#now he knows what it's like to be a third wheel

[jackrrabbot]

fidus achates

dbf!jack abbot x fem!reader

word count ~12.2k (sorry guys, omg)

content warnings/description: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, AFAB reader, age gap (jack is early forties and in the military, reader is mid-twenties), dry humping, phone sex, filming, hurt/comfort, single internal thought of jack wanting to knock reader up, camping inaccuracies

author's note: santos and garcia exist in this story even though it's before jack is even a doctor at PTMC. just go with it! enjoy :)

masterlist

you and jack take a short camping trip together without the watchful eyes of your father. this is the catalyst.

“Make sure Jack watches over you. I don’t need you getting eaten by a bear. Sacrifice him, if you—”

Your phone’s speaker crackles and your dad cuts out, but you get the gist of what he’s trying to say.

“Dad.” You chuckle. “We’re going to be fine. Promise. It’s a short trip—we’ll be back by tomorrow afternoon. I really wish you could’ve come along, though.” You pout, even though he can’t see you over the phone.

“I know, honey. But one of our military buddies—you know him, Thomas—really needs a helping hand right now. Someone’s got to be there for him, and both Jack and I can’t be away camping. It’s better that he goes so you can spend some time with him. When is he deploying again?”

“Almost right after we come back, I think within a day or two.”

“Yeah, see—I would’ve asked to reschedule the trip, but he’s going to be gone for another who-knows-how-long. You’ll have to go without me, honey.”

You sigh. “I know. It’s just always been our tradition, you know? But, you’re right, it won’t be so bad. Actually, it—... it’ll be good to spend some alone time with Jack. It’s been a while since we’ve hung out, just the two of us.” A loose thread on the hem of your jean shorts scratches your thigh, and you pick at it, anxious about seeing him again after so long.

“Are you implying I’m the third wheel? He’s my best friend, you know.”

You groan, “Daaad.”

He laughs heartily into the phone, tickled by your reaction. “I’m just yanking your chain. I know you two get along. You’re closer in age than he and I are, anyway.”

“Only barely. He’s still old enough that he could be my father.” A very young one, but still. “You’re just… way older.”

You don’t need to see him to know that he’s rolling his eyes. “Haha, hilarious, honey. But no funny business, alright? Regardless of what you say, I know how you look at him. And it’s not a look that’s appropriate for a daughter to give her dad.”

You gape, affronted by his implication. “W-What are you talking about? Actually… don’t answer that. Jack’s going to be picking me up soon. I’ll talk to you when I get back, okay?” You’ve never wanted to hang up a phone call so fast in your life.

“You better. And remember what I said, alright?”

“Of course. Bye!”

You hang up the phone just as you hear a heavy knock on your apartment door. Leaping from the couch, you rush over to open it, not before taking a deep breath in and out and adjusting your tank top and shorts. 

With an unhooking of the chain and a turn of the knob, you open the door.

Jack stands before you, dressed in an army T-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts, grinning wide when he sees your face.

He takes in your appearance like a breath of fresh air. It’s been far too long since he last saw you. Life has had her way with him over the past several months after coming back from deployment, and he’s been preoccupied—and unable to make time for you. 

…and your dad.

Now, he’s deploying back overseas in the next two days. This trip—and seeing you again—are the only two things that have been keeping him motivated while he’s been back. Days and days of counting down the clock until he could see you again.

He only wishes he had more time.

“Jack, you’re here,” you whisper, disbelieving he’s right in front of you. He looks… good. Strong. Like he could fold you in half. 

You return his smile, wrapping your arms around his shoulders in a hug. 

When you two part, he squishes your cheeks with a single hand, puckering your lips. “Sure am, kid. Are you ready?” 

Babbling, you nod and respond, “Lemmejusgrabmybackpack.” He finally lets go of your face, and you both laugh.

“Are you sure you didn’t need me to bring anything else?” you ask.

“Just your pretty self.” He snaps his fingers. “And your cooler. We’ll need that. I’ve got ice in the trunk ready.”

“Oh, right. I nearly forgot. Okay, I’ll be right back.”

Jack grabs your wrist, and you turn to face him with a tilt of your head.

“Invite me in, and I’ll carry everything to the car.” He lets go of your wrist and leans over the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest.

“What are you, a vampire?” You raise a brow, confused. 

“Well, it must be the reason why I still look so good at my ripe old age,” he jokes, but doesn’t budge. He wants—needs—your consent to let him in. To cross the threshold. 

Because, really, he’s not so sure he’ll be able to behave himself around you on this trip. Letting him in now is future insurance just in case he does something against your father’s wishes. It’s not his fault if you give him permission to. 

He’ll try to be a good soldier, though.

He waits with bated breath, heart skipping a beat when you roll your eyes and quip, “Oh, you’re an arrogant one at that. Figures. Come on in then, bloodsucker. You can bite me as repayment for carrying my things.” You wink, gesturing for him to come inside.

“Don’t tempt me.”

The car ride to Raccoon Creek is only forty-five minutes long, and while you’re normally antsy during drives longer than your own commute to work—which is only a five-minute walk away from your apartment—you feel relaxed with Jack behind the wheel.

You hate driving, but he makes it look easy. His right hand is on the steering wheel, making a smooth turn down the winding road leading to the park, while the other casually hangs out the window.

Jack begrudgingly let you plug in your phone to listen to your playlist the entire way, complaining about the state that modern-day music is in.

Whatever, old man. Good music definitely still exists.

You’re about twenty minutes away from the park and too excited for your own good. Your knees bounce in sync with the music, the water in your bottle sloshing with every movement as it sits between your legs.

Jack sees you shaking out of the corner of his eye. “Calm down, kid. It feels like an earthquake in here.”

“Sorry, I’m just excited. I always loved going camping as a kid. It’s usually a tradition I share with my dad, but… it’ll be fun to share it with you now, too.” You look over at him with a grin.

Jack’s fingers twitch against the wheel. You’re too sweet on him.

“I’m excited too, angel. But let’s keep the shaking to a minimum, okay?” With his eyes still looking forward, Jack takes the water bottle from your lap and places it into the cup holder. Then his rough palm greets your knee and squeezes, grounding you. 

His hand lingers—thumb brushing over the soft, moisturized skin—but then pulls back a beat too late. And you notice. But you don’t do anything. Because your mutual attraction may be all in your head—key word, mutual—and you’re a good girl.

And good girls listen to their dad’s rules. Even if you’re sitting in the car alone with temptation itself.

You fan yourself lightly to stop yourself from overheating and point to the GPS. “We still have a little bit farther to go. I’m gonna take a quick nap. Wake me when we’re there?” You lean toward the open window and take in the cool breeze and the scent of the crisp summer air that passes by.

“Will do. Get some rest.”

You sit in the car, bleary-eyed and yawning, as Jack takes a second to check in at the park kiosk. He could’ve just checked in online but was too confused by the website and too stubborn to do it any other way than the old-fashioned one. 

It’s too late now anyway. You’re already here.

A few minutes later, Jack comes up to your passenger seat window, crossing his corded, veiny forearms over the edge. You almost reach out and squeeze but stop yourself.

“Alright. We’re good to go. You wanna take a second to use the restroom? Get some snacks? The only other thing we’ll be eating today is whatever we catch.”

You shake your head. “I’m good on the bathroom, and I brought snacks. I’m ready whenever you are.”

“Alright. It’s a few minutes’ drive to where our reservation is.”

“Which is where, exactly? You never really shared the details.”

“You’ll see.”

You hop out of the truck and see the start of the trail leading up to where a walk-in site should be—at least, based on the dusty, barely standing post sign that reads, Walk-In 300 ft. Ahead.

Huh, guess you’ll be a little more isolated. 

Based on the Raccoon Creek map, the loop you’re in is tucked in the outer grounds of the campsite, far away from prying eyes and from the reminder that you’re not alone with only nature.

You don’t mind. 

It’ll be nice to have a real camping experience. A taste of the rugged outdoors. Typically, your dad books a cabin outfitted with power, a kitchen, nice beds, and a bathroom and calls it camping. Says otherwise, it reminds him too much of his time during the service. 

You peer through the window of the truck, looking at Jack on the other side.

Maybe your dad’s logic applies to him too. Maybe this keeps him in it—even while on home leave. You wonder if his days are spent just waiting until he gets deployed again. 

You’re saddened by the thought. You want to fill this very short trip with as much joy as you possibly can before he leaves again.

Did Jack somehow know this is what you wanted? 

Or… is he just sticking with what he’s more comfortable with? Quiet nights, haunted with thoughts for company, and the allure nature brings—even if there’s danger in every corner. Whether that be… bears or enemy combatants.

Maybe you’re overthinking, and he just wants you alone. You turn from the window and look ahead to the trail, a dry laugh escaping your lips.

Nah.

Jack pulls you back to land as you start to drown in your thoughts. He steps around the front of the truck and in front of you. “We’ll probably need to make two trips back and forth to get everything set up. You okay with that, angel?”

“Yeah.” You nod, adamantly. “What do you want me to carry?”

“Take the sleeping bags for now and carry your backpack with you. I’ll take care of the tents and the cooler.”

“Got it!” you say with a salute and a few measured paces to the trunk of his car. He shakes his head at you, lips quirked up and eyes crinkling. You unlatch the trunk and pull out the stuff. 

“You’re really excited about this, huh?” he asks as he joins you, amused by your playfulness.

“Of course… this is my first time actually camping. Not… glamping, like I always do with my dad. I’m glad he ended up letting you do all the booking this time around.”

“It’s a whole different experience. I hope you’ll like it.”

You make space for him to grab the tents and cooler. “I most definitely will. Why hasn’t Dad invited you to our trips before now? We should make this a thing. We can plan it around your deployments.”

“Already thinking about next time?” Jack raises a brow at you. “Let’s see if we survive the night first. C’mon, let’s get our stuff over there.”

Jack tilts his head to the head of the trail, and you walk toward it while he follows closely behind. 

After the second car trip and a quick clearing of the brush covering the gravel pad, you’re ready to set up your home base. 

“So you’ve never pitched a tent before?” Jack asks.

You look at him with wide eyes and a confused expression before you remember where you are. “Oh, you mean—uh, no. Never.”

He shakes his head and smirks. “Stay focused. It’s only the one tent, so we’ll do it together.”

You’re taken aback at this sudden news. “O–Only one tent? Didn’t you say… tents? With an ‘S’?” His eyes follow your pointer finger as it draws the shape of an “S” in the air.

“Did I? My bad.” He shrugs, but he hopes it plays off more nonchalantly than it feels. “It fits two people. When your dad said he wouldn’t be able to join us, I thought it’d be easier. Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“No! No, not at all. I just… wasn’t expecting this.”

“I’m pretty used to living in close quarters. Sorry, I just assumed you’d be okay with it. Don’t worry, we’ll still be in our own sleeping bags. It’ll be fine for just one night.” He winks and clicks his tongue in an attempt to calm you. It works, slightly.

“Yeah, you’re right. Okay, where do we start?”

“This spot is as good as any. It’s level, and since we cleared everything, nothing should be poking us in our sleep.”

Jack picks up the tarp from the ground. “Next: lay the tarp out. Want to do that while I unfold the tent?” 

You nod as he hands you the tarp, and you toss it out over the gravel. 

Jack unfurls the tent. “Alright, now, take one corner of the tent, and I’ll take the other. Pull it tight and lay it over the tarp.” You take one corner of the tent and walk diagonally from him, following his lead.

“All that’s left to do is assemble the poles, slide them through the sleeves here,” Jack says, bending down and threading his finger through one sleeve and pulling it up, “pin them, and bend them so the tent lifts. After that, I’ll stake it down.”

“Huh, I always thought it was harder to set up a tent. It seems pretty simple, actually.”

“That’s just ‘cause I’m here helping you, kid.”

Jack is just finishing up staking the last corner of the tent when you ask, “So, it’s barely noon. What do you have in mind for the rest of the day?”

“We can do whatever you like. But I was thinking we take a hike down to the lake and catch some fish. How’s that sound?”

“Let’s do it,” you say, picking up your backpack from the dirt and slinging it over your shoulder. “Do we need to put our stuff inside the tent, or can we leave it out?”

Jack smiles up at you. “There’s no one around. We’ll be okay. Let’s go.” He stands, then slings the camp chair bag around his back and holds the cooler and fishing pole in each hand. 

You’re about half a mile into your two-mile hike to the lake when you look back at Jack. He quickly glances up to meet your eyes, glinting with the sunlight and… something else. 

…Was he staring at your ass? 

God, you hope he was. It would make you feel a little less guilty to know he also can’t keep his eyes off you.

“Jack, why are you walking so far behind me? I practically have to yell to make conversation.”

“I want to make sure you’re always in my sight.” 

The logic tracks. Your dad did warn him ahead of time that if anything happened to you, he would kill him. And that’s putting it lightly. But still, he doesn’t have to be so far away from you. 

You stop in your tracks, turn around, and stomp toward him. His lips curl up as he watches you approach, and that just irritates you more. He just loves to get a reaction out of you, doesn’t he? Holding yourself back from chirping at him, you forcefully grab the fishing pole from his hands, and it’s quickly stuffed into your backpack, the red floater bobbing in the air from where the pole sticks out.

You thread your fingers through his now-free hand. 

“There. If you walk right by me, you’ll see me at all times, right?”

Jack glances down at your interlocked fingers and squeezes, just a bit. He most definitely could break your hand if he so chose, but his hold is so light that it tickles across your palm and makes you shiver. You clasp his hand just a bit tighter.

He looks back up at you with the same mischievous look he gave you just moments earlier. “I’ve been walking at your pace, sweetheart. Now, you’ll be the one who needs to keep up.”

For the next ten minutes of your hike, you’re nearly out of breath, only getting a chance to breathe when you stop to point out an interesting bird or some pretty shrubbery.

You turn to Jack, pointing at the brilliant, yellow American Goldfinch with the hand not currently clasped in his, but his eyes are locked on yours. A pout graces your face. 

Is he even paying attention? 

You suppose he’s probably more concerned with making it to the lake—before the sun sets—if you keep up this pace. You lower your hand, looking down, and let go of his with the other.

“Hey, what happened? Come back to me.”

You lift your head back up to him, and he pins you with an intense look. 

“I—I’m probably bugging you, aren’t I? I get it… we can just walk the rest of the way without any interruptions. We’re almost there, right?”

He scoffs, and you think he’s going to make a joke, but then he surprises you when he says, “What, are you kidding? Mother Nature is gorgeous, but you’re the only woman I have my eye on.” He kisses the top of your hand gently, relocks your fingers, and pulls you ahead. “C’mon. Just a little more to go. I’ll try to pay more attention to the birds.” 

Jack only lets your hand go once you reach the lake. 

The water is clear and bright blue, and it dazzles beneath the fiery afternoon sun. You're glad you packed your sunscreen and most obnoxious, gargantuan, floppy sun hat.

You swing your backpack around to your front to pull out the folded-up hat, the fishing pole bumping into your hand as it sits in the way. It feels a bit ridiculous once it’s on your head and you see the size of it as you look down at your shadow, but, whatever.

Jack looks at you, appalled, but otherwise makes no comment. 

Hat on, you both walk in step up to one of the piers that circle the lake. There are a few other visitors, but the piers are far enough apart that it doesn’t matter. It’s an intimate setting and perfect for fishing.

Jack sets down the nylon bag with the camp chair and the cooler on the wooden walkway, while you drop your backpack beside them and take off your hiking shoes and socks, wanting to dip your feet into the water.

You look back at him from the edge of the pier when he’s finally set up the chair and retrieved the fishing pole from your bag.

He meets your eyes and pats the seat. “I only brought one chair. I’ll fish while you sit.” 

You nod, lift your feet from the water, then take a few steps and crash into the chair. The hike wore you out more than you thought it would. You don’t even want to think about how your dad would fare if he were here.

Bending over, you reach for your bag, grabbing the sunscreen. You flip the cap, squirt a healthy amount into your hands, and rub it over your arms, legs, neck, and face. Meanwhile, Jack peels off his shirt and lays it next to him as he sits on the edge of the pier, throwing the line over.

The floater plops into the water, audible thanks to the isolated strip of walkway you’re on. Fishing isn’t really something you ever cared for, but since Jack has a permit, you can live vicariously through him.

“Jack… you need to put on sunscreen. Here.” You stretch your arm out to wave it in his face, but he doesn't take it.

“I’m fishing. Do you mind getting it on my back?”

“W-well, how about the front? You’re facing the sun.”

“If you can reach from behind, you can put it wherever you’d like.”

His voice is so smooth and velvety as he says it, and all you can think is, Jack, you can not be saying things like that.

You get down on wobbly knees and sit directly behind him, squirting some of the sunscreen into your hands and gently lathering it over his back. Your eyes connect the dots of freckles that litter his form, and you’re only more entranced as he rotates his shoulders and neck—as if putting on a show for you—and his muscles ripple beneath your touch. 

As much as you’d like to, you don’t linger too long, and soon you finish applying the cream on his back. Shaky hands apply more on his nape, and you circle them to reach his throat, fingers gliding over his salt-and-pepper-covered jawline. You dot his face, careful to avoid his eyes.

He’s just so pretty and a little too confident about it that it makes your head spin. 

You take in a deep—and hopefully silent—breath. Your hands inch down toward his chest, reaching from over his shoulders while sitting on your knees—your chest pressed tight to his back. 

Jack has to hold in a groan as he feels you nearly grind against him to reach over his shoulders, just so he doesn’t get sunburned. You’re so good to him.

You graze his nipples but move quickly to the surrounding taut pec when he flinches. 

“Getting handsy there, angel? Or should I say, devil?” He tilts his head back to you, giving you a sly wink.

“S-shut up. This is for your own good. You already put your life on the line for work. You don’t need to go belly up from skin cancer, too.”

He hums. “Can’t argue with that.”

You loop your arms through his to smear the cream over what you can’t reach from on top of his shoulders.His abdomen noticeably tenses as you glide your fingers over the sun-kissed skin, and you hold back a smile—happy that your touch can affect him like this.

Your fingers trail down to his navel, and even lower, and Jack has to force himself to stop you.

He gently envelops your wrist and says, through gritted teeth, “I think that’s enough, sweetheart. Thank you. Why don’t you sit back now? It might be a while until something bites.”

You reluctantly pull back and place your palms to his back instead. Pressing your cheek against his shoulder and nodding, you whisper a soft “okay,” as your lips brush against the delicate skin.

He shivers, but you’ve already pulled away. The skin on his forehead wrinkles as he furrows his brows in frustration at the situation. He’s trying, but his control is slipping. Slipped. And now he has to try to find ways to justify each and every time he inevitably gets too close. 

You've been sitting on the chair for the past hour, reading your book, when Jack shouts.

“I think we’ve got something!” Jack quickly stands, wrestling with the supposed creature, then reels in what looks like… a catfish? 

“Oh my God, you got one, Jack!” You stand up in a rush, nearly knocking the chair back into the lake.

He looks smug as he dangles the poor fish in front of you. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

The fish seem to be coming in droves now, and after what feels like only a few minutes, the ice-packed cooler holds several species of gutted fish—a nice haul of walleye, bluegill, and bullhead catfish—right next to the pack of beers. At least they’re packed into Ziploc bags.

Luckily, Jack had his army knife handy. Because of course he would.

He stretches in front of you. “God, my back aches. Can I sit?” he asks, pointing at the chair. 

You nod and go to sit by the pier, but as he walks past you, he pulls you back by the waist. He flips himself around just in time before crashing onto the chair, the fabric sinking and taut under your combined weight. You’re surprised it holds. More surprised that now you’re sitting in his lap like a child on a mall Santa. 

“J-Jack, what are you doing? This thing can’t hold the both of us.” You try to wiggle yourself out of his grip, but his hands only tighten on your waist. 

“It’ll hold. I have only the best, and I don’t want your ass to get sore sitting on the pier. Mine did.”

“Oh, and your lap is more comfortable?”

“I’ve been told it’s very comfortable. But I can flip you over and give you something else to whine about, if that’s what you want.” You open your mouth in shock, giving him an incredulous look.

“A-and why didn’t you bring the other chair?” You push because it’s a logical question, but you also want to know if he wants you to keep his lap warm. 

“It would've been too much to carry—even for me.”

It’s a weak excuse, and one you know isn’t true. Disappointment seeps in, but it bottlenecks as you remind yourself that at least you’re in his lap and at least he wants you there.

You glare at him but otherwise get comfortable, submitting to him a bit too easily. His arms bracket you in from where they now rest on the arms of the chair, and you twist your body, draping your legs over his. 

You press your palm to his chest, your head resting lightly on his shoulder. 

His shirt is still lying on the edge of the pier, damp from the harshly fought battles with the fish, and you swirl your fingers over the small tuft of chest hair trailing down his chest. His dog tags shine a bit too bright in your eyes, and you close them to imagine them as if they were dangling in front of you while lying on your back and taking his cock. 

Oh God, the thoughts are getting worse.

Your face starts to heat, not only from the warm weather but also from the close proximity. You’ve always shared a comfortable companionship, but over the past year or so things have been increasingly… intimate. Not obviously, but a few lingering glances and touches more than normal add up. It’s been over half a decade since you’ve met, and you’ve been attached at the hip since day one. But now you think you’re ready to take the next step in your relationship.

If Jack were to feel the same way, well, it’s something your father would just have to accept. You’re both well into adulthood. You’re mature enough to admit you’re helplessly attracted to him.

But Jack is still Jack. He teases, flirts, and touches you, and it burns you from the inside out—but he’s duty-bound to care for you, and he has to balance the act between a dad’s best friend… and something more. Possibly, something more.

Your eyes flit to the silicone wedding band around his finger, the shiny material reflecting the sun. It’s not new—and not something you try to pay too much attention to—but it triggers a core memory from days past, and you decide to bring it up.

“Hey, remember when we first met at Dad’s fifty-fifth birthday and retirement party?”

“How could I forget? The moment when you first became a pain in my ass.” He smiles down at you. It’s a soft look, endearing and warm from the recollection of the memory.

He jokes, but he remembers that day often—remembers how, even after the ache in his heart following his wife’s passing, he saw a light at the end of the tunnel when he first saw you. A light that was quickly snuffed out when your father introduced you to him as his daughter.

You ignore his statement, instead saying, “I was surprised when he first introduced you. I thought you’d be at least as old as him—not twenty years his junior.” 

“Military bonds know no bounds. He was a good role model. I was sad to see him retire, but he served his time. And he knew he had to get out before you went off to college.”

“I still feel so embarrassed and guilty asking you about your ring. I was so naive and… insensitive.” You cringe at the past you.

“You didn’t know, angel. It had been several years since she passed at that point, and I still had it on. It's not your fault you were curious when I showed up alone.”

A few seconds pass in silence. 

“Do you think… you’ll ever find the person? The person who you might set aside that ring for?” 

Jesus, you did not just ask that. 

You shake your head. “Sorry, don’t answer that. It’s not my place to ask you something like that.” You attempt to hide your face in the crook of his armpit, but your stupid hat makes it difficult.

Jack can’t bear the hope—and anguish—hidden in between your words. He tries to reassure you the best he can without cracking his chest open and giving you his heart.

He tilts your head up to him with his thumb and forefinger, finding your eyes beneath the rim of your hat. “Kid, look at me. You don’t have to feel bad. I’m not grieving anymore. The pain is still there, but it’s better now. I loved her—still have love for her—but I know she wouldn’t want me to stay alone forever. But… I never met anyone else, so why take off the ring? It’s as simple as that.”

You try to free your chin from the press of his fingers, but he doesn’t let you. You finally nod in understanding, and only then does he release you from his grip.

“You speak so fondly of her. What you two shared must’ve been really amazing.”

“It was. We were still so young and free at the time. Maybe I’ll tell you more about her someday.” 

“Okay.” A beat later, you add, “Sorry, I didn’t mean for this to turn so… melancholy.”

“It’s okay. If there’s one person in the world I want to open up to, it’s you.”

You both lie in the chair in peaceful silence for a few minutes, watching the sun begin its slow descent over the horizon, when Jack starts to doze off. You rest your hand right over his heart, feeling his heartbeat slow and even out. It’s another ten minutes or so before you gently rouse him from his short nap.

“Jack. Jack, maybe we should head back. I’m getting a bit hungry, and the sun’s starting to set,” you say, shaking him awake.

He just groans and stretches his arms before returning his hands to your waist. 

A few harsh blinks and a shake of his head later, he says, “Okay. Vámonos.”

Jack is setting up the swing-over grill and the firewood while you season what you can of the fish. Luckily, you knew beforehand to bring a few packets of salt and pepper. 

Unlike Jack—who’s willing to risk his health eating the fish raw and unseasoned like he’s on Survivor—you refuse to go without any seasoning. The fish isn’t complete without a sprinkle of smoked paprika, garlic, and onion powder, but it’ll have to do.

You admire how the flickering flames lick across his skin, giving him a warm glow, and his ability to withstand them as he lays the fish across the grill. 

The thought is dramatic, but it’s as if he’d suffer through a little bit of fire to feed you. Nourish you. Take care of you. If only he could brave the paternal firestorm to admit what you’ve already admitted to yourself.

As the nose-wrinkling, fishy smell of the walleye and bluefish morphs into a delicious, woody, salty sea scent, your mouth starts to water. You hand Jack a paper plate, and he serves you up some of the fish as soon as it’s ready.

After squeezing a bit of lemon, you pinch a piece off the malleable flesh and take a bite, moaning lightly at the small taste of heaven. It has a robust, earthy flavor, enhanced by the acidity and the salt and pepper.

Unbeknownst to you, Jack stares, unwilling to draw his gaze from you, even to take a bite from his own plate. He feels an overwhelming pride swell in his chest, knowing that you enjoy something as simple as the fish he grilled for you. He’d do this for you again and again, if only to hear your sweet moans of satisfaction—like music to his ears, looping forever.

Even if they’re only for his food.

You continue to eat, a few hours passing by in casual conversation, and after a few shared sips of the beer he popped open, you’re ready to turn in for the night.

“Jack, thank you for dinner. It was fantastic.” You beam at him from across the dying campfire as he sits in the other camp chair. You yawn, stretching your arms over your head, your top riding up. 

Jack watches as the material lifts, exposing your skin.

“I think I’m ready to head to sleep. Are you coming in soon?”

He nods. “Yeah. I just want to watch the stars for a bit longer. I won’t take too long. Meet you in my dreams, angel.”

“Meet you there.”

You discard your paper plate into a trash bag, then rifle through your backpack, grabbing your nightwear before unzipping the tent and heading in. Plopping down onto your sleeping bag, you quickly change out of your dirt-caked and sweaty clothes and into a pair of flimsy sleeping shorts and a tank top.

You’re barely conscious when Jack comes in only a few minutes later, already stripped down to his boxers as the moonlight from the open flap in the tent pours in.

Though it’s dark, and you're halfway to falling asleep, you can still see the outline of his cock through the thin material, soft against his thigh. Your body forces you awake, eyes nearly glazed over and face growing warm, but you dig your fingers into your thighs to keep you calm.

It’s stupidly hot. Scorching. Both because of the cramped space—thanks to the single tent—and the heat of the night air. You try to wait out your discomfort, hoping Mr. Sandman drags you to his realm soon, but maybe you’ve outgrown that. 

Addressing the problem head-on is best.

“Jack,” you whisper. He turns his head to you as he settles inside his bag.

“Thought you were asleep. Did I wake you?” he whispers back.

You’re not quite sure why you’re whispering. There’s no one around for miles. 

“No, I’ve just been tossing and turning all this time. I’m really working up a sweat. Do you mind if I—… if I just sleep over my bag? I know it’s cramped in here—”

“—No problem at all. Don’t want you sweating all night. You’ll get dehydrated.”

You hesitate but unzip your bag—after a few seconds of sheer panic that you can’t locate the zipper—and escape the sweltering insulation.

Of course he’d bring his standard-issue mummy sleeping bags. You probably should’ve brought your own.

It’s a bit darker in the tent now that the campfire has completely died out, and you can’t tell if Jack is looking at you or has his eyes closed. Only his silhouette is visible from the moon and starlight pouring in—his head tilted in your direction and his arms out, mummy bag not fully zipped yet.

You let a breath escape you, your body finally cooling down. The sweat from the heat dries, but now a nervous one takes its place, your emotions working overtime.

Reflecting on today, this is the most touchy, feely, and cozied up together you two have ever been. And it hurts because you don’t know when the next time you’ll be alone together like this will be. During Jack’s brief stints, while he’s waiting to be deployed, you mostly hang out with him alongside your dad. Or, if alone, somewhere in public or with their other military buddies. 

There’s always someone watching. 

Someone who would judge the girl with a schoolgirl crush on her older, widowed, and too-handsome dad’s best friend.

With an ache in your heart from how close yet far you are, you finally settle against the sleeping bag and try to fall asleep again.

What you don’t expect is for Jack to reach for you, pulling your hips into his so you’re chest to chest.

“Jack—Jack, what are you doing?”

“You’re not zipped in, and I realize you might knock me upside the head if you toss and turn in your sleep. It’s better if I keep you restrained like this. For my own safety.”

“But… doesn’t this defeat the purpose? I’m going to get hot while tucked into you.” Your heart can’t take this anymore. 

“Hm… I guess you’re right.” 

Jack's fingers play with the hem of your tank, and you can feel them slip underneath, his warm, calloused hand pressed to your lower back.

His voice is gruff. “Take it off. The top and shorts. I won’t be able to see anything in the dark.” 

You plead, “J-Jack—”

“—It’s okay. I’ll be a gentleman. I promise.” His hand slowly moves from your lower back to snap the elastic of your straps against your skin, urging you to listen to him. 

“Do it.”

He’s so persistent about it you can’t help but give in. This is only the most logical solution to your problem, after all.

You peel your tank off, nipples peaked as the fabric runs over them, and you instinctively know Jack is watching. 

Gentleman, my ass.

The shorts are discarded at the head of the tent next, your underwear the only thing keeping you modest. You return to his chest and settle against him, the cool material of his dog tags stunning you for a second. You’re only too hyper aware of your peaked nipples rubbing against his skin as he wraps his arms around you again. 

Oh, what he wouldn’t do to get a mouthful of them. But there’s not really a valid reason for that, is there?

After a few heart-pounding seconds of silence, Jack speaks up, “I couldn’t see much, angel. But I don’t have to to know that you’re beautiful. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable about this, okay? I just want you to have the best sleep you can. We’ll be leaving pretty early tomorrow.”

You only nod, your face pressed into his armpit and inhaling his heady scent. You fall asleep quickly now.

As you stir, awoken by the alarm on your phone, you see Jack, already awake, leaning over you with an elbow propped up. A soft smile plays on his lips. You’re still drowsy from sleep but feel wide awake the moment you realize the state you’re in. Your breasts are exposed, visible due to the early morning light filtering in through the tent. 

But that isn’t the worst part.

Your legs are tangled with Jack’s, your underwear is soaked, and your core is flush against his thigh. You realize, with shame, you must’ve been grinding on him in your sleep. 

He too must have unzipped himself the rest of the way down overnight, and your body took advantage of it.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” He kisses the top of your head, reaching for your top scrunched at the head of the tent. You quickly rise from where you're sprawled on the tent floor, snatching it from his hand and putting it on.

“Jack, I’m so sorry. I—I didn’t mean to—” you stutter, trying to move your legs from where they’re straddled between Jack’s, but he keeps you still with a firm hold on your waist.

“It’s alright. It was bound to happen with us being closed in and all.” He moves his hand from your waist to rub circles into your upper thigh, then pinches the soft flesh. Let’s see if he can get away with this one. “I want you to keep going. Take what you need.” 

“What?” You look down at him with a shocked expression, his nonchalance only exacerbated as he chuckles lightly into his fist, elbow still propped.

His serious eyes meet your owlish ones, and you gulp. 

“I said what I said.”

You’re flustered, tripping over your words, and Jack uses the opportunity to pull you back onto his chest and lie you both down again.

He waits. Waits for you to tell him that this isn’t right, that you can both forget this happened and move on. But he wants you to take advantage of him. He’s giving himself to you, even if you don’t realize it yet.

You’re both still for a few seconds, waiting for the other to do something. Say something. You decide to make the first move.

What’s a little more humiliation? Jack’s already seen your tits and felt your wet panties glide over his muscled thigh. And… he seemed to enjoy it. That’s all the liquid courage you need to do what you do next.

You hide your face in the crook of his neck and wrap your arms around his nape, pulling at the soft, graying curls, and resume the slow grind of your cunt over his thigh.

He just lies there, letting you use him, and watches you undulate on him like you’re the most precious thing in the world. And maybe—based on the way his breath hitches as you moan, and he relishes the overstimulated tears that drip onto his neck—you are. 

Your clit twitches, but you whine in frustration, not yet close. He decides to help you instead of being a willing bystander and grabs your hips to press you harder against his thigh, desperately guiding you up and down to give you the friction you need. 

“Waitwaitwait—Jack, it’s too—too rough, p-please.” 

Please don’t stop.

“Just give it to me. You can.”

Jack sweats as your hot pants collect in the crook of his neck, holding himself back from ripping off your underwear and taking you right here. If this is as close as he can get without crossing the proverbial line, he’ll take it.

You buck more wildly, sloppily against him as your orgasm fast approaches, and he gives you a final push—harshly spanking you, then gripping and spreading the fat of your ass to help you reach your climax. He’s basically doing all the work now, shifting you up and down so fast that your orgasm barrels toward you without remorse.

A gasp escapes you, one delirious with need—the sting of the spank and the relief of his warm, demanding touch, massaging and gripping your cheeks, finally hurling you over the edge. You come with a cry, muffled against his shoulder as you bite down.

Whispers of praise tumble from Jack’s lips, choked out, as he grapples with the ego boost of you coming on his thigh and the pretty mark you left for him on his shoulder. You’re so out of it, you don’t register his quiet confessions. 

“So, so pretty.” 

“You did so good, kid.”

“I wish… we could be like this all the time.” He kisses your sweaty forehead after that last one.

You lie still against him in the afterglow of your orgasm for a few seconds—catching your breath, reeling yourself back to reality—when you notice he’s hard, his cock twitching against his upper thigh and a wet spot forming on his boxers.

You reach delicate hands over to touch him through the fabric, but he stops you, fingers wrapping around your wrist. 

“We need to leave soon. Why don’t we break down the tent now?”

A frown tugs at your lips. “B-but… what about you?”

“Nothing about me. It’s just a natural reaction to us being cramped in here, that’s all. I can’t ask you to do that.”

“Let me—”

“—I told your dad I’d take care of you. You needed to get off. I helped you. That’s it.” 

You’re taken aback, mouth open but left speechless. A mix of shame, guilt, and despair swirls inside you—his flippant tone adding heavy droplets of anger to the mix. 

Is he fucking serious?

You feel cheap. Used. This is the moment you finally feel brave enough to do something to push past the boundaries of your relationship, and he shuts it down. 

It dawns on you what he’s doing. He wants this—you—too. His actions over the past twenty-four hours have betrayed him, revealing what you’ve always hoped to be true. That he feels an irrevocable attraction toward you. And your excitement is quickly shut down when you realize he’s not going to do anything more about it than hide behind lame excuses. If he’s going to deny you like this… well, maybe it’s time to move on. You’re done waiting for him.

“You’re an ass, you know that?” Tears sting your eyes as you quickly push yourself off him, grabbing your shorts and rushing out of the tent.

Jack watches you leave, pain wracking his chest. He shouldn’t have been so indifferent. So clinical. His no-frills dismissal of the reciprocation you wanted to give—ah, you’re too fucking doting on him. But his job is to protect. To serve. To obey. Giving himself to you has never been part of the equation… as much as he’d like to. 

He knows he fucked up.

Bringing you out here, to the far, isolated loop of the park, was his chance to feel closer to you. You managed to worm your way into his poorly fortified defenses—out in the call of the wild, where he’s usually alone with nightmares from time wasted and lives lost—and he took advantage of his own weakness for you.

But what’s he to do to course-correct? You two aren’t meant to be.

And so, even with a disgusting guilt and for a short while, he feels satiated by what little he could offer you, even if he can’t offer himself.

You’ll get over it.

The car ride home is silent, with only the sound of the wind whipping into your face to quell your frenetic thoughts. He looks over at you leaning on the window, disturbed by the quiet. Even if he doesn’t enjoy your music, he always wants to hear you. Always. 

Once home, he walks you to the door of your apartment, your name leaving his lips before you can close the door in his face.

“I know you’re upset with me. You have every right to be. But… I had a really great time. I’ll miss you. Give your dad a hello and a goodbye for me, okay, kid?”

You look back at him, sighing. It’s not fair that he has to leave tomorrow. You want more time to stew and act like a petulant child. But instead, you drop your cooler to the ground and give him a warm—but respectful—hug. 

“I had a good time too, Jack. Stay safe overseas.” 

He stands stock-still, surprised you responded in kind, but returns your hug. “I’m thinking of you. Remember that.” He cradles your cheek, wipes away an eyelash, and then heads into the elevator.

As you watch him leave, you’re left wondering what the fuck you’ll do now.

“Why couldn’t he come again? You’re really bringing the vibe down, sourpuss,” Yolanda asks, a teasing lilt in her tone.

You’re currently sitting opposite Yolanda and Trinity in a cozy booth in the far corner of a bar, with your hands stretched out and head sideways on the table. You groan.

“He has some finance-bro presentation for work tomorrow. He won’t be able to hang out tonight. But fuck him, right, ladies? Tonight’s girl’s—” You glance up and see them making out, not ignoring you, but too wrapped up in each other for your voice to reach them. While you’re glad to have accepted their invitation to hang out—after not seeing them for a while—you had hoped that your recent fling would be here with you to make this less of a third-wheel situation. 

You met him on a dating app—he’s cute, gentlemanly enough, and decent in bed. He buys you nice gifts sometimes, too.

Trinity breaks the kiss, needing air, and turns back to you. “Sorry, what’d you say?”

“He’s not coming.”

She reaches a hand over the table to pat yours. “That’s a shame. We probably could’ve gotten him to pay for all the drinks.”

You laugh, cheering up slightly. “Yeah, probably. Anyway… I think I’m gonna head out soon. I have work tomorrow.” You move your arms from the table and lift your head, rifling through your bag to double-check you have all your personal items. 

Your face feels warm from the few drinks you’ve had, accompanied by a pounding headache, and you're already tired from your long day at work. It’s really time to go.

“Are you sure? It’s still not too late… Why don’t we dance? Or have one more drink?” Yolanda asks, twirling the straw in her empty margarita glass.

You shake your head. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be a buzzkill, but I’m exhausted. You guys have fun, okay?”

They both give you a sad smile. 

“Let’s call you an Uber.” Trinity says.

You crash into your bed after getting undressed and completing a half-assed version of your nighttime skincare routine. Your phone pings, and you check it to see that Nathan has texted you, wishing you a good night and apologizing for not making it tonight. It’s almost sweet, and you start to smile, until that quickly turns into a frown when he follows up immediately with:

Do you think you could send me a little something, you know, for good luck? ;)

I’ll treat you to the bonus I get if I secure this client tomorrow.

You roll your eyes. You’re not against sending a few sexy pics now and then, but you’ve already gotten ready for bed. Still, the thought of an all-expenses-paid trip to the Maldives does sound good right about now.

You make the difficult decision to get out of bed and dolled up for this amateur photoshoot—the only incentive being an expensive gift in return—and put on your best set of lingerie. It’s just been sitting alone, thrown into the far end of your closet after Nathan gifted it to you not too long ago.

The babydoll dress is a sheer, pastel mesh color that complements your skin tone perfectly, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. It pairs well with the thong in the same color, with cute little bows adorning the sides of your hips. You take a good look at yourself in the mirror, satisfied with what you see. He chose a good one. 

Sitting back in bed and on top of your comforter, you try to work yourself up. You flick your nipples through the ruffly mesh and run your fingers over your slit, barely covered by the thong. 

Previous hookup encounters with Nathan invade your mind—as a mood setter—but it doesn’t work. After minutes of trying and trying to get yourself turned on for the man who bought you the lingerie pass, you give up. Instead, your mind flits to Jack and that early morning after you spent the night cuddled together.

Minutes turn into seconds, and you’re already wet, the stringy satin clinging to your cunt. 

You open your phone’s camera and position yourself to take some pictures, snapping a few of your perked nipples poking through the thin bra and your damp thong. More photos are taken, each lewder than the last—the final few exposing your breasts and soaked cunt, bra tucked under and thong pulled to the side.  

Going the extra mile—even though Nathan doesn’t deserve it—you also film a quick video. Featherlight touches graze your nipples, and deft fingers split the seam of your pussy. You give yourself a few light slaps over your clit, making you jump. You tease, barely nudging a single digit inside your hole, moaning Nathan’s name. It’s deadpan, but he won’t notice.

The production is shit anyway. The darkness of the room and the dust trapped in your phone speakers don’t do you any favors for visual or audio, but he’ll get what he asked for. You quickly shoot off the risqué material one at a time, then fall asleep—too tired to change back into your sleepwear. 

The last thought in your mind before entering dreamland: You wish Jack were here to help soothe the ache in your heart and in your cunt.

Jack’s phone pings as he’s lying in his bunker, about to fall asleep. He’s been tossing and turning all night, anxious for tomorrow.

He’ll be home again, this time for a lot longer. He’s itching to see you again after months of mostly radio silence between you two since the trip. He’s sent a few texts here and there, and you’ve responded, but they’re curt. Dry. Diplomatic.

At least when he’s back, you’ll have to see him at some point, right? 

Even if it’s just with your dad—pretending everything is normal between you two—and giving him the cold shoulder when he isn’t looking. Always the good girl, putting on a brave face so Daddy won’t have to worry. He’d be crushed if he found out you couldn’t even stand to be near his best friend anymore. 

Jack reaches under his pillow to grab his phone, sitting up straight in bed when he sees several text messages from you. He opens your text chain, your contact pinned at the top.

Jack nearly passes out when he sees what you’ve sent.

His eyes zip from one photo to the next, too impatient to process each and every one pixel by pixel. You're wearing a pretty lingerie set, but not one that he would pick out. He much prefers a birthday suit—less fuss. A dozen or so images of your perky nipples and sopping pussy greet his wide eyes. 

His heart nearly bursts out of his chest. He can’t see your face—the image is cropped out or just out of frame—but including it might’ve actually sent him to the infirmary. Why didn’t he take more pictures with you—of you—during the trip?

Maybe he thought he wouldn’t have to. Like somehow it could’ve ended another way—with you two together. You don’t need photos when you’ve already got the real thing. It’s wishful thinking, and now the only thing he has as a reminder is a broken heart and a sore wrist from thoughts of you crying on his thigh.

The last message from you is a video, and he adjusts the volume so it doesn’t blast, but at least he’s tucked away in his own quarters—a nice perk of being a long-time sergeant. 

He does it as if lowering the volume absolves the wrongness in his more-than-willing participation and engagement with your lewd messages. Still, his thumb hovers over the play button, trying to convince himself to delete the texts and forget this happened—but it’s a losing battle. 

The short clip plays, and what he hears is like Apollo’s lyre, your moans and the squelch of your cunt seducing him—but one bad pluck of the animal gut in the form of another man's name pulls him from his hypnosis.

It’s a name that doesn’t belong to him. It rots Jack from the inside out, grime curling into his mouth, and he almost spews it onto the floor. 

He already knows you didn't mean to send this to him, but he’s devastated and envious. Ready to march on a warpath leading to the man who let you slip through his fingers with tears in your eyes. He’s replayed that moment of you leaving the tent one too many times, trying to rewrite the story in a way that would lead him back to you. 

Jack should’ve reached for you then. Reassured you that the moment wasn’t just because of a warped sense of duty. 

He wants you.

And you’re no longer the eighteen-year-old girl he initially met. You’re a grown woman, one who’s capable of making her own decisions. Jack chooses courage now, because if he doesn’t act, paltry, meager men will take what’s rightfully his… what has always been. And he fears you’re already being pulled away by forces he can’t control.

The only other obstacle is your dad. But Jack can take him in a fight, if necessary. He hopes it won’t come to that.

He aches for you. Wants to take the next steps in life and move on with you. But he can’t, not yet. Not until he’s back home and he can show you he means it. But now he has all the motivation he needs to try to get back in your good graces.

Instead of deleting the texts, he saves the material, then he does what he thinks is best to rectify the mistake he made all those months ago.

He calls you.

You’re awoken from a light sleep when your phone goes off, vibrating on the nightstand. 

Your eyes adjust to the bright light on the screen as you hold the phone over your face—careful not to drop it—and you see that you have a few missed phone calls from Jack. You sit up in bed.

It’s midnight. What could he want? It’s been—well, since before the camping trip—that you last spoke on the phone. You don’t bother returning his call. Whatever he wants to talk about can wait at least until you're fully conscious. 

You clear the notifications from Jack one by one when you happen to see another one from Nathan:

Hey, did you fall asleep? Where are my pics :(

That makes you freeze, anxiety jolting you into full coherency. You know you sent those off… But if not to Nathan, then to whom?

You immediately return Jack’s call, not even bothering to look through your messages to confirm what you did. You know you sent them to him. Because, maybe, deep down, you wanted to send him those photos.

The line connects, and you speak up first. “Jack?”

He feels his nervousness dissipate, rejuvenated after going so long without hearing your saccharine melody.

“Angel… it’s been a while.”

“I take it you saw what I sent you?” You tug at the bows adorning your hips, loosening them and twirling the slack satin.

“Heard it too.”

You bring your phone to your chest, groaning in humiliation as the soft sheets rustle beneath you. Despite that, you grow hot at his wrecked voice and utter honesty. How is it that after all this time—even on complicated terms—he can still make you fall apart with just his voice?

You quickly bring your phone back to your ear to ask him the burning question. “Did… did you like what you saw?”

Jack’s brain buffers, pulse racing at your shy, innocent, but very loaded question. He doesn’t respond right away but feels the need to praise you for being so good to him. 

“…Yes, God, yes. You don’t know what you do to me, kid.”

Butterflies flutter inside your stomach, and you almost want to throw your phone into the wall from the overwhelming joy you feel at his response. 

“W-why are you calling?”

“Why do you think? I hear you moan another man’s name, and you think I won’t address it?”

“You don’t have the right to be upset. I walked out on you… but you pushed me away.” You pout and chew on your lip. You’re not letting him get away with his behavior that morning.

He’s stunned into a short silence, but ultimately he’s glad you called him out. You’ve been more mature than him throughout everything, and he runs his fingers through his curls in embarrassment.

He puffs out a tired breath. “I know. But that’s also why I want to talk to you. I want to apologize for that day. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Letting you go… well, it’s one of my biggest mistakes. I won’t make it again.”

Coming from Jack, it’s the most heartfelt and mournful apology you’ve ever heard. Would it be too quick to forgive him already? The distance and time apart only make you more willing to throw the water under the bridge.

You start to tear up and begin to say something when Jack interjects, “And I want to tell you that you’re devastating. Just…” He chuckles. “I can’t even get the words out. Stunning. Even if you’re moaning another man’s name.”

Heat works its way through your body at his words. Still, you respond, with a sniffle, “And while wearing the lingerie he bought me.” You throw that in to make him hurt. Just a little bit more.

“You’re really killing me here, you know that?”

You laugh, and he feels as if all’s right with the world again. “Sorry. Thank you for apologizing, Jack. I’m—I’m also sorry for not reaching out to you more. I shouldn’t have held such a grudge against you. I know you only have the best intentions.”

He really doesn’t. Not with your video still playing in the back of his mind. Not when he’s nearly two decades older than you and he thinks about knocking you up. But as long as you want him just as badly as he does, it'll be alright. “I should’ve reached out too. It’s not your fault.”

You both listen to the hushed sound of the other’s breathing through the phone, not wanting to disturb the quietude brought by your mending of fences. 

A few peaceful seconds pass in silence. “So… what now?” 

“You tell me. What do you want, angel?”

“I want—I want you. I… I want to be with you, Jack.” Your voice comes out shaky and in a pathetic whisper, but that only endears you to him more.

“Then you have me.” Jack twists the silicone band on his finger, already planning your life together in his head. He’s going to take such good care of you. That nearly excites him more than the thought of getting you underneath him. Almost. 

“What do we do about my dad?”

“Don’t worry about him. We’ll talk to him together. I didn’t tell you, but I’m coming home tomorrow.”

If you weren’t already sitting up in bed, you would probably levitate. You smack your chest as your heart pumps a little too fast. “You’ll be here? Tomorrow?”

He’s amused by your sweet reaction. “Yes. Wait for me.”

“Okay, I will.” You nod, even though he can’t see you over the phone. “I—I missed you.”

“Me too, sweetheart. More than words can say.”

A moment later, Jack speaks up, addressing you by name. He doesn’t want the call to end. He wants to feel close to you again with a new understanding that he can be a little selfish. Because that's what people who let themselves feel and receive love do.

“Before we hang up, I want to try something. I want you to send your boyfriend a little present.”

“He’s not my boyfriend. We’re just… sleeping together. And what present?”

“That’s good. It’ll make this easier. I want you to touch yourself. Make him a video like the one you sent me. I’ll talk you through it, baby. Tell him who you were really thinking about when you made it.”

Your mouth hangs open. The gall. The nerve. The audacity. But his possessiveness and need to claim you in front of the audience of one make you squirm, your cunt starting to leak from just his words.

He tuts into the phone when you don’t respond. “Be a good girl and answer me.”

Affirming words spill easily from your lips. “O-okay. I’ll do it. What—what would you like me to do first, sir?”

Jack groans into the phone as he clutches it, his other hand moving beneath his boxers to free himself, and you giggle at his reaction. 

“Put me on speakerphone. Use one hand to film and the other to pinch and squeeze your tits. Perk them up real nice.”

You rip your comforter away from your body to play with your nipples through the mesh lingerie—sensitive—as the fabric rubs into them. As you tug each one roughly, your other hand shakes as it holds the phone while recording. It’d be so much more difficult to focus if you were also FaceTiming each other. But luckily for you, Jack probably doesn’t even know what that is. You’re patient enough to wait to see him tomorrow. In person.

You moan softly, more enthusiastically this time around than earlier tonight. Poor, poor Nathan.

“Say my name. Say it, baby.” You can hear the lewd squelches coming from Jack’s end as he jerks his cock, and you whine his name—loud enough for the phone to pick up—your nipples stinging from how brutally you’ve tweaked them.

He grunts, “Now, slowly drag your hand down and touch your clit. Make sure you give him a good look, angel.” Jack’s breathing quickens, and you hear him spit, lubing up his already wet cockhead and fisting himself to spread more slick down his length.

You follow his command. You trail your fingers down the slope of your body until they reach your center. Making sure the camera is focused on your cunt, you manage to splay yourself open, giving the lens a nice look at your soaked and slippery folds. Your digits press harsh circles into your clit, and you have to stop yourself from squirming too much to keep the phone from rocking. “J-Jack, I’m—I’m getting close. Pleasepleaseplease keep talking to me. Tell me what I’m doing to you.”

“Already going to come? We’ve barely started, kid.” 

Hearing him call you kid at this very moment does unspeakable things to you. Things it shouldn’t.

He laughs at you, mockingly, but he’s getting close too. He twists his rough fist up and down the length of his cock, putting his phone on the nightstand so he can massage his balls, throbbing and full for you.

It’s really too bad that all his come will be going to waste.

“You want my praise? That it?” he drawls, words slurring as his balls tighten. “You should be here, helping me with this.” Jack punctuates his statement with a rough tug of his cock, hopeful that you get his point through his voice alone. “This is all your fault. You’d like to see how hard and leaky I am for you, hm? I’ll prove to you how much you drive me crazy tomorrow. It’s a promise.”

Jack starts to stroke himself faster, the globs of spit trailing down to his balls and sheets from his hurried pace. He wants you to come first.

“A-angel, please, put the heel of your palm on your clit and three fingers in your cunt. It won’t fill you like I will, but it’ll work.”

He sounds absolutely wrecked, but he’s past the point of total humiliation now. As long as you do what he says, you’ll both be rewarded.

You rub your swollen clit with the heel of your hand, fucking yourself on three digits—and he’s right—it’s not enough. But he’s not here right now, and you need to come. He needs you to come.

“Are you doing it?” When all he hears is a high-pitched “Mhm!” from you, he gives the final directive. 

“Come, baby. Need to hear you. Show him what it’s like when a man really makes you come.”

You finally crest, overloaded with physical sensation and Jack’s praise, ragged and through gritted teeth. You let out a pathetic wail, orgasm ripping through you and making you drop the phone onto the bed next to you with a soft thud. You twitch, worn out, but can hear him shift in his bed, adjusting to make himself more comfortable.

With a strained voice, Jack says, “Good girl. That’s a… very good girl.” He gives you a few seconds to catch your breath. Then, he immediately follows up with, “Stay with me, angel. I need to hear your voice.”

A few more strokes of his cock, and your whispers and quiet confessions push him over the edge. 

He comes with a rumbling groan, thick spend making a sloppy mess over his hand, down his length, onto his sleep shorts, and into his sheets. At the tail end of his orgasm, he idly thinks about making you lick clean his mess. Maybe feeding it to you and watching your eyes glass over with the taste. Tomorrowtomorrowtomorrow.

With that in mind, Jack flops back onto his pillow, exhausted but satiated. He whispers your name, hoping you haven’t fallen asleep yet. You respond with a soft hum, and he lets out a breath. 

“Thank you, sweetheart. I needed that. We both did. Are you okay?”

“Mhm. Just tired,” you whisper back, head nestled sideways into the pillow.

“Okay, I don’t want to keep you up too long. You probably have work, right? Sweet dreams, angel. I’ll see you tomorrow. And… you don’t have to send him the video if you don’t want to.” Nathan will know soon enough that only Jack has a claim on you. 

You snort. You already know what he really wants. “I already sent it. Guess I should burn this lingerie set now, huh?” 

His lips curl up in a devilish smirk. He doesn’t deserve you. “Goodnight,” he says.

“Goodnight, Jack. Love you.” 

He freezes. He’s not sure if you meant those last two words or if they just spilled out of you due to your post-coital haze and fatigue. But he doesn’t get the chance to confirm, as he can tell from your silence you’ve fallen asleep.

“See you tomorrow, sweetheart.” He hangs up. 

Love you.

You’ve just come home from work—tired and nearly passed out—when you hear a knock at the door. He texted you a while ago when his plane landed. Is he here already?

You open the door and see Jack, still in his military outfit and carrying his luggage, dropping it as you jump into his arms.

“It’s good to see you, kid.” He whispers into your neck, inhaling your scent. Your scent’s a little sweaty and like the outside, but you smell like home.

“It’s good to see you too, Jack.” You bury your face into his shoulder, wanting to crawl inside his skin, but content with just a hug for now. You can feel his back muscles even through the thick material of his outfit, and it’s as if he’s gotten even stronger since you saw him last. You’re glad he’s holding you up because you would have quickly dropped to your knees to give him a warm, wet welcome home. But the apartment floor is hardwood, and he hasn’t even stepped inside yet. There’ll be time for that later.

He tilts your chin up from where it's tucked into his shoulder and kisses you. It’s soft and gentle, like a ghost haunted by its past trying to grasp something real. But you’re solid against his touch, and he lets himself feel your lips and soft skin and supple body against his.

He kicks his gear into your apartment and closes the door, then carries you to your bed, still kissing you. He doesn’t bother to ask for permission to enter this time. You’re tossed onto the bed with a soft thud, and Jack bends down to cradle the side of your face with his warm palm, his intense stare meeting your loving one.

“Let me make good on my promise. Are you gonna let me eat out your sweet cunt? Or do you want my cock now?”

Your body shakes, and you make a cute noise in the back of your throat. “D-don’t you want to change first? Maybe let me make you something to eat?”

“No. I want to take care of you. Let me?”

You can’t help but beam at him. It’s no use fighting him. “Okay.” 

You lay your hand over his and notice his wedding band is gone.

“Dad? Dad, are you okay? You’re staring off into space…”

You and Jack give each other a worried look as you sit opposite your dad at lunch. You slightly regret having told him about your relationship. Maybe this could’ve been kept a secret until… nevermind. That’s too morbid. He’ll just have to accept this.

Your dad shakes his head. “Sorry, I—I didn’t expect this, but to be honest, I can’t say I’m surprised.” He sighs. “As long as you’re both happy, I’m happy. I can’t dictate your life anymore, honey. But Jack, if you hurt her, you won’t be dropping twenty. You’ll just be dropping. And I don’t mean pushups. Understand me?”

Jack smiles, turns to you, and brings your hand to his lips, kissing it. “I sure do.”

[wishing-on-a-staranise]

Driving lesson.

(best friend!s.h. x gn!reader)

summary: Your best friend Steve offered to teach you driving but the lesson led to him learning a bit more about you.

warning: use of y/n, best friend!Steve (can be interpreted as either platonic or romantic), hurt/comfort, mention of past sa when r was a minor, quite possibly inaccurate description of cars

word count: 2k+

a/n: oops we're getting vulnerable! I'm so sorry to anyone who relates to this, wish I could hug y'all <3

this was almost going to be in my desi!reader series but i changed my mind. Havent been able to get any sort of writing done so i consider this a win. 

bro i dont know shit about cars and im also guessing how miles work so sorry if this doesn't make sense :( I spent way too long trying to figure out what the oh shit bar is actually called and let me tell u grab handles is an awful name

masterlist

the neighborhood is practically empty this time around save for the occasional person every now and then. but Steve reckons this is as safe as it gets.

he's not in his usual driver's seat, right now it's occupied by you. you're grinning a little, excited and nervous. he's helped adjust the seat so it is more comfortable for you, with the seat pulled much closer to the steering wheel. you'd already put your seatbelt on and adjusted the rearview mirror atleast four times already. 

it was your suggestion. you had pointed out that he must get really tired always driving everyone around. And although he wouldn’t say that he was tired, but he wouldn’t mind someone sharing the responsibility with him every now and then. 

You’d told him that you were already aware of all the basics– the accelerator, the break, the clutch, the gears, the entire thing.

“wait, how do you know all that?”

“I tried learning at around 16 but… i gave up”, you'd shrugged.

“yeah, that does sounds exactly like you”, he'd teased with his signature smirk.

“ha. ha. fuck you”, you deadpanned smacking his bicep before you both fell into giggles.

He decides to still tell you everything from the start. “Because I don't trust you.” And you proceeded to roll your eyes through it all. 

By the time he actually let you turn the ignition, an hour had already passed. 

Though the shifting of gears is a little janky, and the way you push the brakes has him grabbing the 'oh shit' bar beside him. He has to admit, you are not too bad.

“How am I doing?” you ask about a few minutes in, glancing at him once before your eyes fall back on the road.

he makes a sort of 'meh' sound, “Not awful”

“Should I shift to the third?”

“Sure”, he shrugs. but all that non-chalance fades away when your hand moves to the gear, “now, lift the clutch slowly”, he warns.

you suppress the urge to fully give him a glare and rolling your eyes again, “I know”

he clicks his tongue, “Do you?”

“don't tempt me to crash this car, harrington", you threaten jokingly before shifting the gear.

“Hmm,” he hums as if surprised at the smoothness of the action, and you can't help but grin in pride, “not bad this time”

a few minutes pass and Steve can tell you're getting confident, maybe too confident. You're nearing a 40mph. which first, is too fast for where you're driving and second, youre not good at controlling the car at this speed yet. and you're not awful, but you're not amazing either, “Easy buddy, slow down, you’re swaying”, his hand flies to the steering to adjust.

“shit– “, you readjust your grip, knuckles tightening around the wheel, “Ok, ok, i got it.” you lift your foot from the accelerator and the car slows down to a speed that doesn't give Steve severe heart palpitations. 

he sighs as his grip finally loosens as his palm slips down to your knee, squeezing to still reassure and ground you, “Lets not go more than 35 for now.” he doesn't notice you stiffen underneath his palm.

“you're swaying again”, you hear him say as his other hand moves to readjust. his left hand still on your knee. but it all sounds so far away. 

your throat dries up, you gulp. fingers tighten around the steering wheel so hard they hurt.

you know it's not him. this is Steve. your best friend, Steve Harrington. but suddenly this is all too similar. and you freeze up.

you two have been way closer than this. you've given each other spine crushing hugs, piggyback rides, even literally play fought, but for some reason the hand on the knee is too close. too much.

your heart plummets and you can't fucking breathe.

and you know Steve would not mean it that way. you know Steve like the back of your hand. He’d never hurt you. He'd never hurt anyone. you try to push it away, you really do. But it consumes you. all of you. because wasn't he also never supposed to hurt you?

and suddenly you're alone in a car with a man you were supposed to trust. and though his hand stays on your knees, suddenly you feel a phantom touch riding up your thighs and suddenly you're 16 again. and suddenly you know nothing. 

“Can you move your hand?”, your words come out all rushed, your brain barely even registering that you said anything.

with his eyes still on the road ahead of you two, he realigns the car, “I'm adjusting the–”

you don't even realise that you're not even looking at the road anymore, you're not looking at Steve either. you don't know where you're looking, all that exists is the hand on your knees and that sinking feeling, “move your hand Steve–”

“hey woah, WOAH!” it's Steve shouting that finally pulls you out of your stupor and when you look up, you find the car actively veering towards a tree, “LOOK OUT!”, he pulls up the manual handbreak, your own feet slamming down on the brakes as well as the vehicle comes to a screeching halt.

it's quiet. 

your eyes start stinging. and it's not because your almost crashed the car.

you can't breathe, you can't fucking breathe. you need to leave, you need to–

“jesus, what are you doing? we could've crashed into the–” you unfasten your seatbelt before scrambling to get out of the car as Steve calls after you, “hey, wh– where are you–?” with shaky hands, you slam the door behind you.

Steve's brows scrunch before he runs his hand through his hair. he watches as you pace by the sidewalk. he turns off the car before he glances at you again and he finds you sitting under the same tree you almost crashed into with your head in your palms.

when he climbs out of the car and comes closer to you, he hears the muffled sound of you hyperventilating through your hands.

gravel crunches under his shoes as he makes his way to you.

“hey”, he starts, unsure, lightly tapping your shoe with his to make you look up at him. You take one last deep breath in before swiping the back of your hand across your face but it does nothing to hide your tear stained cheeks. You still don’t look up at him though, your red eyes trained on his shoe that had tapped yours. 

he lets out a sigh himself before sitting down by the roots of the tree beside you. you wrap your arms around his knees. it's quiet for a while that way with the leaves rustling in the wind above you, chirping of a bird and your sniffles that you try your best to quiet down. Steve nudges you with his shoulder when you have quieted down, “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have shouted. but you gotta keep your eyes on the road okay?”

you nod meekly, “okay”, the word comes out thick.

“hey, c’mere”, he tries shifting to engulf you in one of his warm hugs. and any other moment you would've welcomed that warmth with literal open arms but right now, you're afraid it'd suffocate you so you get up.

“... can we…”, you lick your lips, still stiff, still avoiding his gaze, “can you drop me home? please?”

he gets up as well, brushing dirt off his jeans, trying to catch your gaze but when he couldn't, he nods, “yeah, yeah sure.”

the drive back is silent, you wordlessly sit on the backseat. throughout steve tries to meet your eyes through the rearview mirror only to find your eyes trained either down on your lap or out the window.

when he stops in your driveway, he finally breaks the silence, “we're here.”

you only sniffle in response before stepping out of the car. he has his window rolled down when you shut the car door.

“hey, are you okay?” he asks unsure.

“yeah-", you clear your throat, turning around and your gaze finally meeting his. your eyes aren't red anymore but they still look puffy and if he didn't know you as well as he did, he would notice that you're trying to put on a smile, "yeah I'm okay.. just–”

“what happened back there?”

“nothing, I got too nervous", you shake your head. not knowing what to do with your hands, they fidget with your sleeves, "I think I'll stay away from driving”

“you're fine, it was a one time thing. you didn't mean for it to happen–”

“i wasn't looking at the road”

“trust me, I've done a lot worse, while driving this thing”

“ew”

“what? I didn't even say anything, you're minds in the gutter, bud." he says lightly to soothe your puffy eyes. his finger drums against the steering, "'ll see you later, yeah?”

you nod your head quick, offering another unsure but genuine smile, "mhm, movie night tomorrow?”

“yeah.”

…

it's been nearly a week since that driving lesson. it's also been as long as you've abandoned your designated front passenger seat. 

everything else is the same, you still laugh at his jokes so hard you tear up, lean on him when watching a movie. have movie nights at his place. he still picks you up from work. you still give him snacks for his shift. everything is the same. except you have given up your unofficially default seat. if the car is packed with the party and robin, you take the back seat but even if it's just the two of you, you still take the back seat. 

Steve doesn't know how to bring it up. but he has to. he doesn't know what's going on with you but he knows you all too well. he knows how you are when something is bothering you. he just doesn't know how to bring it up.

“i was thinking..”, he starts as you two walked around your neighborhood.

“that's never good”, you chuckle, kicking a pebble as you walk.

“yknow, I'll be free after work tomorrow. maybe we can, yknow do that driving lesson?”

you stiffen up beside him before stopping in your track. “Steve, I told you–”

“did I do something?” he questions, stopping as well.

“what? …no-”

"is it because I shouted?”

“no, you were right, I almost crashed the car”

“I don't care. you made one mistake, that doesn't mean you've fucked up forever. you wanted to learn”

“yeah, and– and now I don't”

“why?”

“I–”

“give me a reason, any reason”

“I don't know”

“why don't you sit on the front seat anymore?”

“I–", you start but stop when your voice cracks. fuck, why is this getting to you so much lately? it's been fucking ages. “I don't know”, you complete your sentence, frustrated, before sitting on the curb near your house.

you're looking down at your nails, picking at the skin with your legs splayed out in front of you when steve wordlessly sits beside you. you sniffle, “I'm sorry”, murmuring as you put your head on his shoulder.

he tries to put a reassuring hand on your knees but you tense up again. you almost squirm away from his warm palm before taking it in your hand instead.

you have to tell him. you know you should. you should tell someone. doesn't matter how long ago it happened.

it's like a lump stuck in your throat, can't swallow it, can't cough it out.

But you have to start. where do you even start?

“I... I don't like that”, you say, eyes still trained down.

“oh”, you wonder if you should say more, if you should tell him, hell, you're surprised it took so long in your friendship for it to come up.

you lick your lips, wondering if you should explain more. "when I was 16--" but the lump in your throat stays persistent, your tongue tied. you blink back tears, biting your lips.

in the way he holds you at this moment, you wonder if he just knows somehow, whatever it is that is in your mind. maybe not the details or maybe not even your situation but he knows you're hurting. somehow he just knows.

“M’sorry”, you say again, burying your nose into the crook of his neck.

“no, no– is– is this okay?” he carefully moves to hug you.

“yes”, you say quickly before wrapping your arms around him as well. you sniffle again, “sorry, I don't know why I…”

“it's okay, you're okay”, his warm palm rubs your back as he holds you as if he's protecting you from any further harm. your fists clutch the fabric of his polo shirt, you're fucking shaking in his arms.

“y/n, you could've told me”

“it-it's not that easy”, you stutter out.

“well… I'm glad you've told me now”

you nod, trying your best to gulp down anymore sobs, “I might never learn how to drive.”

“that's okay, I'll drive you. wherever you need to go, I'll drive you”

…

[hartleychristopher]

Okie I have a request for a josh and Chris meeting the reader in highschool for the first time and they became friends through like comic books or like the newest game that came out because they are nerds just for fun

If you don't want to do this it's Okie

Issue #1: First Encounter

Parings: Chris x gn!reader, Josh x gn!reader (either platonic or flirty 😏 you decide) (no prank au)

Warnings: cheesy banter bc it’s fun! Okay? sue me.

Summary: you go to the comic book shop in search of a back issue, what you find are new friends in the shape of two dorks that come as a package deal; Chris and Josh. It seems you’ve been adopted as the third wheel in their bromance whether you like it or not.

A/N: hiii I love this! My two favorite boys 🥹 I hope it’s okay they’re in college in this, I know you requested high school but I prefer to write about them as adults :) (dating a lot of (only) nerds and having a base knowledge on comic books came in handy for this ask!)

You’re halfway through flipping through the back issues, elbow-deep in plastic sleeves and crossovers, when someone bumps into the end of the display with a soft thud.

“Ah, crap—sorry. I didn’t think anyone was back here.”

You look up to find a tall guy with glasses and a beanie, shoulders hunched like he’s startled himself as much as you. He’s wearing a Watchmen hoodie, already slightly pilled at the cuffs. Definitely a regular.

You give him a quick once-over and shrug. “It’s fine. no casualties”

He gives a half-laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Cool. That’s… good. Uh, I wasn’t, like, creeping or anything, I just—” He gestures vaguely at the boxes. “I’m on a mission.”

“Let me guess: Green Lantern?” You smirk.

His face lights up, almost embarrassingly so. “Rebirth! Yes! You get it”

Before you could respond, another guy steps around the corner—leaner, with that kind of practiced casualness that probably made him popular without trying. He takes one look at the two of you and raises an eyebrow.

“Chris, are you harassing strangers in the wild again?” he asks, smirking. “Can’t take you anywhere” he teases him.

Chris makes a noise that was half protest, half panic. “What?! No! I just bumped the shelf! I wasn’t—th-they were already here!”

“Relax, man, I’m messing with you,” the new guy says, shooting you a quick, easy smile before he sticks out a hand. “Josh. That’s Chris. He’s harmless. Socially clumsy, but harmless.”

You hesitate a second before shaking his hand.

Josh’s eyes wander to your bag when he lets go of your hand. “I like the Moon Knight patch. Taste.”

Chris nods quickly like he was just now noticing. “Oh—yeah, that’s awesome. Moon Knight’s underrated. like, so many people just watched the show and bailed, but if you actually read—sorry, I’m rambling”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you guys do this often? Corner people in the back issues section?”

“Corner?” Josh repeats, mock offended. “No, this is mutual proximity. We’re just friendly.”

Chris looks like he wants to crawl into a long box and close the lid. “we—we’re not trying to be weird. I swear. We just—uh, like comics. And your patch’s cool, that’s all”

You glance between them. Both clearly nerds, but in wildly different flavors. Josh had the confidence of someone who knew he could talk his way into or out of anything. Chris looked like this was the most intense social interaction he’d had all week. Maybe month. But neither of them gave you that creepy gut feeling. Just… harmless dorks. Maybe even kind of funny, in a secondhand embarrassment kind of way.

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “You two always come as a set?”

“Unfortunately,” Chris mutters under his breath.

Josh ignored him. “Usually. Trivia nights, midnight releases, occasional accidental arson in the microwave when someone tries to reheat pizza on foil…” Josh gives Chris a pointed look.

“That was one time,” Chris mumbles, visibly dying.

You tilt your head. “There’s trivia?”

Josh perked up. “Yeah—The Kettle Café, Thursday nights. Comics, movies, all the nerdy stuff. We bombed last week because someone forgot the name of Thor’s Second Hammer.”

“It’s called Stormbreaker, and I had brain fog,” Chris shoots back.

You look down at the issue in your hands. You had fully intended to be in and out of this place in under ten minutes. But now you had two dorks standing in front of you; one melting, one grinning—and for some reason, you weren’t quite ready to bolt.

Josh raised his brows. “You should come, we could use someone who actually reads Moon Knight”

you considered. “If it turns out to be just the two of you playing against each other and quoting The Big Bang Theory for two hours, I’m walking out”

Chris looked genuinely disgusted. “We quote Firefly, actually.”

Josh grinned. “So that’s a maybe?”

You sigh, “It’s a ‘give me the address and I’ll think about it’”

Josh pulls a sharpie out of his jacket pocket like he does this sort of thing often. “that’s a victory”

As he scribbles the address on a receipt from his pocket and hands it to you, you catch Chris looking down at his shoes, trying not to smile too obviously.

You tuck the receipt into your bag. “Alright, nerds. Enjoy your Rebirth… don’t burn anything down”

Chris gives an awkward little salute, “No promises”

taglist: @fritzhardt @avwade69 @maiiuelle @avrells @fordthegamelord819 @xoxocher @sweetcalebb @z0mb1epuzzy @dnpo1son

Wanna join my taglist? Click here!

[psychopomparia]

2.3 hsr spoiler//

they finally met in person. the guns and roses (and ratio) meet up

[lethality-of-dual-strike]

I love you peri-weri one of these days I’ll learn how to draw you consistently

I think what we need for season 2 is some good ol perirep slapstick I need to see them scrapping it out like looney tunes

[astro-b-o-y-d]

How pissed do you think Shermie was when he found out about what really happened with Stan and Ford???

[psychopomp-namine]

the "nobody likes liu xiao" memes are funny but man we really need li tianchen to show up again to represent the liu xiao likers

also, of course memes are for the funnies and are meant to be exaggerations (I think the jokes are funny). but I think what makes them funnier (ironic) is that... tbh... only xia fei and lu guang seems to dislike liu xiao? cheng xiaoshi was nice to him and doesn't know any better (the way he is now, he would hang out with liu xiao none the wiser), vein is obviously in cahoots with him (and vein strikes me as the kind of person who wouldn't let liu xiao manipulate him, they feel more like equals and willing participants in their relationship), and li tianchen is hanging on to every word liu xiao says. like, there's more people who are neutral or like liu xiao than there are who dislike him, imo. xia fei and lu guang just happen to be the focus of the fandom right now

(I guess liu min probably didn't like him, but nobody's thinking about liu min lmao. the rest of the liu family definitely liked him more.)

[hballegro]

my greatest weakness is im really bad at figuring out when im supposed to end a chapter. getting the voice of these characters semi-right, remembering all lore surrounding them, googling info i need, all of that is dressing. my true greatest foe is knowing when to cut it out

[matt-murdockk]

Statistically Speaking

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

words: 600 words

summary: Spencer thought he was in a long-term relationship— turns out, he forgot to tell her.

warnings: none, babe. this is pure fluff <3

“Come on, man,” Derek said, arms folded as he stared Spencer down across the break room table. “You can’t just read a thousand relationship books and think that’s the same as the real thing.”

Spencer looked up from the folder in his lap, utterly unbothered. “Thirty-nine books. And they’re peer-reviewed studies. It’s not about anecdotes, it’s about data.”

Penelope leaned over her coffee, eyes sparkling. “Oh boy. He’s going full empirical. This should be good.”

“It’s not that I think I understand relationships,” Spencer continued, adjusting his glasses. “It’s just that I recognize functional dynamics when I see them. And I happen to know what one looks like.”

Derek snorted. “Yeah? Like what, The Notebook?”

“No,” Spencer said. “Like me and Y/N.”

There was a beat of silence.

Y/N, seated two chairs down with a half-drunk coffee in her hand, turned very slowly. “I’m sorry, what now?”

Spencer blinked at her like she’d asked if water was wet. “What?”

“What do you mean ‘you and me’?”

He frowned, confused. “I mean us. Our dynamic. It’s a prime example of a healthy relationship.”

Garcia dropped her muffin.

Derek leaned in like he was about to watch a car crash in slow motion. “Go on.”

Spencer tilted his head at Y/N. “You seriously didn’t know?”

She blinked. “Know what exactly?”

“That we’re in a relationship. Or— at least something adjacent to one. I assumed we were both aware of that.”

Y/N stared at him.

Spencer, sensing the disbelief, leaned back in his chair and began to list things off like he was briefing a case. “We text every night before bed. You bring me coffee the way I like it— three sugars, not stirred— almost every day, without asking. I’ve picked you up from the airport twice. You’ve stayed over at my apartment more than once, and you steal my hoodies.”

“That’s just…” She trailed off, looking helplessly at Garcia, who was frozen mid-bite.

Spencer wasn’t done.

“We hold hands when we walk across busy streets. You braid my hair when I’m stressed. I read you poetry once and you cried, which I took as a positive emotional response and not distress.”

Y/N slowly set her coffee down. “Okay.”

“I’ve memorized your Chipotle order,” Spencer added, like that sealed it.

“Okay.”

Spencer leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “We literally hold hands all the time.”

“…Okay, yeah, I see where I went wrong.”

Derek lost it.

Garcia was fanning herself with a napkin, whispering “my stars” under her breath.

Y/N looked like she was debating the moral and logistical weight of throwing herself into the nearest garbage can.

Spencer, meanwhile, just looked vaguely betrayed. “How did you not know?”

She gave him a look. “Because you never said it out loud?”

“I thought it was implied!”

Derek clapped once, loud. “Oh, I live for this.”

Garcia blinked. “Cool, so I’ve been third-wheeling a relationship that wasn’t even technically happening. Love that for me.”

Y/N turned back to Spencer, who was still trying to solve the mystery of how she missed this.

“Are you mad?” she asked.

“No,” he said, after a beat. “Just… surprised. I really thought we were on the same page.”

“Well.” She exhaled, slow and a little amused. “We are now.”

Spencer tilted his head. “Does this mean we’re officially dating?”

Y/N shrugged. “Statistically speaking?”

That got the smallest smile out of him.

“I’ll take it,” he said.

a/n: first spencer fic can i get a whoop whoop (i hope this is good, oh god)

[iixch]

☆ iixch production

Simon’s dog doesn’t know bros before hoes

synopsis: his dog simply knows your superior and it pisses him off

warning: cursing

more Titan shenanigans: pt.2 - pt.3

He was about to throw the mutt on the grill.

He couldn’t believe his great dane was puppy dog eyeing you for scratches. The dog was half your damn size.

Simon was worried at first, despite your excitement, when he told you he owned a dog. His great dane, Titan, was intimidating to most and he had a bad temper. He had spent weeks trying to slowly get you and Titan acquainted, he worried that the giant dog would growl or bark at you and scare you off.

He worried for nothing.

The minute you visit his house for the first time with a pup cone, Titan loved you. Since that first meeting, Titan has yearned and earned your affection, and attention. Which you have never denied him.

It has gotten to the point that Simon feels he’s third wheeling in his own relationship- when it comes to you and his dog!

And god forbid he and you disagree.

Simon wasn’t even yelling, he was just passionately explaining his reasoning. You huffed and rolled your eyes- at what to you, sounded like excuses. Crossing your arms in annoyance. To which Simon’s takes a step forward and grabs your arm (to uncross them) before Titan comes and pushes Simon behind his knees and barks.

Flabbergasted and furious, Simon quickly turns glaring at his dog.

“The fuck you looking at, mate? Were just talking.”

To which in counter argument, Titan just continues his barking- and Simon has to retort to putting him in his cage in the laundry room, where the barks were (more or less) muffled.

“When did you become someone’s bitch?” Simon mumbles to Titan as he watches as you sit on the floor so the overly large dog can lay across your lap.

“Don’t be jealous, Si.” You tell him chuckling as you scratch Titan behind his ear, his tail wagging nonstop.

“I’m not jealous of a damn dog.” He huffs, arms crossed.

Titan looks up from your lap to meet Simon’s eyes, before- and he swears he does- grinning. Simon’s dog isn’t his anymore and is under your spell, and now he has a proper hellion on his hands, and you are none the wiser.

[sunsburns]

track 10 — mark grayson (invincible) !

⟢ synopsis. you totally don't have a thing for mark, that would be crazy ... unless

⟢ contains. 18+, mark grayson x fem!reader, nsfw, oral (m & f receiving), cunnilingus. mark is kinda subby, friends with benefits but they like each other, reader is so down bad it's embarassing, and mark isn't any better, gets a little nasty when it comes to cum, mark is a proud moaner, mentions of porn, both mark and reader are lowkey pervs.

⟢ wc: 15k+

⟢ author’s note. mark is an eater, sue me. there's stupid jokes thrown in here, just a long written work of me pushing the casual sex with mark idea. i also like the idea of having an alien boyfriend and making mark more alien than human. a lot of it was inspired by this work from ao3!

You’re such a pervert.

At least, that’s what Mark and William would call you if they saw the way your eyes trailed, lingered, on the way fingers slipped into the holes of bowling balls, your gaze locked on the flex of forearm muscle tightening beneath warm, sandy skin. Veins rising just under the surface. The smooth way wrists rolled as they brought the ball up, perfectly casual, totally unaware.

You exhaled slowly through your nose. The warmth in your stomach was beginning to simmer into something heavier, something you refused to name in the middle of a public bowling alley, under neon lights and the scent of cheap nachos.

Mark would turn scarlet if he caught you. You knew the exact look—eyebrows shooting up, eyes wide and blinking, stammering over his own breath like a shy bastard. And William? God, he’d never let you live it down. He’d smirk like the devil himself, a wicked grin twisting on his face as he realized you’re not so different from him, seconds away from pointing across the lane with an audible gasp like he’s scandalized.

You huffed and slouched deeper into the worn leather seat, folding your arms across your chest like it might shield you from the shame of your own libido. Or at least from the sight of Mark, now lining up his shot.

Why did you even agree to this again?

Third-wheeling William and Rick’s bowling date for the millionth time had officially become the sad little cherry on top of your tragic sundae. You were no longer just the single friend. You were the perpetually single friend. The “don’t worry, you’ll find someone eventually” friend. It made you want to tear your hair out of your head.

Worse still was when Amber and her new boyfriend showed up. You’d run out of excuses not to come by then—tried “midterms,” “period,” even “funeral” once, which William did not find funny. (You still do.)

Maybe that was an exaggeration because you know how competitive William and Amber get so there wouldn’t be much love to go around if the game was close, but still!

And maybe it wasn’t always like this. Maybe they didn’t completely leave you out. They included you in the group cheers, the trash talk, and even the occasional victory dance when one of you got a lucky strike. You weren’t invisible. Just… orbiting. A little too aware of the way everyone else had someone to orbit with.

But tonight was different.

Because Mark Grayson was here.

You hadn’t expected it—had already accepted your fate as the designated third wheel, again—but when William pulled up and you opened the car door, there he was. Sitting in the back seat. Tugging at the sleeves of his sweater. That stupid, kinda cute grin on his face when he saw the shock on yours.

Mark Grayson. The best friend turned part-time cryptid. A guy you maybe saw once every other week if the planets aligned and there wasn’t a kaiju climbing out of Lake Michigan. These days, he showed up in the group chat typing out things like “Sorry I’ve been MIA, was in space lol” or “brb gotta swim in a volcano for endurance training :(” like it was completely normal and not the kind of thing that made you feel a weird cocktail of secondhand stress and... butterflies.

He was still the same guy who sent you videos of raccoons screaming into bird feeders at 2 a.m. Still remembered to say “hi” to your mom over text. Still promised you he wasn’t dead every now and then. But sitting beside him in the car—seeing his knee bouncing, his jaw shifting with a soft grin like nothing had changed—it hit you just how much had.

He looked… older. And maybe you looked older too but it was like he’d seen things and hadn’t told anyone. His eyes had that faraway shine he got when he was lost in thought, and even with the quiet hum of William and Rick’s shitty playlist and the greasy scent of drive-thru fries between you all, you could feel the shift in the air. A little quieter. A little heavier.

You had to play it cool. Pretend your entire body hadn’t immediately started sparking like faulty wiring the second he said your name and nudged your knee with his. You had to stop smiling so hard that your cheeks hurt.

You had to act like this was any other night. Like he wasn’t the reason your stomach had butterflies and your thighs had opinions.

You leaned your head against the window, hiding your face, hoping the dark would swallow the flush climbing your neck. You muttered something sarcastic about “the prodigal son returning,” and Mark just chuckled, that same warm, dorky sound that always made your stomach twist.

He said, “You act like I’ve been gone for five years. It’s only been, like, two weeks.”

You gave him a flat look. “You missed two birthdays, Mark.”

He winced. “Okay, technically I was there for William’s. You just couldn’t see me.”

“Yeah,” William piped up from the front seat, smirking. “Because you were in orbit.”

Mark shrugged with a guilty laugh and you were smiling the whole car ride.

Not because he was saying anything particularly funny—though he did, at one point, launch into a truly terrible pun about black holes and bowling balls—but just because he was there. And you wouldn’t have to sit alone all night, nursing a soda while Rick and William played footsie over the ball return.

By the time you all reached the bowling alley, cheap neon lights flickering overhead, you were already white-knuckling it through the evening. The floors stuck just a little to your soles, gum-slick and soda-stained, the way only old alleys could be. It felt like someone turned the heater up to just uncomfortable, and you were nearly sweating through your shirt despite the chill of your drink between your hands.

You’re trying your best not to blare your teeth because neither Rick nor Mark would understand how badly you need to sink them into something. And the last thing you need is William playing Cupid again. If he catches even a whiff of this (and he will, the man could sniff out sexual frustration like a fucking bloodhound) you’ll spend the rest of the night dodging his attempts to set you up with someone’s cousin. Or sibling. Or roommate. Or ex.

So instead, you cross your legs, pressing your thighs together like a lifeline, grateful for the thick fabric of your jeans creating friction, if nothing else. You chew furiously on the nachos Rick ordered for the table, salt and fake cheese mixing with the lingering taste of your own desperation, pretending to be invested in the score.

You tried to have a little shame with the way you were staring—really, you tried. But your casual glances across the lanes kept narrowing, funnelling, zeroing in on one person. And the way Mark moved tonight was ridiculous.

You were practically biting your fist, hating how much you loved the way his shoulders shifted under that stupid sweater—the very same one he used to wear in high school. Still threadbare in places. Still soft-looking. Still familiar. Except now, it clung a little tighter to the broader frame he’d grown into, hugging his chest and upper arms like a secret he hadn’t meant to keep from you.

You don’t even think that yellow button-up he used to pair it with would fit anymore. Not unless he wanted to pop a few buttons and really give you something to talk about in therapy.

Mark had filled out in ways you didn’t quite expect—broader shoulders, a thicker chest, and maybe, just maybe, he’d gotten taller too. It was subtle at first, the kind of change that didn’t register until he handed you his old, beloved Seance Dog t-shirt one afternoon like it was nothing. You remembered how the sleeves used to sag on him, how the shirt had always hung a little loose, and yet it had fit obscenely tight the last time he wore it. The fabric had clung to his torso like a second skin, sleeves straining around his biceps, the hem inching up every time he moved, flashing bare slivers of skin that had no right being that distracting.

You still kept that shirt. Obviously. You told yourself it was sentimental value.

But he looked good tonight. Unfairly so. Maybe he’d always looked good and you were just blind before. Or maybe being away from him for so long had cracked something wide open. Or, worst-case scenario: your hormones were finally staging a mutiny.

Mark kept adjusting the sleeves of his sweater, rolling them up to his elbows like he didn’t know what he was doing. As if the sight of his forearms—tan and veined, the muscles shifting under his skin—wasn’t actively short-circuiting your brain.

You tried to be normal about the way you watched him walk over to the ball return, fingers ghosting across the slick surfaces like he was reading them in braille. You watched his hand pause on the biggest ball available, the one no one else bothered with, and he lifted it like it was made of foam. You felt your pulse stutter at the way his fingers—pointer, middle, thumb—slid into the holes like they belonged there, like they knew what they were doing. His forearm flexed, slow and subtle, and something deep in your stomach clenched in a way that made you feel both ashamed and violently alive.

His skin barely shifted from the strain. Just a soft pull. A ripple. The gentlest whisper of effort. But you admired it all the same. The slight dip of muscle at his elbow. The veins running up his arm. The quiet strength of his grip.

You tried not to imagine Mark’s hands on your hips. Or in your hair. Or in your mouth. Or worse—inside you. You tried not to think about what kind of sounds he might make. Was he a moaner or does he just groan? Would he whimper? Would he say your name like it meant something?

Would Amber tell you if you asked her?

She probably would. She’d smirk, hand you a drink, and tell you to stop being a pussy and go find out yourself.

You shift in your seat again, squeezing your thighs tighter, desperate for relief, for control, for anything other than this maddening ache.

Mark throws the ball. It gutters. Again.

He looks back at you immediately, face scrunching like he’s trying to play it off, but you catch the flicker of embarrassment behind it. You give him two exaggerated thumbs up, all supportive sarcasm. He returns the gesture with just as much sass, which makes you laugh, which makes your heart thump, which makes everything worse.

God, he really does hate bowling. He’s terrible at it. And somehow that only makes you want him more.

If you had a dick, you’re sure you’d be dealing with a painfully obvious hard-on by now. Instead, you’re left to wonder how wet your jeans are getting and whether the people around you will just assume your nipples are hard from the cold. (You wore a bra tonight. Thank God for small mercies.)

You shouldn't be thinking about one of your friends like this. Not someone you barely get to see anymore. You don’t want to ruin this with whatever’s going on in your head. But it’s too late, isn’t it? You’re already undressing him in your mind, mouth full of nachos, pupils blown wide.

You take another bite, chewing mindlessly, trying to remember when exactly this started. When Mark became more than just your high school buddy. When the sight of him made your lungs forget how to work. When you stopped seeing him as just Mark—and started seeing him as something else. Someone else. Someone you wanted.

“I suck.”

You hear Mark huff as he comes back from the floor. His frown is apologetic and self-deprecating as he drags his feet.

“And blow.” William snickers, rising from his spot next to Rick for his turn. His teasing tone is sharp and playful, drawing laughter from you and Rick alike.

“Fuck off,” Mark retorts, his irritation softening the moment—and then, like it’s nothing, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, Mark makes his way to you. And it’s stupid, the way your breath stills just a little. Just a second.

His face shifts when he gets close, softer now. “Hey,” he says, with that quiet little smile of his.

“Hi.” You try not to sound breathless.

“I suck at bowling,” he says again, collapsing into the seat beside you.

Now, being close enough to catch even the faintest trace of his cologne—the familiar scent that you and Debbie painstakingly chose for his birthday last year. You remember that bottle, both of you debating over what “smelled like Mark.” This one had lingered on your coat for days after he hugged you once. Reminds you that some parts of him have not changed at all.

Mark reaches for the biggest nacho on the plate, of course, he does, and he ignores your reminder that the centre nacho was meant to be saved for last.

“Too late,” he says, crunching into it, unbothered.

Your eyes dart over to the flickering scoreboard. There, Mid-game Mark is branded with a lowly score of twenty-five—a number so absurd it makes you laugh at his expense.

“Jesus,” you snort, trying to hide your smile behind your hand. “How does that even happen? I thought you had powers or something.”

“Doesn’t matter if I do. William knows I’m shit at bowling.”

That makes you smile, and you tease, “And you’re still here.”

“Where else would I be?” Mark shrugs, his tone light, but then he adds, “Besides, I’ve missed you.”

Your stomach does a sharp little flip.

“Have you?” You arch an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he says, without hesitation. His eyes don’t leave yours.

Then Rick laughs at something William shouts from the lane, and Mark seems to remember where he is. The spell breaks. He coughs, awkwardly. “I mean—I’ve missed all of you guys. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” you echo, smiling despite yourself.

And god, maybe it’s not a big deal. Maybe it’s nothing. But maybe it’s also everything. Like the way he always used to wait for you to catch up in the hallways. Like how he still texts you song lyrics when he can’t sleep. Like how he sat next to you without even asking.

To try to muster up all your courage, hoping you do not sound like a loser.

“If you’ve missed me so much,” you tease, bumping your knee against his, “we could’ve just gone out ourselves, you know. I wouldn’t make you suffer like this.”

Mark looks at you then. Really looks at you.

“Are you free tomorrow by any chance?”

Your heart stutters. You pretend not to notice. “I don’t know.”

His face falls, just a bit. The corners of his mouth twitch like maybe he’s bracing for a punch. “Seriously?”

You shrug with a stupid grin that threatens to betray every thought swirling beneath the surface, and you almost feel bad—but not really. “I might have to move a few things around. Very demanding schedule, you know.”

“Right,” he says, eyes flicking upward in that way you remember so well, a glint of playful hope that sends your stomach into a flip. “If you push doom scrolling till after seven, do you think we could get lunch and boba? There’s a new store that opened up near my place.”

You pretend to think, tapping your chin. “That might work.”

“My treat.”

“Would you look at that,” you breathe, smiling so wide it aches. “My entire day just cleared up.”

He grins, “Uh-huh. Cheap ass.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” Mark says with a shrug that’s far too casual to be innocent, looking anywhere but at you. “Must’ve been the wind.”

It takes everything in you not to laugh. God, you’re hopeless. Every time he looks at you like that—like there’s some inside joke only the two of you share—it hits something soft and dangerous inside your chest. It shouldn’t feel this personal. He’s always like this with you. Right?

Before you can fire back something smug or clever, William calls your name like he’s been waiting for the perfect moment to interrupt. You roll your eyes but the irritation’s fake—your bark never really had any bite when it came to Mark, not when he looks at you like that. Not when he smells like that. Not when you’re sitting so close, you’re painfully aware of just how wet your panties are from… from what? A smile? A little eye contact? Pathetic.

Still, you’re smiling like an idiot when you hop off the bench and head to the lane. The energy in your chest is all fizzy and too much, too fast, but you try to channel it into something, anything else.

You take the ball and accidentally hit a strike. A perfect one.

You blink. “Holy shit.”

Laughter and chaos erupt behind you, and Mark shouts, “You fucking cheated!”

────────────

You don’t have a crush on Mark. You really don’t.

Because if you did, you probably would’ve told Amber not to go out with him after she asked if you were cool with it.

If you had a thing for Mark, you definitely would’ve wallowed in self-pity with your sad Spotify playlist and your arms elbow-deep in a bag of chips that one night he posted a photo with Eve in the middle of the jungle or wherever.

If you liked Mark—even a little bit—you probably would've pulled your hair out strand by strand when you found out he started dating Eve for real.

But that didn’t happen. So. You don’t have a crush on him. Obviously.

Totally.

And whatever weird, fluttery, buzzy feeling that’s dancing through your chest and your stomach right now? It’s definitely just the boba. Or something they put in the syrup. Maybe the taro’s gone off. Definitely not the way Mark’s eyes crinkle when he’s smiling at you. Not the way he showed up to your little lunch date(?) wearing that stupid shirt you always teased him for owning five of. Or how he paid without even asking, the casual kind of chivalry that makes your heart thud and your brain scream (even if he already told you it was his treat).

Your relationship with Mark has never been anything extraordinary. It’s… simple.

As simple as being friends with a half-alien can be.

You’ve always loved Mark’s company, though. You love the way he talks about all the dorky, nerdy shit that made him a bit of a loner in high school—the same stuff he still brings up now with zero shame. You like listening to him talk about it, even when you don’t understand half the words. Even when you know you’ll never, ever watch that weird Super Dog cartoon he keeps insisting would change your life. Not until he finally watches that limited-run K-drama you’ve been begging him to get through since last summer, anyway.

But anyway, you enjoy those moments you get with Mark—even if they’re rare. You enjoy spending time with him, catching up, listening to his stories, and then trying to make your own mundane ones sound even half as cool. You know you’ll never top the time he went to Mars. That story lives in a league of its own. But you still love the way his voice softens when he talks about spending a quiet afternoon with his mom, or the way he lights up when Oliver does something new—like picking up skateboarding or learning a dumb trick that’s only impressive because he’s small and determined.

Mark tends to set the bar pretty high without even trying.

And not just with stories. With everything. With how he lives, how he treats people. Without ever meaning to, Mark’s somehow managed to ruin dating for you. He’s set your standards insanely high. You’ve caught yourself comparing people to him—his kindness, his loyalty, his dumb sense of humour. You still wince when you remember William’s reaction to the last guy you matched with on Tinder.

“He’s like… a whiter version of Mark.”

You haven’t opened Tinder since.

“You okay?”

Mark’s voice cuts through your spiral, pulling you back. You blink like you’ve just come up for air.

“Sorry, yeah,” you say too quickly, shifting in your seat like that might shake the embarrassment off. You meet his eye for just a second—he’s already looking at you, head tilted, brows pulled together in quiet concern.

Your fingers tighten around your cup, the condensation beading under your skin. It’s cold. Which is helpful. Because you’re warm. Too warm. For no good reason. Definitely not because of how intently he’s looking at you, like he’s trying to read between your pauses.

You clear your throat. “Wait—so Cecil had you training on the moon?”

There’s a tiny hitch in his rhythm, just for a beat. You think he might’ve been expecting you to actually answer him, to say what’s on your mind. But Mark lets it slide. He shifts in his seat a little and starts talking again, picking up the thread of his story like it’s no big deal.

And you try to listen. You do.

You don’t get many chances like this—just you and him, no one else around. No William. No supervillain attack halfway through a sentence. Just… a booth, a couple of half-finished drinks, and him.

You want to soak up every second. But he makes it so damn hard for you.

You catch bits of the story—something about the new suit being way more annoying to get on, something else about Oliver cracking the concrete trying to ollie down the front steps—but you’re barely keeping up. Your brain is foggy and not in a cute, dreamy way. You’re kind of just… watching him.

The way he talks with his hands. The way he smiles halfway through a sentence, like he already knows the punchline’s only funny to him but he’s gonna say it anyway. The way he leans in a little when he’s excited, like he’s trying to make you feel the moment with him.

You laugh when he laughs, even if you miss the joke.

Because as long as he keeps talking, you don’t have to say anything.

You just get to sit there. And pretend like this is enough.

The thing was, Mark has always technically been an attractive guy. Tall, kind of annoyingly fit, with that sharp jawline that only got better with age. Charming in a way he didn’t even realize. At least you’d always known it. But you never thought you’d live to see the day (or the week… okay, the past few months—maybe even the year) where you’d start to see him that way.

Like, really see him. In that oh no kind of way.

You’d brushed it off for a while—blamed it on nostalgia, on hormones, on whatever. But bowling last night had been a bit of a breaking point. Something about the sleeves pushed up his forearms, the way he leaned over to aim, that boyish little grin when he finally knocked a pin down—it undid you. And you hadn’t exactly been subtle about the way you were gawking.

Still, it didn’t really hit you until this morning. When you woke up a little dazed, sheets tangled between your legs, and the ghost of a dream clinging to your skin. His voice had echoed in your head, low and warm and familiar. His touch—blurry, but undeniably his—lingered along your shoulder, your back. Your neck.

You’d jolted up like someone caught you.

So. Yeah. Maybe you had the hots for your best friend. Maybe your body wanted something more than side hugs and occasional shoulder touches and the familiar comfort of leaning into him during movies. But that didn’t mean you had a crush or anything. Right?

…Right.

So what if you’d taken a little longer getting ready today? Or if you picked a nicer perfume—the one you usually saved for special occasions—and spritzed a little extra behind your ears, just in case. Not because of him. Just… because. And if you fixed your hair in the mirror three separate times before leaving? Totally normal.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything.

Except it’s really hard to hold onto that thought when he’s sitting across from you looking like that.

His hair’s messier than usual, the curls a little looser like he ran his fingers through it instead of brushing it out. His light blue shirt clings in all the right places and you’re seriously starting to wonder if any of his clothes still fit him properly or if he just enjoys tormenting you. His biceps look like they’re threatening the seams and you hate how aware of it you are.

He's rambling about something now—probably a mission, or a weird encounter with a reporter who keeps calling him the “hot one.” He laughs, wide and open-mouthed, and you try to focus on his words but you’re too busy watching how his lips move. How easily that laugh bubbles out of him. How pretty his eyes are when they squint at you like this, catching you staring.

You should say something. Anything.

“You’re, uh—” you blurt out, then immediately regret it. He glances up, curious. You clear your throat and gesture vaguely at him. “You look nice. That’s a good shirt on you.”

He blinks. “Oh. Thanks,” he says, smiling like it’s no big deal, but his ears go pink. “Didn’t even realize—kind of just threw it on this morning.”

Of course he did. Of course he looks like this with zero effort. Meanwhile, you were practically putting on war paint to get your eyeliner even.

“It’s a good colour on you,” you add, a little quieter. Your fingers pick at the sleeve of your own jacket, trying to act like you’re not slowly disintegrating under the weight of your own thoughts.

There’s a beat. You feel his gaze again—steadier this time. Like he’s trying to see through the cracks.

“You got all dressed up too,” he says casually, elbow on the table, chin resting on his palm. “Special occasion?”

You scoff. “What, like I can’t look decent unless it’s for something?”

“I mean,” he teases, lips twitching, “you’re usually in sweats when we hang out.”

“That’s because you’ve seen me in every stage of human degeneration. There’s no mystery left.”

Mark laughs, deep and genuine. “There’s still a little mystery.”

You’re not going to ask what he means. You’re not.

Instead, you take a sip of your drink to hide the flush in your cheeks. You focus on the way the cold clings to your fingers, grounding you. Because if you let yourself keep staring, you’re going to do something stupid. Like, ask him if he wants to come back to yours. Or kiss him right here across the table.

You sneak another glance at him. He’s already looking at you. Again.

You want him so bad it’s physically painful.

And yeah, sure—maybe you’ve imagined what it’d be like if you were just a little bit closer. Not just physically. Closer in a way that means good morning kisses and bad jokes whispered into collarbones and brushing your teeth side by side, sleep-crinkled eyes and soft Sunday smiles. All those tiny, stupid, quiet things that make you feel like you belong to someone.

And if you let yourself feel it for just one second longer—you know exactly who you want to belong to.

You hope that whoever glances your way in this too-cute, hipster boba café thinks you’re on a date. God, you hope so. The way the two of you are sitting, drinks in hand, talking in that soft, familiar rhythm of long-time friends—it has to read as a date. Right?

Some unhinged voice in the back of your head keeps whispering that it is one, even if you never officially said it. Even if you didn’t dare call it that aloud.

You tried to drown that thought out while getting ready. Told yourself over and over—it’s just lunch. Just boba. With Mark. Your friend. One of your best friends. Who you’ve known since middle school. Who’s saved your life and seen you ugly cry at three in the morning. Who also happens to be alarmingly hot and stupidly nice and smiles at you like you’re some secret he’s been keeping warm in his pocket.

And who, to your absolute horror, you’ve recently started thinking about in ways you should not think about Mark Grayson.

He was already seated by the window when you got there. The sunlight poured in softly, and his forearms rested on the table. He was already sipping something dark with brown sugar pearls stuck to the side of the cup and scrolling on his phone, brow furrowed just a little.

You cringed remembering the way you froze at the entrance. Really froze. Long enough for a group of teenagers behind you to shuffle awkwardly around and brush past with a few muttered “excuse me”s and half-laughs. Embarrassing.

When you finally slid into the booth in front of him, Mark looked up and smiled, “Hey.”

And damn it if that stupid word didn’t do something to you.

“Hey,” you said, trying to sound normal. “You beat me here.”

“I was excited,” he said, with that casual, open honesty that always got you. “Sue me.”

He then pushed a drink toward you. You hadn’t even realized he ordered for you—but it was your usual.

“Thanks. You remembered?”

“Course I did.” He shrugged like it was nothing. “Not that hard to remember the most annoying boba order in existence.”

You kicked him under the table. “Bitch.”

He grinned, totally unfazed. “Affectionately.”

You bring your forearms up to rest on the table, leaning in just slightly. The move feels natural—too natural—and you let your head tilt as you look at him, willing yourself to snap out of the storm in your head and focus. Present moment, please. Now would be nice.

The sunlight through the window catches the edge of his jaw, carving golden light into soft angles. His lashes cast shadows. His fingers tap lightly against his cup, unhurried. Your own drink is already gone—sucked down while you tried not to have a crisis about whether or not this felt like a date. Because it does. It really, really does. It feels like one in the quietest, scariest, most electric kind of way.

You’re trying not to jump across the table. God, what the fuck is wrong with you?

You’re insane, that voice in your head shrieks. Clinically. Emotionally. Hormonally.

Your eyes fall—again, helplessly—to his lips. And it hits you that this might be the first time you’ve ever really stared at them, but it also feels like you’ve always known them. You could probably sketch the shape from memory: the soft dip of his top lip, the way the corners twitch up just before he smiles, the slightly darker flush of colour when he bites down to keep from laughing.

You know them the way you know your favourite songs—effortlessly, intimately, over and over.

And it’s only then, maybe a little too late, that you realize his mouth isn’t moving.

Shit. What was the last thing he said?

You snap back to his eyes, expecting to find a look of confusion, maybe amusement. Maybe even irritation. You’d deserve it. You’ve been undressing him with your eyes the entire afternoon.

But you’re surprised when you find a peculiar, absent look on his face.

Mark’s face is distant. Still. His brown eyes are half-focused like he’s listening to something very far away. His hand continues tapping slowly on the side of his cup, but he’s not drinking it. Hasn’t drank from it in a while, actually. Probably because he’s been talking this whole time and you’ve been too busy losing your mind to pay attention.

“Mark?” you say, softly.

He doesn’t react.

Which is strange. Because you know how sharp his senses are, superhearing and all, he could probably hear a raindrop land five cities over if he tried. But right now, he’s staring so intently, so deliberately, that for a split second, you actually worry something might be wrong.

Until you shift. Just a little. Barely an inch.

And his gaze follows the movement, dragging downward like it’s magnetized.

You glance down.

Oh.

Right. The neckline. You forgot you picked this shirt. Or at least, you forgot what it might look like sitting across from someone like Mark.

Your stomach twists with something that’s equal parts heat and embarrassment. You want to roll your eyes—of course this is what’s got him so distracted. For all his superhero nonsense, you’re still friends with a guy.

“Mark,” you say again, this time with a little more bite, trying not to smile.

His eyes flick up from your chest, blinking rapidly. His mouth opens in a small “oh,” a hum catching in the back of his throat as he scrambles to respond, but doesn’t quite manage it in time. A second later, the realization hits, and his entire face ignites. His cheeks go so red you almost feel bad for him. But you find it sort of adorable.

He coughs, clearly trying to recover. His hand rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” He says, smiling meekly at you. His hand drops back to the table. “You just— I mean, I— You look really... goob. I mean boob. Good. I mean good. You look good.”

A shy grin splits your face open as your skin starts to warm. “Thanks. You look goob, too.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, groaning, biting down on his straw. “Fuck off. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, no,” you say, waving him off with a laugh. “I’ll allow it. That was... actually kinda sweet.”

He smiles at you, all shy and embarrassed. A little crooked. Like he knows what he just did and has no idea what to do with himself now. You’re pretty sure your heart is about to explode into a thousand glittering pieces right there on the table.

You sit there, breath caught somewhere between your ribs, watching him as he ducks his head, and chews on the boba pearls like they hold the secret to surviving this moment. And all you can think—loud, panicked, impossibly clear—is:

You want to kiss him.

And not just kiss him. You want him in a way that’s full-bodied and reckless. You want him with the force of every stupid dream you’ve ever had. You want him in that dizzy, hands-in-hair, clothes-on-the-floor kind of way. You want to ruin this whole perfectly lovely friendship in the worst possible way.

And maybe it’s the way he’s still not meeting your eyes. Or maybe it’s how warm your skin feels. Or how the sunlight is pouring in too golden and soft and romantic and cruel.

“Mark,” you say.

He looks up at you, eyes wide and mouth disgustingly full. “Yeah?”

“I think we should fuck.”

He chokes. Immediately. You watch in real-time as he sucks his drink the wrong way and practically launches into a coughing fit. A splash of tapioca pearls and brown sugar milk flies out of his nose and hits the table.

“Oh my god—” you mutter, reaching across to grab a stack of napkins.

Mark is flailing. Coughing, sputtering, waving a hand like he’s trying to say something but also very much trying not to die. His face is bright red. He’s laughing and coughing at the same time. It’s a mess. A scene. People are staring.

“I’m fine,” he wheezes, between hacks. “I’m—you—what?”

You try to smile, a little nervous. “I said I want to have sex with you.”

Mark goes absolutely still.

He stares at you, wide-eyed, stunned into silence. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. You watch his gaze dip—just barely. Lower. Lips. Throat. Chest. Then back up again.

“You—what—where is this coming from?” he finally blurts.

“I don’t know,” you say honestly, fingers playing with your straw wrapper. “It just sort of... fell out of me.”

“Fell out of you?” he repeats, completely scandalized.

“I... I've been thinking about it for a while now...” You're starting to feel dread sink into your stomach, thick and slow like honey, but bitter like poison... or puke. What the fuck have you just done?

Your words hang there, dangling over the edge of a cliff you just shoved both of you off of. You can’t look at him. Not properly. Not when your face is on fire and your chest is tight and the booth feels too small. Not when the air feels heavier with every second he doesn’t say anything.

You’re seconds away from bolting. Or vomiting. Or both.

“It's been driving me crazy, believe me,” you manage, voice thinner now. “But uh, if you want to say no, say no."

“Oh my god. You’re serious.”

“...Yeah.”

“Like you want—”

“Yes.”

“Me?”

“Yes, Mark, you.”

He leans back slightly in the booth, and he looks away for a split second—at the window, the floor, anywhere that isn’t your face—but it doesn’t last. His eyes are back on you before you can even blink. “I just...” he starts but then trails off again.

“Can you just... like, reject me?” you finally puff out, cheeks burning. It comes out too quickly like you’re trying to outrun the silence. Your voice is too casual to be convincing, but you try anyway, like saying it first makes it sting less.

“Reject you?”

“I’m... I’m sorry I just threw this on you. I wasn’t thinking.”

“You want me to reject you?” His voice is quiet now, but not confused. There’s something else in it.

“So I can like, move on. Change my name. Move to a different state, maybe.”

The joke lands like a dying leaf. Your laugh is brittle. Empty. It’s all just armour at this point.

But Mark huffs a soft laugh of his own,

“I’m not... I’m. not gonna reject you.”

"You're not?"

He shakes his head slowly like he's still trying to believe this is real. His eyes meet yours, and this time he holds it. Locked in. No flinching. No looking away. All that stunned awkwardness melts into something steadier, something careful. Measured. Wanting. Like he’s finally letting himself consider what it would mean to say yes.

“No,” he says. “That would be stupid. And William would never let me live it down.”

The tension cracks just slightly, pulling a small, breathy laugh from you—something trembling and alive. Your pulse spikes. Your throat’s dry. You're still not sure you're breathing right.

“So... you want to—?”

“Yeah,” he says. Quick. Blunt. No room for misinterpretation.

Then again, softer. Like he’s scared of how much he means it.

“Yeah.”

Internally, you’re both reeling—because that “yeah” didn’t sound like a joke. It didn’t sound like some impulsive sure why not. It sounded like he meant it. All of it.

Mark glances down at his hands like he needs something to look at besides you. “I’ve been thinking about it too. Just didn’t think you were—y’know, thinking about it.”

“Well, I was. I am,” you admit, heart pounding. “And it was... getting really hard to just not say anything.”

He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice lower now. This is no longer a conversation for public ears.

“So what... we just do this?” he asks.

“We could... just try it. See if it works.”

His eyes flick to your mouth again, and it makes your stomach flip.

“Like, casual?” he asks, but there’s a quiet tension under the word. Like he’s testing it out on his tongue and it doesn’t quite fit.

“Sure. Casual. For now.” It comes out a little breathless.

Mark smiles, but it’s not a smug one. It’s nervous. Small. “Right. For now just friends. Who, uh... sleep together.”

You nod, mirroring that same small, nervous grin. “Exactly.”

“But we’re still friends,” he says.

“Of course.”

“And more if we like it.”

“Definitely.”

“So I can take you on a real date if all goes well?”

“Please, do.”

He nods. “So, for now, we can still hang out. And do stupid shit. And eat takeout and talk about movies and—”

“—and maybe also make out sometimes,” you add, trying for lightness, though your voice wavers with the weight of wanting.

Mark pauses. “And definitely do more than make out.”

You blink. “You’re getting bold all of a sudden.”

He shrugs, but his eyes are glued to you now. “I just... don’t want to mess this up. But I also really don’t want to go home without kissing you.”

You inhale sharply.

“Well,” you say, grabbing your drink as an excuse to hide your grin, “your place is closer than mine.”

His expression flickers—first surprise, then realization. “Oh, so like... now? We’re doing this right now?”

You nod, trying to act like it’s nothing, like your insides aren’t vibrating with panic and anticipation. He stands before you do, waiting like he’s afraid you might change your mind if he moves too fast.

When you join him, you don’t touch—but your whole body is practically leaning toward him, every nerve tuned into his orbit. You leave the shop like that: side by side, hearts hammering, skin buzzing, still pretending this isn’t happening. But it is. Oh, it is.

The short walk to your car is deceptively casual on the outside, but inside, you’re spiralling. Spiralling and floating all at once. You’re aware of every breath, every step. A storm of want and nerves and what-ifs spinning in your stomach.

By the time you’re seated behind the wheel, your hands are trembling slightly on your thighs. You try to be subtle about it. Meanwhile, Mark slides into the passenger seat with a blush high on his cheeks—bashful, like he’s already guilty of something. Like the thought alone is enough to make him flustered.

He fiddles with his phone, plugging it in like it’s the most important task of the century. He scrolls through songs like his life depends on picking just the right vibe, and maybe it does. You pretend not to watch him, even though you feel like you're burning a hole through the corner of your eye. He’s acting like everything’s totally normal, like the two of you didn’t just agree—very plainly—to have sex. And god, that boyish fake-casual routine of his is so unfair.

Your breath hitches when the music finally starts. Some song you barely recognize filters through the speakers, but you barely process it. Your fingers twitch around the wheel.

You’d started the engine but never shifted into gear.

Mark glances at you.

Fuck.

That’s it. That’s your last straw.

Because he’s looking at you like he’s waiting. Like he’s curious and soft and a little bit shy, and it cracks something open in your chest. You’ve seen this man punch meteors. You’ve seen him dent walls and bleed for people he loves. And right now, he looks like he’d melt if you so much as leaned in a little closer.

So you do.

You lean (jump, really) across the center console, breath shallow, no hesitation left in you, and press your mouth to his—hot, urgent, not the least bit gentle (you could’ve broken your nose against his steel skin).

He lets out a muffled, surprised sound that you feel more than hear. But he kisses you back immediately, like his body was already on the edge, just waiting for the signal to move. His hands come up to your sides, cradling your ribs so carefully it hurts, like he thinks he’ll crush if he squeezes too hard (he can).

He leans into it fast. His nose bumps yours, and there’s a soft gasp when your lips part. It’s messy. Desperate. Hungry. You sigh into his mouth, tilting your head, and his fingers twitch against your waist. Then his lips part wider, and that’s your cue—your tongue finds the seam of his mouth, dragging across his lower lip before slipping in.

He groans.

Low, breathy, and real.

One of his hands slides lower, skimming the hem of your shirt, the very edge of his pinky brushing against the exposed skin of your side. It makes you tremble. He’s so gentle, like he doesn’t quite trust himself with you yet. Like he’s holding something precious.

You don’t know how long it goes on—seconds, minutes. But the car rocks faintly when he shifts in his seat, and that’s when you start to pull away. Slowly. Breathlessly.

You look at him—his lips parted, eyes still shut, like he’s chasing the kiss even as it slips from him. And god, you’ve seen that look before, but you never let yourself believe it was real. Now you can’t deny it.

Mark blinks at you. Once. Twice.

Then he leans in and kisses you again.

It’s different this time. Short. Sweet. A soft press of lips. Like punctuation at the end of a sentence you’ve both been trying to say for months. It tastes like sugar and burns fire.

He leans back into his seat, finally, hands settling awkwardly over his lap. You notice the way his fingers twitch—nervous, restrained. You could scream. From the heat in your blood. From relief. From how right it all feels.

“Sorry,” you say, even though you’re not. Not at all. You’re still tasting him on your lips. Still humming with the knowledge that he wants you—wants you—the same way you want him.

The way your voice lilts upward, a little smug, is what makes him scoff, eyes rolling.

“Yeah, sure,” he mumbles, shifting in his seat. “Just couldn’t wait, could you?”

You roll your eyes right back at him, grinning as you finally pull the car out of the parking lot. “Yeah, yeah. Fuck you. You said you didn’t want to go home without kissing me, so—I did you a favour.”

“Oh, did you?” he fires back, all sass, and the way he says it makes your stomach flutter.

You scoff, but it’s affectionate. And even though you’re driving now, even though the moment has passed, you can still feel it, thick in the air between you—the tension, the promise, the want.

“Yeah,” you say again, quieter now. A little breathless. “Yeah, I did.”

You park in front of his house and kill the engine.

Neither of you move.

“…So,” Mark says, finally.

“So.”

His head tilts toward you, a slow grin tugging at his lips. “Race you inside.”

“What?”

You don’t get the chance to say more before he’s already yanking open the door, half-tripping over himself in his rush to get out. You watch him scramble up the walkway, basically vaulting over the three porch steps. You just blink, mildly stunned—and vaguely reminded that he could’ve flown the two of you back to his house if he hadn’t insisted on you driving. Your car sits quietly behind you, utterly abandoned, as you step out and lock it with a flat expression.

He’s waiting for you at the front door, breathless and smug.

“I win.”

“You cheated,” you mutter, strolling up behind him.

“Nuh-uh.”

His hands fumble with the keys, like he’s suddenly forgotten how locks work. You wait behind him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his back, the way his shoulders tense slightly when you’re that near. It makes something in your chest squeeze, soft and wild.

The lock finally clicks. He pushes the door open and steps aside dramatically, gesturing for you to go in. “Milady.”

You roll your eyes but smile as you pass him.

Inside, it’s quiet. Familiar. You’ve been here a million times. Your gaze flicks around automatically. Debbie must’ve gotten a new carpet recently—soft beige with delicate lines you don’t remember from the last time you came over. You hum softly under your breath, grounding yourself in the domestic detail. Always a little surprised, somehow, by the size of this place. It’s modern and clean, tastefully decorated. It smells like laundry detergent and something faintly citrusy. It smells like him.

You turn around and he’s right there. Looking at you like you hung the stars and accidentally knocked one loose when you kissed him in the car.

And then he kisses you again.

No hesitation this time. Just Mark, pulling you in by the waist, cupping your face and his mouth finds yours with a kind of aching slowness—soft, cautious, almost reverent.

You melt into him instantly. Your fingers fist into the front of his shirt, knuckles brushing his chest as you pull him closer, grounding yourself in the warmth of him. He lets out a sound—a mix between a sigh and a groan—and it sinks low into your belly, heat blooming there with terrifying ease. He kisses you deeper, more sure now, like he’s already memorized the shape of your mouth.

His hands slide down your back, warm and soothing.

“Mom’s out with Oliver,” Mark murmurs against your lips like he knows you were about to ask. His voice is low, rough from disuse and want. “Won’t be back for a while.”

“Lucky us,” you mumble, and you barely finish the words before he kisses you again, harder this time, lips parting yours with such gentle insistence that your knees almost give.

He makes this delightful little sound, hands shifting to cradle your head gently, fingers threading through your hair like he’s been waiting a lifetime for the chance.

“So lucky,” He agrees, regretfully breaking away when your body tenses in a silent request for air. You’re disappointed too. Who needs breathing, anyway?

“Did you wanna watch a movie first?”

He’s not even out of breath.

“Not really,” you reply with a breathless laugh, cheeks already sore from grinning so much. Your hands are still resting against his chest, fingertips twitching with the need to keep touching him. He grins back, nodding once, and starts guiding you backwards through the house.

He’s careful with you. You’re walking blind, caught in the middle of another kiss when he gently redirects you away from a stray shoe, his hand tightening briefly around your waist to steer you around Oliver’s skateboard left smack in the middle of the foyer. You barely notice it. All you can focus on is his mouth, trailing kisses to the curve of your neck, the press of his lips to the slope of your shoulder. You shiver when his teeth graze your skin.

He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re pressed up against the wall at the bottom of the staircase, both of you panting between kisses that grow hotter, messier. His hands bracket your hips, thumbs stroking small circles that send sparks crawling up your spine. He groans when your hips roll forward again his, instinctive, your body reacting before your brain can catch up.

You think you hear him whisper your name.

You’re tugging at the hem of his shirt, desperate to feel more skin, and when your fingers slide beneath it and skim along his stomach, he freezes. Not with fear—but like he’s overwhelmed. Like he’s trying not to fall apart from something as simple as your touch.

And then, in a breathless pause, he pulls back just enough to speak. His forehead leans into yours, eyes fluttering closed as he exhales shakily.

“I imagined this being sweeter,” he pants. “I’m sorry.”

You nearly melt on the spot.

Because the way he says it—it’s not embarrassed. It’s earnest. Vulnerable. It takes everything in you not to scream with joy.

God, if he knew how often you’d imagined this too—how many nights you’d curled up thinking of how it might feel to kiss him, touch him, have him like this—he’d probably panic and fly halfway across the city.

Instead, all you manage is a broken little whimper as your fingers twist in his shirt, dragging him closer. “God, Mark, that’s so hot.”

His eyes blink open, stunned. “It is?”

“Yeah,” you say, breathless.

And that’s all it takes.

You don’t even remember deciding to move, but suddenly you’re being rushed up the stairs, feet stumbling as Mark pulls you with him. Your shoes get kicked off somewhere mid-way, lost in the blur of hands and mouths and shared laughter.

He’s hovering, quite literally gliding over the ground, but he seems to barely notice. His feet skim the steps, weightless with something that appears like joy.

Mark fumbles the doorknob twice before finally swinging the door open. Since he’s still kissing you, still pushing you gently forward, you almost tumble inside. He catches you easily, a strong arm firm around your waist, the other bracing himself against the doorframe.

He doesn’t even seem like he notices all that much, floating upwards for a moment before he’s kissing you silly all over again. It’s hot and wet and when he opens his mouth slightly, you follow, your lips parting just enough for your tongues to meet.

Your body fits against his like it was made for it, warm and pliant, your cheek brushing against his as he angles his head and deepens the kiss. You think you never want to stop kissing him. It’s addicting. He’s a drug and you’re hooked, irrevocably. 

You think you might be trembling, just a little.

You decide, boldly, to shove him backwards.

He lets you.

He trips over something in the mess of his room—could be a book, a shoe, or a part of his suit. You don’t get the chance to look. He stumbles until his back hits the wall beside his closet, half-collapsing against the old Seance Dog poster, and you swear he grins against your mouth.

You pull back just enough to breathe, just enough to look at him. Mark’s lips are kiss-swollen and flushed pink, cheeks dusted a deep red. His eyes are heavy-lidded, pupils botched wide with want. He chases your mouth again, barely containing a whine when you press your hands a little harder against his chest to keep him in place.

“Oh, Mark,” you murmur, lips brushing the corner of his mouth before trailing down to his jaw, then his throat. You press a hot, open-mouthed kiss beneath his ear and feel him shiver. “You’re so fucking pretty.”

“I—” The breath he exhales is ragged, shaky. You feel the way his pulse jumps strangely beneath your tongue as you mouth at the delicate skin of his neck. The slight scrape of your teeth draws out a sound you could get drunk on.

The afternoon sun floods into the room in slats, casting golden stripes across his skin. Everything smells like him. The colour of his t-shirt matches his walls, and the thought makes you smile stupidly as you glance up at him again. He’s smiling too. It’s infectious.

You can still feel the strength of the heat rolling off of his skin. “No one’s ever called me pretty before,” he mumbles against your mouth.

You pull back, eyebrows furrowed. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not…”

A frown tugs at your lips as your hands drop to the hem of his shirt with a wordless plea. He pulls it off obediently, albeit somewhat distractedly. “That’s fucking criminal.”

Where it lands doesn’t even matter—your eyes are fixed on his chest. His bare chest that you’ve been given permission to properly ogle at. You swear you feel your mouth salivate a bit. 

“I feel like I should’ve known sooner,” he teases, breathless.

You blink up at him. “Known what?”

“That you liked me. I mean—look at you.” He gestures toward your face with a sheepish grin. “You’re drooling.”

“I’m not drooling,” you huff, making a face even though your cheeks are warm. “I’m admiring. Big difference.”

Mark quirks an eyebrow at you.

“And yeah,” you say, fingers dancing along the waistband of his jeans now, just teasing. “You’re pretty stupid for not knowing sooner.”

He scoffs, but the look in his eyes is warm and soft and maybe a little reverent. You don’t let him say anything else.

“Stupidly pretty,” you murmur, crashing back into him, pressing your mouth to his again with more heat than before. You lick into his mouth, then drag your lips along the column of his throat, down to that same aching spot on his neck. You feel his hands tighten on your waist, and he exhales a shaky, desperate breath like it’s the first one he’s had in minutes.

Your hands roam more freely now, gliding across the newly exposed skin like you’ve earned the right. You’ve seen Mark shirtless before—countless times, actually—but never like this. Not with your breath catching in your throat and your hands trembling just slightly with want. Not with your mouth practically watering as you finally get to touch him like you’ve always wanted to.

Well… unless that one time you helped him put sunscreen on his back last summer counts.

Because this is different.

This time, he’s letting you feel. Explore. He lets you be a little mean and even tug at the trail of hair leading under his pants.

He’s warm in the way fresh sunlight is; comforting, radiant, and magnetic. Your fingers trail down the groove between his pecs, slowly. You knew his body is obviously muscled since his Invincible suit doesn’t leave too much to the imagination, but it’s different feeling warm, sculpted skin than the cool spandex (or whatever it’s made out of.) You trace the faint outline of each muscle, letting your hands dip lower until you reach the ridges of his abs.

And just beneath them—your hand pauses.

You feel it. A soft, rhythmic thrum under your palm. Not quite a heartbeat. Not quite human. It’s steadier than a pulse, more like a hum—like something alive and electric and ancient ticking in the hollow of his chest. It makes your breath hitch.

How alien is he? You wonder.

But the thought doesn’t scare you. If anything, it makes your stomach swoop. You press your hand flat against the faint, vibrating sensation, mesmerized.

Mark watches you, breathing a little heavier now. His hands are wandering too—palms gliding down your sides with more confidence than before. You gasp when he gropes your ass, hard, the pressure unexpected and firm. He pulls you flush against him, and you yelp, catching yourself on his chest with a small, surprised laugh.

His chuckle is low, rumbling beneath your cheek as you bury your face in his skin. It’s so warm. You want to wrap yourself in it.

Then his lips are back—just behind your ear, kissing that soft spot that makes your thoughts short-circuit. You feel yourself sway forward, dizzy with heat and hunger.

Your mind flickers between two options: Pull your shirt off or pull him to the bed.

Instead, your knees hit the carpet before your brain can stop you.

His hands dart forward to pull you back up, brows furrowed with concern, but you’re already reaching for his belt.

“Oh,” he sighs, startled and wide-eyed. “You don’t have to—”

“I wanna,” you murmur, voice dripping with intention as your hand palms him over his jeans. “Please let me.”

You press your cheek against the bulge, coddling it like it’s already yours, your breath catching as you drag your nose slowly along its length. You mouth at the fabric, teasing him with slow, open kisses, and then you look up, eyes wide and sparkling and pleading.

“Please, Mark.”

His knees nearly buckle.

“Yeah,” he exhales, voice hoarse. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”

He looks stunned, dazed, like he’s dreaming something too good to be real. His hands cradle your face so gently it makes your stomach flip, thumbs brushing your jaw.

He’s like a furnace, radiating heat in waves. Like a lantern in the dark. Bright and alive and everything in you aches to touch him more.

You kiss his clothed cock again, slower this time, almost reverent, and he shudders. You can hear the faint rasp in his breath, the catch in his throat as your fingers finally undo his belt and tug his jeans down.

He steps out of them awkwardly, kicking them to the side—and that’s when you notice the blur of colours on his boxers. You blink. Then squint.

And laugh.

“Is that…” You grin, tugging the elastic waistband back with a finger to get a better look. “Seance Dog?”

Tiny cartoon super dogs dance across the fabric, all in different poses—one in a wizard hat, a few riding on yellow stars. You let the waistband snap back against his skin with a cheeky pop.

Mark’s ears go red.

“It was laundry day,” he mumbles, flustered and pink.

“I think it’s cute,” you giggle, ducking forward and pressing a kiss right above the stupid little dogs. “So stupidly cute.”

He tries to say something in return, but you’re giggling all over his very real, very hard dick, kissing at the shape of it, and whatever excuse he was about to make dies a quick death.

“Whatever,” he mutters under his breath, trying and failing to glare at you.

You flash him an innocent look, resting your chin on his hip. “I swear, it’s cute.”

“You’re just saying that because you have me half-naked.”

“Maybe,” you smirk, batting your lashes. Then: “Are you gonna let me suck your dick, or…?”

He groans. His hand flies to his face to hide the actual whimper that comes out, and when he peeks between his fingers at you—grinning like you’re the devil—he can’t help but laugh. A breathless, half-embarrassed noise that melts into the warm air between you.

“Are you gonna stop teasing me, or what?”

You decide to be nice. Because honestly, you're not sure if you'll ever get the chance to be here again. A jagged breath escapes Mark’s lips when you finally tug his boxers down and free his cock from the cotton confines. He’s flushed deep and aching, and the heat low in your stomach tightens at the sight of him. He basically springs out, and you actually flinch a little as it bounces against his stomach. Hard, red, and glistening at the tip with precum.

You blink. Wow.

Okay. Wow.

He's pretty everywhere, but this is... a lot. In the best way. Surpasses all of your expectations. 10/10.

It twitches in front of your face and you feel the warmth radiating off him like a space heater turned up too high. Your hand hovers—hesitant for just a second—before you wrap your palm around him, slowly, carefully, like you’re holding something precious.

He twitches again.

The muscles in his stomach tense, flexing like a ripple under his skin, and you can’t help it—you smirk. Have you mentioned how insanely good he looks right now? That gorgeous, pink-tinged flush creeping down his chest, all the way to the tip of his cock?

Your brain short-circuits. Just pretty boy, pretty boy, pretty boy playing on repeat in your head like a broken record.

Mark exhales a shuddering sigh, and it punches straight through you. “Warm…” he whispers, dazed, eyes hazy and half-lidded. He looks drunk off you already.

“William wasn't kidding,” you mutter, half to yourself as you breathe again.

Mark blinks. “What?”

“He said you had a big dick.”

Mark chokes. “William—he’s never—what?”

“Said you guys used to stand side by side and measure them.”

“Fuck off—he did not say that—”

“Is it true you used them as lightsabers?”

“Oh my god—” Mark groans. He sounds like he’s dying. You don’t know if it’s the secondhand embarrassment or the way your thumb brushes right across his tip.

Maybe both.

“Shut the fuck up, asshole,” he mutters, playfully pushing at your face. You bite your lip, triumphant.

Without thinking, you tighten your grip. Just a little. Just enough to make him keen.

His laugh dissolves into a broken sound, somewhere between a moan and a whimper, and the hand that had pushed your face away now finds a new home buried in your hair.

You lean in and press a soft, teasing kiss to the flushed tip. His cock twitches again.

Mark’s breath catches in his throat.

Your hand never stops moving, a slow up-and-down that has him trembling. You kiss him again, right on the slit, and feel the heat pulsing against your lips. You run your tongue up the underside of his cock, tracing that thick vein from base to tip, and Mark makes a strangled, broken sound—like he’s holding on for dear life.

You push back his foreskin with your thumb and swirl your tongue in a lazy circle around the head. A droplet of precum smears across your lips and you hum against him, taking your time.

You glance up at Mark, checking back in.

“That’s good,” He affirms, voice breathy. “That’s really fucking good.”

Every sound he makes engraves itself into your brain.

You trail kisses down his shaft, your tongue learning every ridge, every pulse, every twitch like you’re memorizing him. Your pace is slow and calculated, and Mark is panting now, legs tense, body twitching under your every touch. You glance up—and fuck—he’s flushed all the way to his ears, lips parted, eyes glassy.

You wrap your lips around the head and sink down.

“Fuuuck,” he whispers, throwing his head back, and staring at the ceiling. His hips jolt upward, pushing deeper into your mouth. It’s a messy rhythm at first, but you welcome it, the way he shivers and gasps when he hits the back of your throat.

You work what you can with your mouth and use your hand on the rest, pumping steadily in time with the bob of your head. Your spit slicks his cock as you move faster, drool dripping down your chin and his shaft.

His thighs are shaking, abs tensing with every gasp. You can feel his restraint fraying—see it in the way his fists clutch the cushions, how his hips start jerking forward, chasing more of the heat and wetness of your mouth.

His cock pulses, thick and hot on your tongue, and he’s babbling now—words half-formed and strangled:

“F-fuck- shit, shit, shit—I’m gonna—ah, fuck me, yeah, f-fuck, I’m— wait shit—”

He pulls your head off at the last second, the hand in your hair tugging, gentle but frantic. You let him, breath caught in your throat, barely registering it until he’s panting and his cock twitches one more time before he cums.

Hot, white ropes spill across your face.

The first hits your cheek, thick and warm. Another lands across your nose, streaking upward toward your brow. It catches on your lip—your open mouth still parted. You blink in surprise but stay still, a little stunned by how hot your skin suddenly feels under each drop.

His moans taper off into little whines, his breath catching in his throat as he watches—eyes wide, pupils blown out wider and darker than you’ve ever seen eyes do before. It’s a strange feeling when you’re reminded that Mark isn’t fully human, even though he mostly looks like it.

You watch his pupils shrink back to normal size and he shakes his head like he’s trying to focus. And his voice cracks. His thumb brushes along your jaw, then dips lower, gently dragging through the mess he left on your chin like he's trying to process the sight of you. Like he can’t believe what he’s done to you.

“Holy shit,” he gasps, blinking down at you. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to—I should’ve warned you—sorry.”

You look up at him, breathless, heart thudding loud in your ears. A grin starts to creep onto your face before you can stop it. You try to fight it—you should be playing it cool—but you can’t help it. Your smile is slow and sweet and so telling. You fucking freak.

“That was…”

“Gross. I know. I’m sorry.” he interrupts, still flushed red and clearly panicking a little.

“I was gonna say hot,” you murmur.

Mark exhales hard, something unsteady and relieved loosening in his shoulders as he leans down to pull you up. You don’t complain when your knees sting, don’t comment on the ache blooming in your thighs. You barely notice it.

His hand comes to cradle your face, and you brace for a kiss—maybe something soft and grateful. Instead, Mark kisses you like he’s starving. Tongue sliding against yours, mouth open and frantic, tasting you, tasting himself. He licks your teeth, then your lips—wet and shining—and then your cheek, dragging his tongue through his own cum, whimpering into your mouth when he tastes it again.

Get a load of this fucking freak, Jesus Christ.

He doesn’t stop. Licks across your skin with deliberate, dirty reverence. Over your chin, your cheekbone, even the curve of your nose—slow and deliberate, like he’s savouring it. His cum. Your skin. You.

He whimpers. Literally whimpers. God. And then he moans. Loud.

You just laugh, soft and dreamy, trying to stay grounded even as every nerve ending in your body feels like it’s sparking to life, flames consuming you. You’re still dressed, and yet you’ve never felt more bare. More downed.

Mark steps out of his boxers and pants, bunched around his ankles. His skin is slick with sweat, flushed with exertion, and glowing with something golden. You’ve never seen anyone look more gorgeous in your life. You realize, with a quiet sort of devastation, that you’d do anything to stay in this moment.

He leans in again, kissing you hard, both of you ignoring the sticky trail still clinging to your face. Your mouth, your skin—it’s all his. And he kisses like he knows it.

You kiss him back like you need him to know it’s mutual.

The ache between your thighs throbs now, sharp and insistent, but you almost forget it when Mark groans—a deep, low sound that vibrates in your chest. He cradles your jaw in both hands, pulling back just far enough to whisper, “Keep kissing me. Don’t ever stop.”

You nod, dazed, breathless. “I won’t.”

You kiss him again. His lips. His cheek. His nose. His forehead. He shivers under each one. You want to kiss him until your lips go numb, until time forgets the two of you ever existed as anything other than this.

And then—without warning—Mark starts to float again.

You feel it before you see it: the weightlessness, the subtle lift of his frame. His hands never leave your face, but his body hovers, high enough that you have to crane your neck to meet his lips. He laughs breathlessly, as though he forgot he could even do this, and he takes you with him—gently, almost reverently.

Your back hits the bed seconds later, soft and warm, and you sprawl out beneath him. Mark hovers above, eyes shining with something deep and giddy and overwhelming. His smile is wide and blinding.

Your heart thrums beneath your ribs, loud and full and dizzy, and you grin back up at him, dazed, knowing he can hear it.

You reach down, fumbling with the button on your jeans. Your fingers are clumsy, adrenaline and nerves making them tremble, and you curse under your breath. Mark dips down to help, but he’s no better—his hands fumble too, and the both of you dissolve into breathless, giggling laughter. His body presses into yours as he tries again, lips brushing yours between chuckles, and eventually, together, you manage to get them off.

He tosses them behind him with a careless flick—there’s a loud crash as something topples off your nightstand. You both flinch, wide-eyed.

You glance toward the sound but don’t move. “What was that?”

Mark snorts against your lips. “Lamp. Maybe.”

Neither of you moves to check. Not when his weight settles over you again. Not when his hands find your waist and slide beneath the hem of your shirt, warm and certain. His touch is steady now, smoothing up your sides, slipping along the curves of your ribs like he’s mapping out every part of you.

He pulls away just enough to look at you, a funny-looking grin on his face as he watches his hands ruck up your shirt gently. When he lifts the top higher, the fabric bunching at your ribs, you raise your arms to help, and for one breathless second, your hands meet midair—yours and his, tangled in the cotton.

Mark yanks it off with a breathless little laugh and lets it fall off the edge of the bed.

His gaze drops. His smile fades.

There’s a beat of stillness where he just looks at you. Really looks. His eyes drag over your chest—mismatched bra and all—and he blinks slow, like he’s committing it to memory. You swear he stops breathing.

His thumb lifts, brushing along the strap of your bra where it sits on your shoulder. He plucks at it gently, eyes fixed on the way the fabric moves beneath his touch. He does it again, slower this time, dragging the pad of his thumb over the edge of the cup. The way he stares—it’s not even lust, not exactly. It’s something softer.

The intensity of his gaze makes you want to shy away for just a second. You sit up and jab his side.

He jerks with a yelp, eyes flying back to yours.

You raise a brow, fighting your smug grin. “Who’s drooling now?”

Mark rolls his eyes, mock offended, but the flush on his cheeks betrays him. He opens his mouth to respond, and you swipe your thumb across the corner of his lips like you’re wiping something away. Annoyed, he groans loudly.

“Yeah, yeah. I get it.”

He catches your fingers in his hand. Brings them to his mouth. Nips at them playfully. You squeal, and then he kisses your knuckles so soft it makes your stomach swoop.

And suddenly, the teasing slips out of you like air from a balloon.

You lie back without thinking. Just melt into the bed. Mark follows you down, still holding your hand. He kneels between your legs, gaze pinned to you like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. When he finally lets go of your hand, it’s only to cradle your face in one palm, thumb brushing along your cheekbone like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

“You’re so beautiful.”

The words are quiet. Like a secret. Like he doesn’t even mean to say them aloud.

You flush hard, suddenly self-conscious in your bra and underwear—the colours don’t match, the cut’s nothing special, there might be a stain if he looks hard enough—but Mark’s eyes don’t so much as flinch.

You swallow, trying to think of something to say. “Says you,” you manage, reaching up to tug him down. “You were wearing Seance Dog boxers not five minutes ago. And I still almost cried from how good you look.”

He lets out a breath of a laugh, forehead bumping yours.

And then you kiss him sweetly. His lips press to yours like he’s trying to say something through it, like he’s trying to give you all the things he doesn’t have words for. One of his hands roams lower, down your side, curving around the bend of your thigh. He hooks your knee up and around his waist like it’s instinct, fingers digging into the plush skin just beneath your ass, and pulls you closer so he can grope your ass and do some other decidedly not-so-sweet things.

He discovers you’re wet under his palm through the rough fabric of your panties. No surprise there for you, you’ve been wet for a while now, but a deep sound tear from the back of his throat, so far that it almost sounds like a growl. It’s hard to separate your thoughts from him. Kissing him, sweet and warm, blazing and getting hotter.

You barely have time to think of anything else but your beautiful friend who happens to be an alien superhero. Your head’s too full of him to do anything but gasp when he moves again.

A ghost of a touch—just one finger dragging down the centre of your panties, light enough to drive you insane—pulls a small, breathy sound from your lips. And then he’s doing it again, tracing over your clit, featherlight and teasing. You’re not sure if your face simmers from embarrassment or sheer eagerness, but it’s hot either way. Your breath stutters. Your hips twitch, helplessly.

“Y’like that?” Mark mutters against your mouth, voice thick and a little rough, and you nod against his lips without hesitation, a soft whimper slipping past them.

“Good,” he breathes. “Good… lemme know if I’m doing this wrong.”

The words hit you like sunlight breaking through clouds—so warm and sweet it makes your chest ache like a cavity. That twist of pleasure low in your stomach tightens a little more, and you have to resist the instinct to roll your hips against his hand. He’s being so careful, and it just makes you want him even more.

“I don’t think there’s anything you could do wrong, Mark,” you sigh, and he kisses you again, deeper this time, his tongue brushing yours in a way that makes your toes curl.

You pull away on a light, breathless hum, licking your kiss-swollen lips as you blink up at him. There’s the tiniest flicker of disappointment on his face, quickly replaced when your hands slide up to the straps of your bra.

“Take this off?” Phrased like a question, secretly a plea, a demand wrapped in velvet and you’re verging on begging. Mark huffs, pretty lips curving upwards.

His hand slips away from between your thighs, trailing heat across your skin as he reaches behind you to unclasp your bra. The second the strap loosens, he watches you slide it off, his gaze dropping like gravity’s pulling it down.

His pupils dilate in that weird, telltale alien way they do as he takes in the sight of your tits.

A warm palm comes up to cup one breast, his touch tender, adoring—and then he leans in and bites. Not hard, just enough to make you hiss and gasp, the shock of it sparking in your chest. Your nipples peak to attention. His mouth is everywhere all at once, licking, sucking... marking you. You barely recognize the sounds leaving your throat, broken and wanting.

You’d caught a glimpse of yourself in his mirror earlier—faint love bites trailing across your neck, purpling and pretty—and now you can feel him adding more. You wonder idly if he’ll wear the ones you gave him too, or if his body will heal them away before sunset.

Mark drifts lower, slow and steady. You sink your fingers into his hair, threading through soft, inky black strands, and he rewards you with a kiss pressed just beneath your breast. Then your ribs. Then the centre of your belly, nose bumping your navel as he licks slow, warm stripes up and down your skin, teasing just along the underside of your boobs again.

It’s almost too much. You’re breathless from how soft he’s being. From how much he clearly wants you. From how he’s taking his time.

You look down at him, chest rising and falling. He’s already looking at you—of course he is. You follow the line of his nose, the curve of his jaw, the soft arch of his eyebrows. There’s this little furrow at the corners of his eyes you know is from years of smiling, and your heart just about splits open at the sight of him.

You have it so bad for him that your hips jerk up instinctively, needing more contact—needing him—just because his eyes catch yours and hold.

Mark presses a soft, sweet kiss to your knee. “I’m so excited I think I might pass out,” he mumbles, voice thick and a little shaky, the words dragging warmly over your skin. The tip of his nose nudges along the inside of your leg, tracing a slow, lazy path downward—knee to thigh—his breath fanning across sensitive skin.

Then his mouth finds you.

One gentle kiss through the thin fabric of your panties, right against your cunt. You twitch, a sweet noise pushing past your lips. 

He follows with a slow lick, dragging his tongue in a teasing stripe over you, the wet, thin barrier of your underwear doing nothing to dull the pressure. You huff breathlessly, your brows drawing together as he hums low against your clit.

The duvet crinkles beneath you as you sigh and sink into it. There’s a low throb curling deep in your gut, spreading like wildfire.

“Mark,” you sigh his name like it’s a prayer. 

He hums again, this time lower, rougher. His fingers dip beneath the elastic of your panties, warm and tentative, but he doesn’t pull them down just yet. His mouth moves lower, nose pressing in just right, and it steals the air from your lungs, your exhale lilted with a moan.

“I feel like we should have music playing,” he murmurs.

“Music?” you echo, half-dazed, raising an eyebrow you’re pretty sure he can’t see. His only answer is the smirk you feel more than see, pressed right into your skin.

And then he moves the gusset of your panties aside.

He groans—an actual, full-bodied moan—like the sight of you just knocked the breath out of him. He dips a finger into his mouth, wetting it, and mutters something under his breath about giving you a heads-up, that he’s not exactly an expert and most of it comes from the porn he watches (those homemade ones, the amateur videos couples post on Twitter which he swears are genuine clips of what sex is like).

You almost laugh—almost. You're about to tell him not to worry, that you probably know even less—but then his finger presses against you, tentative but eager, and slowly, carefully, he sinks in and you can’t help the soft groan that burns through you.

“Fuck, Mark,” you gasp, the words catching somewhere in your throat. He withdraws immediately, eyes flicking up to yours in question, and sucks his newly wet digit finger into his mouth.

“Good?” he asks.

You nod frantically. “S’good. So good.”

“Fuck—can I?” He asks, and you nod. You don’t know why he’s asking, you gave him a green light ages ago, but your hips lift to help him anyway as he hooks his fingers in your panties and pulls them down. “Y’taste so good,”

Mark leans down and puts his mouth on your hot cunt again. Every slow, willful stroke of his is timed perfectly to the beat pulsing through you. His hands hook under your thighs and pull your legs apart wider, his mouth slanting over you in a way that makes your back arch off the bed.

Your hand tangles in his dark, inky hair and tightens reflexively when he finds your clit again. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t slow, even when you tug. His tongue moves with growing confidence, and the velvet heat of his mouth spreads slick across you, every pass making you ache harder.

A breeze from the window flutters the curtains, the only sign the outside world still exists. But in here, everything is warm and golden and humming—all soft sheets and quiet gasps, all Mark Grayson.

If the tug hurts, Mark doesn’t show it. He hums again, deep and greedy, and your hips rock helplessly against the slope of his nose. Your fingers tighten, your eyes squeeze shut.

“Oh god,” You whine prettily. “That’s— uh— fuck, that’s really good.” 

Between your thighs, you hear and feel the moan Mark gives back. Your thighs twitch, caught in that impossible pull whether to close around his head and warm his ears or keep them open just to feel more. Your hips continue to move instinctively, helpless rolls up into his face. And he takes it appreciatively.

His tongue drags down your folds, and he sucks and slurps, slow and purposeful before flicking at your fluttering entrance. It makes you squeal, a sound you barely recognize as yours.

“Fuck,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to speak. His voice is hoarse, soaked in arousal. “You’re so wet.”

You can only blink, dazed, caught somewhere between disbelief and bliss. Mark sounds like he’s in heaven, like this is as good for him as it is for you—maybe even better. And god, if he keeps talking like that, you’ll never recover.

His chin and lips are slick, shining in the low light. You don’t know if he’s been talking to you the whole time, but you can’t dwell. Not when he’s back on you, plush lips locking around your clit and lavishing across the length of your slit. He moans into you, tongue dipping deep, greedy and soft and insistent.

The pressure in your core coils tighter, the pleasure winding up like a string pulled taut. Your chest rises and falls in sharp, shallow breaths. Your voice dissolves into a string of high, breathy little “yes, yes, yes,”s and Mark’s name, over and over, like a mantra.

He mutters something again, something messy and mumbled into your cunt. It takes you a second to realize he’s tapping at your hand where it’s buried in his hair. You lace your fingers with his, and he sighs like you just gave him oxygen.

“Please,” he says into your skin, almost frantically, “please cum on my face. Please, please, s’only fair.”

Your mouth parts, breath catching. He’s so beautiful—messy hair, flushed cheeks, his lips swollen and wet, eyes dark and heavy with lust. He glances up at you, and for a second, his eyes meet yours. But then his lids flutter shut, a shiver rolling down his spine as he moans again into your pussy.

“Fuck,” you swear.

“Yeah?” Mark hums before slowly sinking a finger inside you again. It’s slow, precise. Intentional Pumping the digit in and out of you with ease.

“Yeah, yeah,” you whisper.

“On my face?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Pinky promise?”

“Fuck yes, Mark,” you snap, voice rising. “I’ll cum on your fucking face—shut up!”

You see it then—that look on his face. A smug, delighted one. The same one he wore last night at the bowling alley when he finally knocked down a pin after guttering every ball. But now, it’s laced with morale, more self-satisfied, delighted, proud. Like he knew what you’d say. Like this was always going to happen.

And he just wanted to piss you off.

“Fuck you,” you mutter.

Mark chuckles, wicked and low—and then he adds a second finger.

A pressure builds low in your belly—slow at first, like a ripple pulling tight across your core, until it's urgent, searing, and impossible to ignore. Every movement Mark makes intensifies it, the flick of his tongue, the curl of his fingers inside you, the way his mouth works your clit. It’s not subtle anymore. It’s all-consuming. Flickers of starlight burst behind your closed eyelids, and you feel like you’re floating—no, caught, tethered to the sheets by his arm locked firmly over your hips.

“…Just like that,” you whisper, breath hitching. The words spill out instinctively, barely more than air. But they light him up—you can feel the way he doubles down, how he hones in on every sweet spot with sharper focus. “Keep going. ‘M close… so close, Mark. Please, don’t stop. Please just—”

Your mouth drops open. Not a sound escapes. Not even air. You go still, caught in that heart-stopping moment where everything tightens—every nerve pulled taut.

Then it rocks through you like lightning—white-hot and blinding. Your whole body jerks, legs trembling as the orgasm washes over you with no restraint. A whimper bursts from your throat, then another, and then it’s just breathless moans and helpless groans as you claw for something—anything. One foot presses into Mark’s back, anchoring you. Your fingers tangle in his hair again, desperate. The sheets twist beneath your spine,

Mark moans into you, a sound that hums right through your bones. He doesn’t let up—he licks you through it with soft, steady strokes, like he knows exactly what your body needs. Gentle. Sure. So fucking sweet.

When you finally manage to push him away, trembling and spent, he pulls back slowly—like he hates to leave you. He drags his fingers out of you, and plants a soft, lingering kiss to your swollen clit. A farewell, like he’s grateful for it. When he lifts his head, his face is shining with slick, lips pink, eyes dark and dazed.

His grin is crooked, eyes sparkling. “I think I did good.”

“Could be better...”

He rolls his eyes and leans in slow, almost shy. Like he’s giving you the chance to pull away. You don’t. You kiss him back eagerly, tasting yourself on his lips.

“You should sit on my face and suck me off next time,” he says, his voice low and serious. “After our date. Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

The idea of a date and a possible next time sends a thrill right through you, low and giddy and a little unhinged.

“I wanna fuck you first,” you murmur, your breath still uneven, chest rising and falling against his. The words come out raw and honest, no hesitation, and it sends a shiver down Mark’s spine. You feel it, the way he literally trembles.

He groans softly, tucking himself into your side, arms curling around your waist like it’s the most normal thing to do. “Maybe next time,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the curve of your neck. His eyes are shut tight, and he clings to you like your words rewired something inside him.

“You need a minute?” you ask, fingers stroking along his back.

“Just a minute… You?”

“…Yeah.”

“Okay, good. I don’t have condoms anyway.”

You snort, eyelids heavy as you nuzzle into him. “When’s your mom getting home?”

“Probably not for another couple hours.”

You glance at him, still breathless, still kind of high off him. “Wanna fly to the store and get some? Pick up takeout on the way?”

He groans dramatically. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You grin. “We can plan out our date after, too. I’ll even read an issue of Seance Dog.”

Mark grins back, a lazy, cocky tilt to his mouth. “Fuck yes. Can I pick the takeout?”

“Sure, you’re paying anyways.”

[honeyblackberries]

In the back seat (18+)

caleb x fem reader/mc smut

minors dni | inspired by diet pepsi by addison rae | cross-posted to ao3

word count: 1466

cw: simp caleb, soft dom caleb, he also likes to bite, pantie freak caleb, reader enables him, praise, oral (fem receiving), p in v, responsible car sex <333 (don't get freaky in a rental car irl), irresponsible intercourse (caleb doesn’t wrap it before he taps it), porn with feelings, porn no plot because idk how to write plot but i also can’t really write porn so maybe this is a secret third thing, no set pov.

names used: pips (pipsqueak but cuter), good girl, pretty girl, my girl

If Caleb is being honest with himself this moment is something straight out of his teenage fantasies. Driving along the coast with you in the passenger's seat, listening as you sing along to a song that’s been on repeat for the past half hour. Hair softly blowing in the wind as the late afternoon sun glows behind you like a halo.

You’re an angel he thinks, how else could you bless him with such a gift on one of his rare days off. The keys to his dream car—with the disclaimer that it was only a rental during his visit to Linkon—and that short sundress… His gaze unconsciously drifts from the road and onto you.

Maybe wet dreams are a better description for this. The way the hem of your dress rides up your thighs while you shift to find a more comfortable position, cotton panties peeking out underneath it.

Your eyes meet his and Caleb feels his pants tighten.

Today was supposed to be a well deserved break from all the demands that come with being the Farspace Fleet’s Colonel. Something relaxing. Yet he can’t help but feel inclined to the complete opposite. Back ramrod straight and hand, previously loose and confident on the wheel, now gripping it so tight that his knuckles strain.

“I'm happy you’re here,” you say sweetly and he has to stop himself from acting like a horny dog. “Is there anything you wanna do before we head home?”

“Eat you out,” he thinks dreamily.

“..What?”

Shit. Shit. How could he say that out loud!? He’s an idiot, a depraved fool—

“Well, okay.”

He almost crashes the car.

“Are you sure? We don’t have to—I mean—I didn’t mean to say it out loud,” you laugh at him and he isn’t sure whether to be mortified or turned on.

“Pull over.” He does.

Caleb doesn’t realise it but despite the less than innocent circumstances his silly reaction makes you smile. Happy at the expression that settles on his handsome face. How his eyes light up in a way you never really see anymore, giddy and unrestrained.

‘Cute,’ you want to tease, but he’s already rolling the tinted windows up. Undoing his seatbelt and moving into the back seat. Oh how could you keep him waiting when he’s just so eager? You undo your own seatbelt and amusedly follow along. Moving to get on top of him.

“Don’t hover pips,” he instructs—in that know-it-all voice he’s used since you were kids—and you don’t get the chance to consider it. Not when his hands trail under your skirt to grab your thighs and impatiently bring you down onto his face.

“Fuck you smell so good,” his nose presses right against your clothed heat. He inhales deeply. “I could get off just from smelling you, just from smelling these,” his lips part to let teeth graze the thin fabric of your panties.

“I can keep 'em when we're done, yeah?” His hot breath makes a shiver run through you in anticipation. His tongue licks down the centre where a wet patch starts to form. “I’ll cook dinner in return.”

You want to argue that he always cooks dinner. But you want what he’s currently offering more.

Your small hum of agreement is all he needs.

Safe to say, Caleb does mouth at you like a dog. Desperate, hungry, tongue heavy and slobbering. You have to push yourself against his chest to keep steady. The toned muscles there flexing as he eats like he’s been starved.

“Good girl, sittin’ so pretty for me,” his praise is barely understandable. Voice muffled and lower than a moment ago.

One of his hands leaves your thighs, his fingers moving to the fabric separating you. He teasingly pulls it back and lets go, a light snap against your skin. You flinch and he chuckles in response. He then pushes it to the side to expose you bare to him. Continuing to lick, this time with the addition of his thumb rubbing directly against your sensitive bud.

“Delicious,” he moans at the taste and sucks at your clit for more.

You’re not sure how long you last before everything crashes down all at once. Your orgasm racking your body and leaving you trembling. Dripping right into his open mouth.

The way your breath hitches and small whines you make when you cum always remind him how he could spend the rest of his life between your thighs. Forever wanting you pliant in his hold like this.

As you start to feel yourself coming down from the high, Caleb lightly bites at your tender flesh, making you yelp. He places a soft kiss in apology, even though you both know he isn’t sorry in the slightest.

In an act of revenge you start to reach for where he needs it. Fingertips barely brushing the large tent in his pants before he grabs your wrist to stop you.

“Next time pips, I’ll go crazy if I’m not inside you soon.” At that you’re suddenly flipped around, back pressed against the leather seat. Wedged in the cramped space afforded to you between the car and his large body.

Caleb looks down at you with a wide grin. The lower half of his face damp with your arousal and his own saliva.

“Let me put it in?”

Even when he’s like this the words come out as a question. He’ll only do it if you let him, only if you want it half as much as he does. His silver necklace dangles in front of you and reflected in it is your lips, curled up into an affirmative.

Caleb wastes no time. Hurriedly undoing his pants and freeing his hard leaking cock. Leaning over you with one hand beside your head as the other grasps his reddened tip and nudges you panties to the side with it. Lining himself up he sinks into you slowly.

“You’re heaven,” he yaps, already pussy drunk. "You feel like heaven, ugh—like you were made for me. Weren’t you?”

He shakes his head at his own words, as if a better explanation came to him. Then he resolutely bottoms out inside you.

“No, I was the one made for you.”

“Caleb—” you whine at the feeling of being so full. Arms moving to wrap around his torso, not sure if to hold him closer or push him away.

He groans, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to fight off the orgasm that would have had him cumming from the way you say his name. Testingly, he pulls out slightly just to push back in. Repeating shallow thrusts to get you comfortable.

“More,” you beg.

“Of course,” he kisses you and you can taste yourself on him. “I aim to please.” His pace quickens, becoming rough. You can’t help but clench at the immediate change.

“Oh shit—loosen up pretty girl.” You try to.

Over and over you feel his cock try to make your cunt give in to him, and when he feels the grip of your walls ease up slightly he angles his hips to hit deeper.

You claw at his back, the fabric of his shirt catching under your fingers. The feeling of him too much.

“You like that huh?”

The car windows are fogging at the spike in body heat, neither of you letting up until you both get your fill. The sounds of shallow breathing and skin against skin the only thing that can be heard.

Caleb bites your lip when he kisses you in between thrusts. Like he wants to devour you in every way possible.

“I’m—close,” you bury your face into his neck, trying to ground yourself.

He nearly slips entirely out of you. Hips starting to lose their rhythm, a sign that he is too.

“I know—fuck—cum with me.”

Your release comes first, and he doesn’t last long after.

“That's my girl.”

His movements slow as he spills into you. A white ring forming around the base of him as a mix of both your cum tries to leak out. He grinds a few times to make sure it stays then collapses on top of you.

The two of you remain like that for a few minutes, relishing in the feeling of your chests pressed together as you cool down. Caleb’s cock slowly going limp inside you.

His hands move to cradle your face, gently stroking your cheeks as he kisses all over with cherishing lightness.

“I love you.”

“Love you too Caleb.”

Then he has to go and ruin the moment.

“Panties please,” he holds out his hand. Asking for a treat.

You sigh, the post-nut clarity kicking in. “I’ll give it to you after I wash it.”

“Don’t wash it.”

“...”

a/n: rip need everyone to know this was initially supposed to be a sylus fic. also what do we think do we like me actually trying to make the layout nice/not write in all lowercase??

[calypso-rt]

the other side

corporate!reader x bluecollar!rafe

You don’t notice him at first.

You’re too busy swearing at your flat tire and digging through your bag with growing frustration, nails clicking against your phone as the screen flashes no signal for the third time. Your blazer’s too warm, your heels are killing you, and the corner you’re stranded on smells faintly of motor oil and something vaguely fried.

The city has never felt so uninterested in your existence.

You sigh, stepping back from your car with your arms crossed and your patience unraveling thread by thread.

That’s when you hear it, boots on pavement. The low hum of a country song bleeding from someone’s parked truck. And then a voice, casual and rough-edged, like gravel under honey:

“Looks like your Beemer didn’t get the memo she’s not built for potholes.”

You glance up.

He’s leaning against a rusted pickup parked across the street, arms folded, expression unreadable. T-shirt stained with oil, work gloves shoved in the back pocket of his jeans. Blonde hair messy, sunlit at the tips. A smear of something dark across one pretty cheekbone. Tan, toned forearms. Smirking like he knows something you don’t.

You look him over. Slowly.

Then back to your tire.

“I’m fine,” you say, like it’s a full sentence.

He doesn’t move. Just raises a brow. “Sure you are. Just figured I’d offer. But hey, maybe she’ll fix herself outta sheer respect.”

You narrow your eyes. “You work at that garage over there?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes I’m just loitering, intimidating rich girls for fun.”

Your mouth twitches before you can help it. “How charming.”

He shrugs. “That’s what they say.”

There’s a pause. The wind picks up, ruffling the collar of your crisp, white shirt and his dirtied t-shirt in opposite directions.

Finally, you cave. Just a little.

“You know how to change a tire?”

Rafe grins like he’s been waiting for you to ask. He doesn’t ask for permission. Just tosses his rag onto the sidewalk, drops into a crouch beside your tire, and whistles low under his breath.

“Well, well. You really did a number on her.”

“She hit a pothole.”

“She hit a crater,” he says, fingers brushing the rim. “That wheel’s crying for its mother.”

You hover beside him, unsure of where to stand. You’ve never been this close to grease before, real grease. The kind that stains fingernails and smells like summer heat and sweat and long hours. The kind that doesn’t wash off easy.

He glances up at you once, just once, and grins. “Relax, corporate. I won’t bill you for breathing the same air.”

Your mouth opens. Then shuts again.

“I don’t work for you,” he adds. “I work around you. Big difference.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Your silence makes him chuckle. He returns to the tire, tools out, movements fast and practiced. Like he’s done this a thousand times and could do it blindfolded with a cigarette in his mouth and still make it look easy.

You shift, arms crossed again, watching as his t-shirt rides up just a little when he reaches for the jack. His back muscles flex beneath sun-bleached cotton. His knuckles are scraped. There's a thin scar on his forearm, like a brushstroke of silver across the tan.

“You’re staring,” he says without looking.

You bristle. “I’m observing.”

“Same thing, sweetheart.”

“I don’t appreciate being called that.”

“Noted.”

A beat.

Then, softly, “You don’t stop me, though.”

You pretend you didn’t hear that.

He finishes fast. You blink and suddenly the car’s lowered, the spare tire’s on, and he’s wiping his hands on that tragic-looking rag again, standing upright and stretching until you hear something in his back crack.

“All good,” he says, stepping back. “Should get you home fine. Maybe don’t go joyridin' over sinkholes next time.”

You exhale. You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath.

“Thank you,” you say, quieter now.

He looks at you then, really looks. And for the first time, the teasing fades. Just a flicker. Just long enough for something else to settle in its place.

“You’re welcome.”

You reach into your bag automatically, but he lifts a hand.

“Don’t.”

“It’s just—”

“No charge,” he says. “Wasn’t work. Just help.”

You pause. “Still. I’d like to do something.”

He tilts his head, studying you like a puzzle he hasn’t quite figured out. Then, with a lopsided grin, “Then do somethin’. Surprise me.”

...

You don’t even know why you’re doing it.

You tell yourself it’s gratitude. Courtesy. Basic manners. The way you were raised.

You tell yourself you’re not doing anything special when you order two sandwiches from that café your coworkers love, the one with the flaky bread and too-many adjectives on the menu. You even get lemonade. The good kind, fresh-squeezed and slightly overpriced.

It’s just a thank you. That’s all.

You keep telling yourself that as you drive fifteen minutes out of the glass-and-steel part of town (the financial district where you work), past the manicured sidewalks and into something rougher. Older. Sun-beaten and rusted. Potholes and chain link fences. Cigarette smoke curling lazily from a stoop. A teenage boy tosses a basketball toward a hoop that’s missing its net.

Your heels clack against the uneven pavement as you walk. Every step sounds too loud. Your dress is all clean lines and quiet wealth, and you feel it, the contrast. You’re a silk ribbon in a world of grit.

You find the garage easy enough. You recognize the truck parked out front. His truck. And he’s there.

Half under a car, all grease-smudged arms and rolled-up sleeves, one boot planted on the ground, the other leg bent as he slides further under.

“Rafe?” you call, voice a little uncertain.

A pause. The sound of a socket wrench stopping mid-turn.

And then, from beneath the car, a familiar voice, lazy and warm, like sunlight through old blinds.

“Well, look who’s wandered down from Olympus.”

You cross your arms. “I brought you lunch.”

A metallic clatter. Then he’s sliding out on the creeper, blinking up at you like he’s not sure you’re real. And for a second, he doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you, your hair pulled back, your heels dusted from the walk, your fingers curled around a brown paper bag like it’s something holy. Like you’re something holy.

“You get lost on the way to brunch, sweetheart?” he drawls finally, lips twitching.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “I thought you might want a sandwich.”

“You thought right.”

He sits up, wiping his hands on a rag that looks even worse than the last one. You hand him the bag, and when his fingers brush yours, warm, rough, real, you pretend your stomach doesn’t flip.

He peeks inside. “This from one of your fancy spots?”

“God forbid,” you say dryly. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your street cred.”

Rafe grins, all teeth and trouble. “You’re startin’ to sound like me, corporate. I’m a bad influence.”

“I’m aware.”

He eats sitting on the bumper of the truck, feet planted wide, watching you through his lashes between bites. You sit beside him carefully. The heat of the metal seeps through your dress. His shoulder is warm next to yours, sun-baked and solid.

“You didn’t have to come all the way out here,” he says after a moment, voice lower now.

“I know.”

He glances sideways. “But you did.”

You don’t look at him. Instead, you trace the edge of your lemonade cup with one perfectly manicured nail. “You helped me. I was trying to be decent.”

“Mm. That what this is?” His gaze lingers, a little too long.

You finally look back. There’s something different in his eyes now...not amusement. Not laziness. Just…interest. Direct and undistracted.

“You sure ’s not curiosity?” he adds, voice barely above a hum. “Maybe you wanted to see what kinda place a guy like me crawls back to.”

You hold his gaze. “And what kind of place is that?”

He shrugs. “One where you don’t belong.”

You raise your chin, defiant. “Maybe I do.”

He laughs, low and disbelieving. “You’re wearin’ thousand-dollar shoes and talk like you’ve got an assistant named Margot.”

“She’s called Alexa, actually.”

“Of course she is.” He finishes the last bite of his sandwich. “You’re somethin’ else.”

“So are you,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

And he freezes.

Not visibly. Not dramatically.

But enough. A hitch in his breath. A flicker in his expression. Like maybe he’s been called a lot of things, but not that. You stand up, brushing nonexistent dust from your skirt. The moment breaks like glass under a heel.

“I should get back,” you say.

He nods once, slowly.

“Hey,” he calls just as you’re walking back to your car.

You pause, turn.

Rafe’s leaning against the truck again, arms crossed, head tilted. That same half-smile playing on his lips, but softer this time. Thoughtful.

“You ever get tired of boardrooms and bullshit, you know where to find me.”

You arch a brow. “And what would I find, exactly?”

He grins. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

A/N: they're my new obsession

[astonmartinii]

work wife | isack hadjar social media au

pairing: isack hadjar x fem rb social media admin reader

is it the pressure of wanting to make an impression that makes him do all of those stupid tiktoks or is it the one holding the camera?

MASTERLIST | TIP JAR

isackhadjar

liked by yourusername, liamlawson30 and 109,392 others

isackhadjar: another weekend of kicking ass, lighting up tiktok and supplying the pastries

view all comments

user1: that’s MY tiktok star

user2: the kardashians are gonna have to sue for identity fraud real soon

user3: he’s got the ass to match as well

yourusername: real

isackhadjar: is this not workplace harassment

yourusername: please don’t sue me, i’m broke enough as it is

isackhadjar: lawyer up babe

yourusername: i thought i was allowed to comment on your peach as your work wife

isackhadjar: i’ll check with HR

yourusername: chat am i cooked?

user4: who is this girl

user5: bro she’s the RB social admin

user6: she calls his ass fat and forces him to do those tiktoks… we might have to send her to the electric chair

yourusername: FORCE?

isackhadjar: okay… only i can slander my work wife, those tiktoks are completely consensual

user7: oh i know those two are a nightmare to work with

user8: what’s worse: having to film those videos or having to third wheel

liamlawson30: if i speak i am in big trouble

yourusername: LIAM?

liamlawson30: turns out i am in trouble regardless

yourusername: anyway… thank you for the croissants… and the points i guess

isackhadjar: just making your live tweet job a little easier

yourusername: you’re just so generous

isackhadjar: for you? of course

user9: are we interrupting

yukitsunoda0511: just leave them be, they’ll be ignoring us anyway

yourusername

liked by liamlawson30, isackhadjar and 3,029 others

yourusername: a weekend posting f1 reels from the pool

view all comments

user12: wait who was going to tell me that admin was this cute

user13: yall are late i’ve been camped here for months

user14: are we flexing how long we’ve been stalking the admin of an f1 page?

user13: yes

isackhadjar: so it’s true… you really don’t care about me once you’ve left the paddock

yourusername: what? no!!!!!

isackhadjar: well are the postal services on strike? where was my invite?

yourusername: you’re mr money bags in this relationship, you could’ve flown yourself

yourusername: i’ve been saving for this trip for TIME

isackhadjar: i didn’t know that was an option…

olliebearman: omg just say you wanted her to invite you personally

isackhadjar: ??????? what are you doing here

olliebearman: this is a public comment section and you’re embarrassing yourself

yourusername: woah careful how you’re speaking on my work husband

olliebearman: how about you make him your real husband so he stops making it our problem

isackhadjar: i did not make it your problem

kimiantonelli: your diary did

isackhadjar: YOU READ MY DIARY

isackhadjar: i mean JOURNAL

yourusername: no bullying my man in my comment section

yourusername: make it in RB’s comment section please

isackhadjar: Y/N?

yourusername: i need the engagement to pay my salary !

isackhadjar: okay i guess…

user14: is this a bit or is he actually so down bad that he’ll let people cyber bully him?

user15: i mean look at the material… i’d be doing worse for a woman like that

user16: we need her in front of the camera more often

yourusername: aren’t you all smooth talkers…

isackhadjar: this post is now formally my suicide note

yourusername: stop being so dramatic, you know you’re my favourite

isackhadjar: of all time or just in the paddock

yourusername: okay babe let’s stop fishing now

liamlawson30

liked by maxverstappen1, alexalbon and 178,309 others

tagged: yourusername & isackhadjar

liamlawson30: formula one driver or professional third wheel - everyone’s favourite gameshow

view all comments

user17: who is providing more y/nisack propaganda: isack or liam

user18: isack is flexing it but liam is posting it at gunpoint

user19: who is holding the gun

user20: isack

isackhadjar: yes, it is that deep

isackhadjar: who said that?

gabrielbortoleto: my condolences liam

yourusername: excuse you?

isackhadjar: you can be mean to me but i draw the line at being mean to y/n

gabrielbortoleto: i’ll be mean to both of you because the five (5) minutes i spent around you two earlier was unbearable

yourusername: isack literally bought you a coffee?

gabrielbortoleto: first of all, it was the RB hospitality so he did not have to pay. second of all, i couldn’t stomach my coffee over all of the tension. seriously how do you people get anything done?

yourusername: are you doubting my professionalism?

yourusername: god forbid a girl jokes with her friends at work

isackhadjar: isack hadjar found dead at 20 in his paris apartment

user21: this is getting a wee bit sad

user22: i think girlypop is trying not to get a one way trip to the HR office

user23: for real… i’ve seen the tension through the screen

liamlawson30: she wants that cookie bad

yourusername: LIAM???

maxverstappen1: i found isack and y/n’s dynamic quite charming actually

liamlawson30: that’s just because y/n is an OG max stan so she doesn’t make you do any of the dumb challenges

yourusername: guilty

maxverstappen1: as she should be

isackhadjar: i thought you were an isack stan

yourusername: i am! but why would i miss out on seeing your face in front of my camera

isackhadjar: hehhehehehehehehehe

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, olliebearman and 38,904 others

tagged: isackhadjar

yourusername: all the isack photos on admin’s phone that she can’t post on main

view all comments

user27: HOLY MOLY

user28: is this safe for work

user29: goodbye to the best RB admin in the world there’s no way you have a job after this post

user30: i will personally fight RB if they force her to leave

isackhadjar: well this is not what he discussed

yourusername: chat is it illegal to flex your handsome boyf

isackhadjar: i thought maybe our super romantic picture at the eiffel tower would be a cute inclusion

yourusername: sorry i got excited …

isackhadjar: i’d do the same but unfortunately that’s for my eyes only

yourusername: there’s more where they came from

isackhadjar: YIPEE!!

liamlawson30: how is this guy in a relationship?

isackhadjar: it’s called being a nice, handsome guy who WILL practice his lipsyncing in the mirror

yourusername: emphasis on handsome

yourusername: omg i can’t believe that’s my man

yourusername: hashtag winner

user31: what has happened to my beautiful sport

yourusername: awwwwww is someone mad i get to kiss the man and you don’t

user32: omg she’s on smoke

user33: HR be damned

yourusername: HR were the first people to know i fear

yourusername: i can’t believe i was ready to lose my dream job for a MAN

isackhadjar: am i not… worth it?

yourusername: oh 100% but my parents would’ve killed me and then you

isackhadjar: but you still had a job so they love me, right?

isackhadjar: THEY LOVE ME, RIGHT?

yourusername: of course!

isackhadjar: good because my parents love you more than they love me at this point

kimiantonelli: WHY DID YOU THINK WE NEEDED TO SEE THIS?

yourusername: so people know i have GAME

olliebearman: first we had to suffer through your weird phase and now this whoring

yourusername: hey! only i can call isack a whore 😞

isackhadjar: amongst other things

liamlawson30: LEAVE US OUT OF THIS SMUT

user34: no please keep going

yourusername: don’t think of my boyfriend like that

isackhadjar: don’t think of my girlfriend like that

isackhadjar

liked by liamlawson30, lewishamilton and 409,208 others

tagged: yourusername

isackhadjar: upgraded my work wife to girlfriend (wife coming soon)

view all comments

user35: warning: do not try this at home you will actually lose your job

user36: i hope they still make him do all the dumb tiktoks

liamlawson30: believe me, they will. it’s like some weird foreplay for them

yourusername: are you actually trying to get me fired?

liamlawson30: no but you two are little freaks

isackhadjar: that’s a compliment to me

lewishamilton: congratulations to the new couple in the paddock

isackhadjar: OH MY FUCKING GOD

yourusername: being shown up in my own relationship already, you hate to see it

lewishamilton: ???

isackhadjar: thank you lewis! you’ll have to come visit us in paris some time!

yourusername: will i be demoted to the couch that weekend?

isackhadjar: no?

lewishamilton: i don’t really know what’s going on here, just happy that you guys are happy

yourusername: thanks lewis!

yourusername: but a threesome is not completely out of the question right?

lewishamilton: i could be your father, both of you. no.

yourusername: worth a try

pepemarti: can’t believe you forgot about me

isackhadjar: just because i have a girlfriend doesn’t mean i can’t have my husband

yourusername: right.

isackhadjar: no I DIDN’T MEAN THAT

pepemarti: i see 😞

isackhadjar: what is going on

yourusername: nonsense in this comment section aside, i love you baby!!!

isackhadjar: i love you too cherie xx

yourusername: if you get points again this weekend you can choose what nonsense i make you do next

isackhadjar: wow what a prize

yourusername: well i can promise other things, but we really should keep it professional in public

kimiantonelli: you just proposed a threesome to lewis

yourusername: GET OUT OF OUR BUSINESS

isackhadjar: i’ll take the deal for both

yourusername: get to racing then pretty boy

fin.

note: i love me some isack hadjar and i can't believe this is the first time i've written for him !!!

[inkandapex]

stream madness pt. 4

Lando Norris x Y/N

Summary: Twitch streams, chaos during trivia, and one very soft Lando Norris. Whenever Y/N shows up on stream, fans get more than they bargained for. Between Max F's third-wheeling, and Lando's doting habits, the internet can't keep up.

Words: 5.3k

Warnings: swearing, mentions of period, pregnancy

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

Five star michelin

The stream blinked to life, revealing a familiar setting: the sleek, modern kitchen of Lando’s Monaco apartment. The camera was already rolling, capturing a countertop neatly prepped with ingredients, and a few pots and pans waiting on the stove like soldiers at attention. Cooking stream? Unheard of.

Lando appeared on screen, a little out of focus as he fiddled with something just off-camera. He leaned down toward a mic and gave it a couple of taps.

“Can you hear me now?” he asked, eyes darting toward the chat as it exploded with responses. A few seconds passed before he nodded, satisfied. “Nice.”

From somewhere off-camera, a familiar voice chimed in. “You ready?”

“Mmhmm.” Lando stepped back into frame and clapped his hands together, “So—”

A sudden laugh burst from off-screen, stopping him mid-sentence. He turned his head, smirking.

“What?”

Y/N finally stepped into view, her expression amused. She wore one of his Quadrant hoodies, her hair pulled back casually, looking completely at home. “You and Max always do that,” she teased.

“Do what?” he chuckled, reaching out to tug her gently closer until she was tucked beside him, shoulder brushing his.

“The clapping,” she said, gesturing at him with a knowing smile. “Every time you guys film something, you both do that little clap before talking. It’s like a reflex or something.”

Lando rolled his eyes with an exaggerated sigh. “Whatever, hater…”

He turned back to the camera, hands twitching like he was going to clap again. “Anyways, so—” He froze, caught himself mid-motion, and looked right at her. “...Fuck. I really do it, huh?”

Y/N doubled over laughing, lightly shoving him. “I told you! It’s your little pre-performance ritual.”

Lando laughed too, bumping her gently with his hip. “I feel attacked in my own kitchen.”

“You should,” she grinned. “Consider this an intervention.”

“Alright, alright,” Lando grinned, finally pulling it together. “No more claps. Let’s cook before I develop another weird habit.”

“Tell them what we’re doing,” Y/N says, grabbing two aprons from the counter and tossing one to Lando.

“Right!” he nods, slipping the apron over his head. “We’re making dinner. From scratch.”

“That’s right,” she grins, stepping behind him to tie his apron strings neatly at the back. “Steak and mashed potatoes today, quick and easy.”

Lando scans the kitchen setup with a slightly exaggerated frown, lips pressed together as he surveys the ingredients. Y/N catches the look and raises a brow.

“What’s wrong?”

He exhales a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m actually kind of nervous. Chat’s gonna see how rubbish I am at this.”

Y/N’s face softens as he gently spins her around to tie her apron too, the motion slow and familiar. She glances over her shoulder with a small smile. “That’s why I’m here, bub. We’ll work as a team.”

He gives her a playful pat on the bum, earning a surprised little laugh as he says, “Alright, boss. What’s first?”

Y/N grabs a bowl of unpeeled potatoes and hands it off to him along with a peeler. “Wash them, peel them, cut them into quarters.”

Lando blinks. “Huh?”

She stifles a laugh. “Wash. Peel. Cut. Into quarters,” she repeats with a teasing squeeze to his arm, before turning toward the fridge.

He looks down at the potatoes, then to chat, then back at the potatoes, sighing as he walks to the sink. “Do I like... scrub them or something?” he calls over his shoulder.

“No need,” she answers, rinsing some herbs at the counter. “We’re peeling them anyway.”

And so the chaos begins.

Y/N gets to work seasoning the steaks and prepping the herb butter, while Lando stands at the sink, holding a potato like it might explode. He finally begins peeling, very slowly, occasionally pausing to read the chat.

“Hey! I’m not slow!” he says, pointing the peeler accusingly at the camera, eyes squinting playfully. “I’m just taking my time.”

From behind him, Y/N chuckles, drying her hands. “You are doing it quite slow, my love.”

She walks over with a chopping board and a knife in hand, peeking into the bowl beside him. “I’ve already seasoned the meat, made the herb butter, and cleaned up. And you—” she pauses, looking over at his bowl of potatoes “—have peeled exactly… three potatoes.”

Lando gasps like she’s just betrayed him on live television. “I think I'm doing a mega job.”

She laughs, nudging him gently with her hip as she starts chopping the peeled ones. "And I'm so proud of you"

The chat explodes in laughter, messages flying in:

“3 potatoes in 20 minutes 💀” “Y/N carrying as usual” “He’s trying his best leave him alone 😭”

Y/N takes over the potato duties without much of a fight, Lando had peeled just enough for her to work with. She dumps the chunks into a pot of water and sets it to boil, giving it a quick stir before turning to check on her newly assigned sous-chef.

Lando is now standing in front of the stove like he’s guarding a priceless artifact. The pan on the burner is still very much empty, not even a drop of oil or butter in sight, but he’s watching it with intense focus.

“You do realize the pan’s still empty, right?” Y/N asks, sliding up beside him, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.

Without taking his eyes off the pan, Lando scoffs, “I’m aware, yes.”

She bites back a grin. “And you’re watching it like a hawk because…?”

“I’m waiting for it to heat up enough,” he replies, dead serious, hovering his hand just above the surface with surgical precision. “You said it has to be hot. Like hot hot.”

Y/N stares at him for a second, then laughs. “Okay, fair, but you could at least put some oil in while you’re doing your little steak meditation.”

Lando lets out a dramatic sigh like she’s asking him to do the impossible, but obliges, grabbing the olive oil and drizzling it into the pan with flair. “There. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” she deadpans. “Now wait til it's smoking a bit.”

He narrows his eyes at the pan, nodding slowly. “Got it.”

From the corner of the room, her phone buzzes with notifications. Chat is thriving.

“Lando’s steak arc begins” “This man is doing yoga with a frying pan” “Protect the pan at all costs”

Lando peeks over her shoulder and squints. “I feel very attacked in this live stream.”

Y/N smirks. “Good. Means they care.”

Just then, the oil begins to ripple gently in the pan. She leans over, inspecting it.

“Alright, chef,” she says with a teasing salute. “You’re good to go.”

Lando straightens up dramatically, grabs the seasoned steak like it’s a sacred relic, and carefully lays it into the pan with a loud sizzle. He flinches slightly at the noise, glancing at her like, “Did I do that right?”

Y/N gives him a proud little nod. “That’s perfect.”

The satisfaction on Lando’s face is almost too much. He’s glowing like he just scored pole position.

“Yeah?” he says, biting his lip to hide the grin. “I mean… obviously.”

They both stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the stove, their expressions weirdly serious as they watched the steaks sizzle in the pan. The kitchen was quiet now, save for the soft bubbling from the potatoes and the satisfying sear of meat against hot oil.

Neither of them spoke. Just stood there. Staring.

Chat, however, was anything but silent.

“they’re both dissociating 😭” “brainrot live” “this is peak couple behaviour” “they’re literally the same person wtf”

Lando finally blinked out of it first. He glanced sideways and immediately burst into a quiet laugh, spotting the exact same zoned-out expression on Y/N’s face as she stared into the pan like it held the secrets of the universe.

She snapped out of it at the sound of his laugh, turning her head with a soft smile. “What?”

“You were giving me crap for staring at the pan,” he said, nudging her gently with his elbow. “You were literally dissociating watching the steak cook.”

Y/N blinked, then laughed, covering her face with one hand. “Oh my god. I was. I think the sizzle hypnotized me.”

Lando grinned, bumping her again. “Welcome to my world.”

She leaned her head briefly against his shoulder, still smiling. “Brain empty. Just meat noises.”

Chat was in shambles.

“JUST MEAT NOISES” “meat trance 🧠✨” “someone screenshot this, I need it framed”

Not much time had passed, and now the two stood on opposite ends of the kitchen island, heads down, tongues slightly poking out in focus as they carefully plated their food.

Each had been assigned their own plate, it had somehow turned into a competition. And of course, they’d agreed that chat would vote on whose presentation was better.

“Stop hogging all the broccoli, baby!” Lando cried dramatically, pointing an accusing finger at her side of the counter. “I’ve got no garnish.”

Y/N scoffed, not even looking up as she arranged a small floret just so. “You knob, we’ve literally both got five each!” she exclaimed, gesturing wildly to her plate like she was presenting evidence in court.

Lando leaned over with a squint. “Yeah, but you’ve got all the pretty pieces!”

She froze mid-mash, then turned to look at him, face twisted in utter disbelief. “They’re all broccoli, you muppet! What do you mean ‘pretty pieces’?!”

“The round ones!” Lando argued back, now clutching his plate like it was his child. “Yours are, like… cuter!”

“I cannot believe we’re arguing about broccoli aesthetics,” she muttered, laughing as she snatched one off his plate and swapped it with hers. “There. Happy?”

He paused, inspecting the trade like a jewel dealer. “...Yeah, that’s fair.”

Lando glanced over at his plate, then at hers. His brow furrowed.

“How’d you do that?” he asked, confused, staring like her food was some sort of black magic.

Y/N didn’t even look up, too focused on delicately arranging the slices of steak just right on her plate. “What now?”

“Your mash…” he said, drifting over behind her to peer over her shoulder. “How’d you make it look like that?”

She let out a loud, surprised laugh, trying to push him away with one arm. “Lando! We literally have the same stuff. Go back to your side!”

“But yours is nicer!” he whined, barely budging under her efforts, grinning down at her like a menace.

“Then make yours nicer” she shot back, trying to block his view with her body.

Lando laughed, finally backing off with a shake of his head. He grabbed a clean spoon and stood over his plate like he was defusing a bomb. Slowly, carefully, he swiped it through his mashed potatoes in a swooping motion, eyes narrowed in focus.

“Done!” Y/N announced triumphantly, tossing her hands in the air. She wiped her hands on her apron and sauntered over to Lando’s side with a mischievous grin.

“Hey!” Lando yelped, quickly shifting to block her path with his hip like a human kitchen gate. “Back to your side!”

“I just wanna peek!” she laughed, trying to sneak a look over his shoulder.

Without warning, Lando wrapped one arm around her waist, effortlessly scooping her up like she weighed nothing. Y/N squealed in surprise as he spun her around and plopped her down directly in front of the camera.

“Stay there,” he said, grinning as he planted a soft kiss on the top of her head. “Talk to chat while I finish my masterpiece.”

Y/N blinked at the camera, momentarily stunned, before bursting into laughter. “This man really picked me up like I was a rogue toddler.”

Lando finally walked over to show his plate toward the camera with a dramatic spin. “Voilà. Chef Norris’s Signature Steak Surprise.”

Y/N tilted her head, pretending to inspect. “Surprise being you didn’t burn it?” She teases as she holds up her own plate to show the camera

“Oi,” he huffed, nudging her gently with his hip again. “Time for the votes. Chat—choose wisely.”

He moved to stand beside her as the poll popped up on screen: Whose plate wins? 🍽 🧡 Lando’s Luxurious Lunch 💚 Y/N’s Superior Steak Situation

The votes flew in fast.

“I swear, if you win because of the mash swirl…” Y/N muttered, squinting at the poll.

Lando grinned. “That’s called technique, love.”

The timer ticked down.

Y/N – 62% Lando – 38%

“YESSS,” she cheered, throwing her arms up again. “Justice for the broccoli.”

Lando slumped against the counter dramatically. “This is rigged. I demand a recount.”

Y/N leaned in, pecking his cheek. “Better luck next dinner, chef.”

------------------------------------------------------

Think fast

Being in a relationship with Y/N meant Lando had to stay constantly on his toes. In the early days, her endless pranks always managed to catch him off guard, whether it was the latest viral trend or some chaotic idea she came up with on a whim, he never stood a chance. These days, though, he liked to think he’d gotten better at spotting the signs, or at least bracing himself for whatever mischief she had up her sleeve.

“It’s not going to work.”

Y/N and Max Fewtrell strolled into the McLaren hospitality, phone in hand streaming live on twitch, making their way toward the back where Lando was supposed to meet them. He’d left the hotel a couple hours earlier for back-to-back meetings before free practice.

“When has he not fallen for one of your pranks?” Max asked, sipping his coffee with a knowing grin. “Just try it. Chat's going to love it”

Y/N shook her head, already laughing at the thought of Lando calling her out before she even made a move.

“The last two times, he shut me down before I even got the chance,” she said with a shrug. “He’s learning.”

They found an empty table tucked away from the crowd and sat down to wait. Max, ever the instigator, kept nudging her to try one of the latest pranks he’d seen trending on his feed, desperate for a dose of chaos and the chance to see his best friend publicly flustered.

The two sat like that for a while, answering a few questions every now and then. Before long, Lando’s voice rang out behind them.

“Oi! There you two are!”

Y/N glanced over her shoulder and grinned, standing up with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“You want your fix? Watch this,” she whispered to Max, stepping aside from the table just as Lando approached.

“Sorry, meeting ran long,” Lando said, pulling off his cap and tossing it onto the table.

Y/N didn’t miss a beat. “Think fast! I’m a random girl!”

Without warning, she lunged at him—arms outstretched, lips puckered dramatically, ready to play her role to perfection.

Lando’s reflexes kicked in fast. “Whoa!” he said, holding his palm out and catching her right in the forehead, effectively stopping her mid-charge.

“I’m happily taken, thank you very much,” he deadpanned, pushing her away gently but firmly, then wiped his hand on his pants with exaggerated disgust. “Please maintain a safe distance, stranger.”

Max burst out laughing while Y/N nodded proudly, even slow clapping.

“Mate,” Max wheezed through his laughter, practically spilling his coffee, “you’re like a trained puppy!”

“Proud of you, babe,” Y/N grinned, leaning in to plant a kiss on his cheek.

“Hey!” Lando ducked away dramatically, throwing his hands up. “Lady! Please… I just told you—I have a beautiful girlfriend!”

Y/N smacked his arm, laughing. “You muppet.”

Lando chuckled, finally letting his act drop as he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her in. “Hello, my love. Trying to entertain Max and chat again, I see?”

“Someone’s gotta give them content,” she teased, and Max just shook his head, still grinning, proud to have captured the whole thing.

------------------------------------------------------

Just cause

Lando had been on Twitch with Max for hours now, deep in a chaotic stream full of banter, games, and far too much shouting. Y/N had been missing in action the whole time, curled up in bed for a nap when the boys started, and clearly forgotten amidst the noise.

When she finally stirred awake, the first thing she heard was Lando’s muffled shouting through the walls. Headphones on, game volume cranked, completely unaware of how loud he was being. With a sleepy smile, she grabbed her phone and hopped onto Twitch, curiosity getting the best of her.

Instead of Lando’s stream, she tapped into Max’s—knowing full well she’d get the better view and more unfiltered commentary.

“Hi Maxie” she typed, the grin already growing on her face.

“Woah, is that Y/N?” Max’s voice rang out, loud and clear through Lando’s headset.

Lando glanced over his shoulder instinctively. “She’s asleep in the room, mate.”

Max let out a laugh. “No, mate—she just said hi in my chat. Hi Y/N!”

Lando’s brows lifted in surprise, just as the sound of her soft footsteps approached from behind. Moments later, she was there—turning his chair slightly before straddling his lap without a word, resting her chin on his shoulder.

“Oh—” Lando blinked, arms instinctively wrapping around her waist, one hand settling gently on her back. “Hi, baby. What’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer—just shook her head and nuzzled into his neck, clearly not in distress, just craving closeness.

The chat exploded.

“OMG STOP” “They’re so cute I’m gonna cry” “IM SO SINGLE” “Watch Max clown them in 3...2...1…”

“Ewww! Get a room, you two!” Max called out through his mic, laughing.

“Shut up, Max,” Lando chuckled, slipping off one side of his headset and muting his mic. He leaned back slightly, guiding her face away from his neck so he could see her.

“Baby… hey,” he said softly, concern laced through his voice as his arms held her close. “You alright, my love?”

She smiled gently, still sleepy-eyed. “Hi.”

“Well, hello,” Lando chuckled, amused by the unexpected visit. He reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb brushing her cheek. “What’s wrong? You don’t usually do this… not that I mind—I quite like it, actually.”

She only shook her head, letting out a quiet sigh as she settled her head back on his shoulder, her arms loosely wrapped around his neck.

Lando’s smile faded into a soft frown, now slightly worried. “You feeling okay? Are you sick?” His hand instinctively moved to her forehead, checking her temperature.

She laughed, lifting her head to meet his eyes. “I’m okay, silly. I just… missed you.”

That one sentence made something warm bloom in his chest. He smirked, his hands now tracing slow circles on her back, already forgetting the stream still running in the background.

“Yeah?”

She nodded, now suddenly a little bashful under his gaze.

“I can end the stream,” he offered gently. “We can hang out in the room, maybe order some food and watch a movie?”

She shook her head. “Maybe later? Go finish your game… I’ll just stay here for a bit.”

Lando smiled softly and guided her head back down to his shoulder, pressing a tender kiss to the side of her head. “Alright, my love. One more hour—then I’m all yours.”

He leaned forward and unmuted his mic, the grin already spreading on his face. “Sorry—boyfriend duties,” he said proudly, as Max groaned dramatically and the chat predictably exploded again.

“bf of the year!” “THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER 😭” “MAX IS GONNA LOSE HIS MIND I LOVE THIS” “THE BAR IS ON THE FLOOR AND LANDO JUST LAUNCHED OVER IT”

------------------------------------------------------

Who knows me best?

The stream kicked off with the usual trio, but this time, they had a small whiteboard in hand. Lando sat center, eyes scanning his computer as he tweaked his Twitch setup.

“Ready?” he asked, giving his hair a final fluff before leaning back in his chair.

Max and Y/N finally set their phones aside, both nodding in sync with soft hums of agreement.

"So..." Lando clapped his hands to mark the start of the stream, prompting a chuckle from Y/N

“See? Told you he does that too,” Y/N said, leaning forward to look at Max.

Max grinned. “P said the exact same thing to me.”

“The clapping again?” Lando groaned, rubbing his cheek in mock frustration. “I swear I’ve been trying to stop. Someone tie me down already.”

“Y/N can do that tonight—like you two always do,” Max said with a cheeky smirk. “Right!” He punctuated the joke with a clap, then winced. “Ah, fuck. I did it too.”

That sent all three of them into a fit of laughter.

“We’re hopeless, mate,” Lando wheezed between laughs. “Alright, chat! We’re here for the ‘Best Friend vs. Girlfriend’ challenge—who knows me best?” He turned to Y/N with a playful look. “Or as she likes to call it…”

“‘Girlfriend versus Boyfriend,’” Y/N said, nodding seriously at the camera. “Because Max is my boyfriend’s boyfriend.”

“Oh, piss off,” Max laughed, shaking his head.

"I've started a poll, so you guys an vote on who you think will win" Lando says, handing each of them their own markers

“First question!” Lando grins, glancing between the two. “When and where was my Formula 1 debut?”

Max and Y/N immediately start scribbling on their boards, Lando casually jotting down his own answer with that signature smug smile.

Once they’re both done, Lando nods toward Max. “Alright, Max. You go first.”

Max flips his board with confidence. “2019, Australian Grand Prix.”

Lando chuckles and gives him a fist bump, flipping his board, revealing the same answer. “Point for Max.”

He turns to Y/N, who’s already rolling her eyes. “You got it wrong, didn’t you?”

“On the contrary,” Y/N says, flipping her board around with flair.

Lando and Max burst out laughing before she’s even finished reading.

“March 16, 2019. Australian Grand Prix. 3 PM local time,” she recites matter-of-factly, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re fucking joking,” Max wheezes, clutching his stomach. “You gave her the questions beforehand, didn’t you?!” He shoots Lando an accusatory look.

“What?! No! I swear I didn’t!” Lando throws his hands up, still laughing.

“I’m just that good of a girlfriend,” Y/N shrugs, casually erasing her board and adding a neat little mark in the corner for the point she just earned.

“We weren’t even dating yet, baby,” Lando teases, wiping tears from his eyes.

“Yeah, but she definitely had a massive crush on you already,” Max adds with a smirk, wiping off his own board "Remember when you begged me to not tell him when I found out and you—"

"—Okay! That's enough from you Maxiepoo," she says clapping her hands trying to speed up the process "move on come on keep them coming!"

Lando chuckles and nods, reading another question off his phone, “Next one. What’s my worst habit?”

Both Max and Y/N immediately start writing without hesitation, clearly prepared.

Lando watches them suspiciously. “Why are you both so fast with that?”

Max flips his board first: “Biting his nails”

“Okay wow—” Lando starts.

But Y/N’s already turning hers around: “Saying ‘I’m fine’ when he’s clearly spiraling.” She underlines it twice for dramatic effect.

Lando throws his head back laughing. “Well fuck, I feel attacked.”

“You should,” Max says. “We’ve had an intervention, like, twice.”

“You ignored both,” Y/N adds, casually ticking her board again.

Lando just shakes his head. “You guys are supposed to be on my team.”

“No,” they say in unison. “We’re on the truth’s team.”

Chat? Loving it

"NOT THEM TEAMING UP ON LANDO" "Max and Y/N are so competitive with it" "lol i think they're playing who loves Lando more?" ------------------------------------------------

Mini Lando

It had been a two-week break between races, and Lando was soaking it all in, some sun, some sleep, and a whole lot of gaming with the boys back in Monaco.

Today was no different, Lando and Max were live on Twitch, lazily stacked in their usual setup, bantering, gaming, and occasionally getting completely distracted by chat. But there was one thing everyone in the comments couldn't stop talking about.

The clip had already gone semi-viral on F1 Twitter: Twitch stream, Max mid-sentence, Lando walking off-screen, only to pop back into frame quietly leaning over Y/N on the bean bag, hand resting softly on her stomach, the other brushing her hair away like some kind of soft boyfriend fever dream. That, paired with Y/N’s mysterious absence from this stream?

Yeah. The fanbase had collectively lost its mind.

“Where’s Y/N?” Lando reads aloud, scoffing with a half-smile as he leans back in his chair.

Max snickers but doesn't look up from his screen. “Mate, you’ve unleashed the internet. That clip’s everywhere.”

Lando chuckles. “I was literally just saying hi.”

“Sure,” Max says, dragging it out like he’s stirring something dangerous. “Saying hi with your hand on her stomach and playing with her hair like it’s a Nicholas Sparks movie.”

Lando defends, laughing now. “I was being a good boyfriend”

Chat explodes — everything from “we know what tired means” to “BABY LANDOOOOO??”

Lando shakes his head, clearly fed up with the stream chat spiraling out of control. With a sigh, he pulls out his phone and dials Y/N, holding it up on speaker for dramatic effect.

Almost instantly, her voice comes through, dry and familiar “You do know I’m in the bedroom, right?”

“Hi, my love,” Lando says sweetly, ignoring Max’s exaggerated eye roll. “Come here for a sec?”

Max doesn't miss a beat. “The tone shift is insane. Bro went from gamer rage to Shakespearean boyfriend in 0.2 seconds, someone study that.”

Lando reaches over and smacks his arm, earning a loud “Oi!” from Max.

“Lan,” Y/N groans on the other end, “I look like shit right now.”

“You always look beautiful, my love,” Lando says, dramatically and unapologetically simping. “Chat’s looking for you. And, apparently… baby Norris too.”

“Oh my Gosh,” she mutters, but the sound of movement comes through anyway.

Not a minute later, Y/N appears behind Lando’s chair, wrapped in a hoodie that definitely wasn't hers, her hair in a mess of clips and chaos. She leans down, placing a soft kiss to the top of Lando’s head.

“You called?” she murmurs.

Lando looks up at her like she hung the moon. “Hello, gorgeous.”

Max turns back around, still grinning. “Everyone thinks baby Norris is on the way.”

Y/N snorts. “We can’t even agree on getting a pet, and you guys think we’re having a child?”

Chat loses it. Lando’s smile widens as he reaches up and laces his fingers through hers.

“So that’s a no?” Max deadpans.

“That’s a hell no,” she says, laughing. “Not until he agrees to get a dog”

“Here we go again,” Lando groans, burying his face in her hand.

“I was just on my period, guys. Calm your T’s,” Y/N says casually, walking further into frame like she didn’t just drop a bomb on the chat.

Max chokes on his drink. “Okay then—!”

Lando just shrugs, grinning. “You wanted answers.”

Without missing a beat, Y/N walks over to the corner of the room and returns with a small basket cradled in her arms.

“Anyway,” she continues, unfazed by the hysteria in the comments, “look at the care package Lando got me.”

She plops down next to him and starts pulling items out like she’s hosting an unboxing video: a ridiculous amount of chocolates, sour gummies, a box of painkillers, a face mask, heating patches, and even a tiny plush dinosaur.

“For emotional support,” Lando adds, pointing at the dinosaur. "Tell everyone what you named him, baby"

“His name's Dino Ricciardo” Y/N says, nudging Lando with her shoulder. “He was just being a doting boyfriend, is all.”

Chat absolutely explodes — messages flooding “I’m crying real tears, this is PEAK boyfriend behavior”“CAN WE CLONE HIM?”“Dino Ricciardo world champ 2025”“Why am I single 😭”

Lando’s just grinning like an idiot while Max shakes his head. “Yeah, alright, you win. Everyone else can go home.”

------------------------------------------------------------

Cat gate

Lando and Max were lounging side by side in his gaming room, mid-break between rounds of Counter-Strike, when Lando’s phone lit up on the desk.

“Ooh, look who’s calling, chat,” he grinned, picking it up and flashing the screen toward the camera, a photo of Y/N, cheeks squished against his in a selfie. The chat instantly flooded with heart emojis.

“Probably misses me already,” he added smugly, answering with a teasing, “Hello, baby.”

“Yuck,” Max groaned beside him, visibly cringing as he read the chat explode with reactions to Lando’s soft tone. “Hate it here.”

“Hey, so, um… don’t be mad,” Y/N’s voice came through, the slightest bit hesitant.

Lando’s brows furrowed slightly. “That’s never a good start. What’s wrong, my love? You still out with Lily and Alex?”

“Yeah! We had such a good time—we played a little golf, got some lunch…” she said casually, but there was background noise now: distant music, a bit of wind, someone talking.

Lando glanced at Max, curious. “Sounds fun. You on your way back?”

“Almost home, yes. But okay, listen… there’s just this tiny thing.”

“Wait—" Lando cut in, scandalized. "You played golf without me? I’m actually offended.”

“Lan…”

“Traitor,” Max muttered, shaking his head at her through the mic. “She always says no when we ask.”

“Because Lily actually knows what she’s doing!” Y/N snapped back playfully, then sighed. “Anyway, that’s not the point—”

“You told him about the cat yet?” another voice chimed faintly in the background—Alex Albon, unmistakably.

Lando’s expression froze. “Cat? Did Alex just say cat? What cat?!”

Y/N laughed nervously, “Okay...you know what? We’ll talk about it later. We’re almost home. Ten minutes. Love you, bye!”

“Wait—we?” Lando sat up straighter, suddenly suspicious. “Baby, who’s we? Hello??”

The call had already ended.

Max burst out laughing. “Oh, you’re in trouble.”

Lando stared at the screen like it betrayed him. “What cat? Who is we?! Did she mean her and the cat?!”

Not long later, a soft knock echoed through the room.

Lando glanced at the door just as it creaked open, revealing Y/N’s head peeking in, her eyes wide with mischief and a grin tugging at her lips.

Max immediately leaned forward, laughing. “Oh, she’s definitely up to something. That’s the face of someone who’s just done something incredibly stupid… or incredibly amazing.”

Lando turned in his chair to face her, smiling despite himself. “Come in, baby. The stream’s on.”

She stepped fully into the room, and in her arms, curled up like a sleepy little angel, was a kitten. A tiny, soft-furred ball of fluff, blinking slowly and completely unfazed by the chaos around it.

“Before you say anything,” Y/N started quickly.

“Oh my god,” Max said, whipping his head toward Lando, his eyes wide with glee.

Lando just stared. “Baby… you didn’t.”

“We can’t. We’re barely even home,” he added, voice soft but edged with disbelief.

“I know,” she rushed out, walking toward him and gently placing the kitten in his lap. “Technically, she’s still Alex’s. One of their cats had a litter and I said we could foster one for a bit.”

Lando let out a breath as the kitten instantly curled into him, purring like a tiny engine. His hand instinctively began to stroke the soft fur.

“How am I even meant to carry a cat?” he muttered, spinning his chair a little to show the stream.

“Mate… what do you mean? You’re literally holding it,” Max deadpanned, watching in disbelief.

“So?” Y/N asked, bouncing slightly on her toes. “Can we keep her—for now? Alex said if you say no, that’s totally fine. We’ve got three months to decide.”

Lando looked up at her, caught somewhere between overwhelmed and completely smitten. “But I thought you wanted a dog?”

“I do!” she said, nodding eagerly. “But now they can be friends.”

Lando turned to Max for backup, but Max just shrugged. “Leave me out of this one, mate.”

Lando’s eyes flicked back to Y/N, a grin breaking across his face despite the chaos. He looked down at the kitten, now snoozing peacefully in his lap.

“What are we naming her?”

[aquaholicsanonymousworld]

Ok ok now flip the wrong husband idea. Intimidating/grumpy resident who’s close to and clearly Jack abbotts fav resident, the med students think they might be secretly together only for her to actually be Robby’s gf/wife 👀

Wrong Attending

Pairing: Dr Michael "Robby" Robinivich x Attending!Reader

She was terrifying. That’s what the med students whispered behind clipboards and in the corners of the nurse’s station.

Dr. (Y/N), third-year resident. Surgical precision in her tone, her incisions, and her sarcasm. Always serious, always focused, always somehow two steps ahead of the attending she was assisting. If she barked an order, you followed it. If she gave you a look, you apologized before even figuring out what you’d done.

Jack Abbott adored her.

He never said it, but it was obvious. She was his golden resident. She scrubbed in with him more than anyone else. He taught her the most complex techniques with the kind of softness he didn’t extend to anyone else. He even brought her coffee when she had a long case ahead — Jack Abbott bringing someone else coffee. It was enough to start rumors.

“She’s totally his girlfriend,” one of the med students said as they wheeled a post-op patient back to recovery.

“Girlfriend?” another scoffed. “Try wife. You think anyone else could get away with back-talking him like that and not get reamed for it?”

She passed by just then, sleeves rolled up, surgical cap still on. She gave them all a pointed look as she walked through.

The students fell silent. Guilty. Terrified.

Later that day, the ER flooded.

A pile-up on the interstate. They needed hands. All hands. She was already pulling on gloves before anyone called her name.

She was hunched over a trauma bay, blood on her scrubs, one hand in a chest cavity when—

“Hey,” a voice said behind her. Lighter. Familiar. “Jesus. You didn’t answer my texts. You okay?”

She glanced up, annoyed. “I’m working, Robby.”

Dr. Robby. The senior attending. Golden boy of the ER. Charismatic. Bright-eyed. Sunshine in scrubs. Or maybe that's just how she saw him.

He blinked. “You’re elbow-deep in a thoracotomy and I’m the one getting attitude?”

She didn’t answer. Just turned back to the trauma.

The med students, standing nearby and wide-eyed, watched in confusion.

Dr. Robby stayed there, leaning against the glass, watching her with something oddly fond in his expression.

She finally stepped back after the patient stabilized, ripping her gloves off and walking to the sink.

Robby handed her a towel.

“Can I help you?” she asked flatly, drying off.

“Just wanted to see if you were alive. I made you dinner.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love me.”

“You’re lucky I do.”

One of the students behind them dropped their chart.

Robby turned, startled, and blinked at the frozen group of baby doctors staring at them.

“…What?”

One of them finally managed: “Wait. You’re dating Dr. Robby?”

She raised a brow. “You say that like it’s a crime.”

Robby looked smug. “Jealous?”

“No,” one of them muttered. “Just… we all thought it was Abbott.”

Robby paused, then laughed so hard he doubled over.

She sighed, shoved him with the towel, and muttered, “I need a nap.”

“Or,” Robby grinned, falling into step beside her, “you could come home, shower, and let your very loving, very charming boyfriend feed you tortellini.”

“…What kind of tortellini?”

He smirked. “The homemade kind. You’ve been on my mind all day.”

The students watched them go, stunned into silence.

One turned to the others. “That’s gotta be the biggest plot twist in this hospital.”

The others nodded slowly.

Jack Abbott walked by a moment later, glancing toward the hallway they disappeared into, then at the med students. “What’s with the faces?”

One said weakly, “Sir, did you know she’s dating Dr. Robby?”

Abbott blinked. Then snorted. “Of course I know.”

“…You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be mad?”

“We thought she was yours.”

Jack gave them a look so dry it could sand furniture. “I have a wife, you morons.”

Then he walked off, chuckling to himself.