“You are,” you said firmly, tilting your head. “But only to those who don’t know you. Me? I’ve seen the real you.”

Dream’s expression softened, a flicker of vulnerability passing over his usually stoic features. “And what do you see when you look at me now?”

You smiled, walking slowly around the desk so you were directly in front of him. “I see a father. A son. A brother. But most importantly…” You leaned in, brushing your lips against the corner of his mouth, a whisper of a kiss. “…I see my husband. My King.”

For a long moment, Dream said nothing, only letting the faintest hum of a sigh escape him. Then, finally, he reached out, fingers brushing the side of your face, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. 

“And I see my Queen,” he said softly, making you smile against his lips.

You gave him a soft kiss which he happily accepted. You pressed your forehead to his, smiling against his cool skin. 

“Now come, your son is to be wed and we shall not miss it.” You laced your fingers against his. “You cannot say no. Your Queen commands you.”

“Is that so?” 

You merely smiled at him. Dream straightened, his usual regal composure returning, though now tempered with a quiet warmth.

“Lead the way,” he murmured. And together, hand in hand, despairing in a mist of sand. 

You and Dream had been the first to arrive, followed moments later by Calliope. You exchanged cheerful greetings; it was meant to be a happy day, and no matter their history, Calliope and Morpheus both loved their son dearly, so they would make the effort to remain civil—for Orpheus’ sake.

Once the young man saw you, his mouth opened into a bright smile. He ran over, giving his mother an embrace before turning to you. You returned his smile, opening your arms to him. He accepted the hug; you may not have been related by blood, but you always treated him as one of your own, and Orpheus had always seen you as family. There were no grievances between you, and you were glad for it.

Orpheus did not hug his father, and although you wished Morpheus would embrace his child, you knew it was not his custom, and you could not force him to do so.

“Have the rest of the family arrived, Orpheus?”

“Oh, I’m not sure. I’ve only seen Aunt Teleute.”

You relaxed at the news. Death had always been the easiest of the Endless siblings to get along with. You were glad she was here; if anything, her presence gave you a reason to excuse yourself. You placed a kiss on Morpheus’ cheek, bidding him a silent goodbye. You wanted to give the family a moment alone. You could sense Orpheus was nervous, and you hoped Dream would help calm him.

You wandered along the marvelous stone pillars until you found the bride-to-be, accompanied by none other than Death. You approached the two women, smiling as you made your way to them.

“Why, Eurydice, how beautiful you are. I am Morpheus’ wife—it’s a pleasure to meet you, dear. Orpheus speaks highly of you.”

“Thank you, my lady. The honor is mine.”

You gave the young girl a tender smile, tugging her into a short embrace before turning to Death. You wasted no time with greetings, giving Death a strong hug.

“It’s good to see you, Teleute.”

“Always a pleasure.”

You noticed Eurydice glancing around. You gave Death a knowing look.

“Nervous, dear?”

Eurydice flushed a bit at your question, embarrassed.

“I must admit I am a bit… wary,” she confessed. “It’s not that I don’t love Orpheus—I do, very much actually. It’s just that… well…” She trailed off, suddenly self-conscious.

“It’s perfectly normal to be nervous, my dear.”

You leaned in closer, speaking low so only Eurydice could hear your words.

“The day I married Morpheus, I almost fainted.”

Eurydice’s eyes widened.

“Really?”

“It’s true. I was there. We had to keep fanning her until she was standing at the altar.”

You and Death laughed at the memory. You couldn’t help but smile, remembering the day you’d finally married the love of your life. You let out a small sigh, moving to grab Eurydice’s hands.

“Love is an odd thing. It makes you feel desperate and afraid, but it also makes you feel wonder and hope. Orpheus is a good man. He’ll make a fine husband. And I know it’s nerve-wracking finding yourself inserted into his crazy family, but something I’ve learned over the years… they’re not as bad as they seem.”

As if summoned by your words, Orpheus appeared, running to Eurydice. They shared a soft kiss, foreheads resting together for a moment.

You felt someone standing beside you and glanced up at Morpheus. You smiled at him, allowing your hand to slip into his.

“How did it go?” you whispered.

Morpheus watched Orpheus and Eurydice for a while before turning to look at you.

“He really loves her.”

You smiled. “So does she.”

You leaned against Morpheus’ shoulder, savoring his proximity.

“Ah, young love. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Morpheus placed a kiss atop your hair, which surprised you.

“What was that for?”

Morpheus gave you a rare smile. “Just for being you. For being with me, through it all.”

The ceremony was beautiful. All of Dream's siblings came and all though he did not show it you knew he was glad for their presence. As the couple shared their vows Dream’s hand tightened around yours, almost protectively, and for a moment, you were aware of the contrast between him and the human world around you—the calm certainty of Dream and the trembling anticipation of Orpheus. And yet… they were alike in one way: both hearts beating a little faster than usual because of someone they loved.

Dream’s hand in yours was warm, strong, grounding. You could feel the tension in him, the faint pull of the responsibility he always carried with him. But in that moment he was present, fully here, for his child, and it made your chest ache with love for him.

When Orpheus slipped the ring onto Eurydice’s finger, you caught a glimmer of a smile on Dream’s face. It was fleeting, subtle, but it was there—just for you to see. You squeezed his hand, letting him know silently that you noticed. 

The reception that followed was filled with laughter, music, and warmth. You noticed the Endless siblings mingling in their own peculiar ways—Death gently teasing a few mortal relatives, Delirium flitting through the crowd in her chaotic delight, Destiny observing with quiet approval—but always circling back to Dream, who sat at the edge of the ceremony. A quiet shadow hidden from sight. But you saw him.

You always did. 

Later, as the newlyweds shared their first dance, you found a quiet moment with Dream near one of the pillars. The lights shimmered like starlight across the stone floor, casting a soft glow around the two of you. You settled beside him, watching Orpheus and Eurydice dance.

“He hates it.”

You turned to face Dream.

“What does he hate?”

“Dancing.”

“Like father, like son.”

Morpheus turned to look at you, his eyes catching the longing way you glanced at the dancing couples.

“And yet he still does it anyway.”

You turned to him.

“Of course he does, Morpheus. He loves her. He wants to make her happy.”

You said the words as if they were obvious, as if thinking anything else were impossible. It was then that Dream realized just how different you were from him. You had given up your mortality when you married him, and even though years had passed since then, you still held a knowledge of mortals that Dream often forgot. You knew how they felt because you had been one. And you had given all that up—for him.

He rose from his seat, standing before you. You gazed up at him questioningly. He placed his hand out to you.

“May I have this dance, my Queen?”

Your lips parted in soft surprise. He loathed dancing. You knew just how much he despised it. And so, even though you had always adored dancing, you never asked Morpheus to join you, opting instead to observe. But here he was, offering you the one thing he knew you wanted despite his hatred for it.

It was such a simple act, yet it held so much behind it. You took his hand, allowing him to pull you to your feet. Dream guided you to the floor, earning a few curious glances. But when the music started, and Dream’s hand moved to wrap around your body, the only person you could see was him.

The music swirled around you, soft and ethereal, as Dream’s hand rested gently on your waist. Your other hand found his, fingers intertwining naturally. You felt the faintest tension in him at first—the stiffness of someone unused to such vulnerability—but as he guided you across the floor, it softened.

“You’re… surprisingly graceful,” he murmured, his voice low, almost uncertain.

You smiled, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “So are you, when you want to be,” you teased lightly. “Though you might not admit it.”

Dream allowed a quiet hum of amusement to escape him. “I do not dance often,” he said, voice soft, “but I… wished to be with you. To give you this moment.”

The words made your chest tighten. His rare vulnerability, his willingness to step out of his comfort for you… it made your heart ache in the best possible way.

You leaned into him, resting your forehead against his chest. 

“Thank you,” you whispered.

Dream’s hand moved to cradle the back of your head gently, his thumb brushing a strand of hair from your face.

The two of you moved together as if the world had narrowed to just this floor, just this moment. All the formalities, all the watchers, all the Endless duties—they vanished, leaving only the warmth of his hand in yours, the slow rhythm of the music, and the quiet certainty of being together. 

“Father?”

Orpheus’ voice broke through the little bubble you and Dream had found yourselves in. You turned to look at him, still clinging to Eurydice, for a moment before glancing back at Dream.

Morpheus’ eyes moved slowly over his son’s features. He stepped away from you softly, giving you space. Eurydice released Orpheus as Dream approached him. The two of you watched as father and son met halfway, standing in silence for a moment.

And then, to your surprise, Morpheus reached out, pulling Orpheus into a loving embrace. Your hand moved to clutch at your heart, the sight before you stirring deep emotion.

Morpheus pulled back just enough to look down at his son with pride. He pressed a gentle kiss to Orpheus’ temple before speaking.

“I am very proud of you, son.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Morpheus opened his mouth, paused for a moment, and then seemed to make up his mind.

“I love you, my son.”

You could see the brief surprise on Orpheus’ face at the words, quickly replaced by pure joy. He clung to his father, giving in to a fierce hug.

“I love you too, Father.”

And when Dream’s eyes found yours in the crowd, you saw his lips move softly to form the words, “I love you.” You responded with a quiet, “Forevermore,” causing him to give you a small, rare smile.

And there, beneath the starlight, basking in the glow of the fires around you and the joy in the air, you witnessed something you had always known to be true: even the Endless, beings of great power and eternal life, could be brought to kneel before the force of love.