#sometimes... things that are over-engineered... are worse

[lila-lou]

✨Settled - 2/4✨

Summary: With you, Dean Winchester feels something he never expected—a reason to slow down, to stay. One nervous first date is all it takes to make him want more than the road.

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, Language

Word Count: 8739

DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.

For the past few weeks, it had been like clockwork. You and Dean meeting up almost every other day. Burgers, late-night movies, driving nowhere just to talk. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t complicated. It was perfect.

You knew he and Sam traveled sometimes, jobs, so when he texted you three days ago saying he had to be on the road for a bit, you hadn’t worried. You missed him like crazy, though.

Tonight, he’d promised another movie night. Another low-key hangout that made your heart do stupid things just thinking about it.

You heard the familiar sound of the Impala’s engine pulling up, and you rushed to the door, smoothing your hair without even thinking. Smiling wide, you pulled it open—

—and immediately froze. Your breath caught in your throat.

Dean stood there, a little awkwardly, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, his broad frame filling the doorway. But he was a mess.

There were dark bruises blooming along the sharp line of his jaw, deep purples and sickly blues standing out against the scruff on his face. A cut split his bottom lip, puffy and still healing. His t-shirt, a simple dark gray one, stretched over his chest, but you caught the faint shadows of more bruises crawling up his neck and disappearing under the collar. Whoever had patched him up had done a good job, but there was no hiding the rough edges.

For a beat, you just stared, wide-eyed, heart hammering.

Dean shifted under your gaze, jaw tightening. He looked ashamed. Like he hated you seeing him like this. His eyes dropped to the porch floor, one boot scuffing against the wood. “Hey”, he muttered, voice rougher than usual.

You blinked yourself out of it, stepping aside immediately. “Dean… come in. Shit, are you okay?”.

He hesitated for half a second before stepping inside, moving a little stiffly, like every muscle in his body hurt.

You closed the door behind him, turning to face him fully. “What happened?”, you asked, your voice softer now, full of worry.

Dean forced a crooked, sheepish smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Work accident. Nothin’ serious. Just… got in the way of something”.

You frowned, not buying it entirely, but you didn’t push. Not yet. You could see how much it cost him just to stand there and let you see him like this.

Dean saw the look on your face and rubbed the back of his neck, wincing slightly when the motion pulled at his side. “Sorry”, he mumbled, not meeting your eyes. “I, uh… probably should’ve canceled. Didn’t mean to show up lookin’ like roadkill”.

You stepped closer without thinking, your hands hovering awkwardly at your sides, wanting to touch him, but afraid of hurting him more. “Dean”, you said quietly, your heart breaking a little, “I don’t care how you look. I’m just glad you’re okay”.

Finally, finally, he looked up at you. And in his eyes, you saw it, he vulnerability he tried so damn hard to hide. The fear that maybe this , you, was too good for someone like him. Someone who came home looking like he’d been dragged through hell.

You gave him a small, reassuring smile and stepped back toward the kitchen, trying to keep your voice light, even though your heart still ached from seeing him so beat up. "Come on", you said, tossing a look over your shoulder. "I actually cooked for once. You’re not getting out of dinner just 'cause you got knocked around".

Dean huffed a small laugh, rough but real, and started shrugging out of his jacket. The second the heavy fabric slipped off his shoulders, your breath caught again. It was worse than you thought.

Bruises painted his arms, some fresh and dark, others already yellowing at the edges. A few shallow cuts trailed along his bicep and collarbone, the white of a bandage peeking out where his shirt dipped at the neck. Scratches, swelling, bruising… he looked like he’d gone a few rounds with a grizzly bear and barely made it out alive.

Dean caught your stare and immediately stiffened, his hands bunching the jacket tighter in his grip. His jaw worked, like he was fighting the urge to apologize again, maybe even turn around and leave.

"Don’t", you said quickly, softer. You stepped closer, moving carefully, like you were approaching something wild and wounded. "Don't shut me out".

Dean swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He looked exhausted. Worn down to the bone. But he still tried to grin. Still tried to be Dean. "You didn’t have to cook", he muttered, voice low, almost shy now. "Would’ve been fine with takeout".

You shook your head, your chest tightening at how hard he was trying to act normal for you. "I wanted to", you said simply.

Dean shifted awkwardly, like he didn’t know what to do with himself now. He stood there in your living room, battered and bruised, and still somehow looked like the strongest man you'd ever seen.

"You hungry?", you asked, keeping your tone gentle.

Dean hesitated, then gave a small nod. "Yeah. Starvin', actually".

You smiled and turned toward the kitchen, pretending not to notice the way he moved — slow and stiff, his hand pressing lightly against his ribs when he thought you weren’t looking.

You plated up some of the food, simple stuff, but warm and comforting, and brought it back to the coffee table. Dean lowered himself carefully onto the couch, grunting a little when his body protested the movement.

You handed him a plate, and for a moment he just stared down at it like he wasn’t sure he deserved it. Then he looked up at you again, and there was something in his eyes that made your chest ache, a kind of naked gratitude he didn’t have words for. "Thanks", he said roughly.

You sat down beside him, close but not crowding, giving him space he clearly didn’t even know he needed. And for a little while, you just ate quietly, the low hum of the TV in the background, the air between you filled with something thick and unspoken.

Dean didn’t talk about what happened. You didn’t push. But somewhere deep inside you, you knew… this man carried more scars than you could see. And you were already falling so damn hard for him anyway.

Dean picked at his food a little, his appetite clearly there but slowed by the pain threading through his body. Every now and then he'd wince, subtle, like he couldn’t help it.

You didn’t mention it. You just quietly shifted a little closer, your knee brushing his.

Dean’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. He blinked down at the point of contact, such a small thing, really, but you might as well have cracked open the damn world with it.

Slowly, carefully, he set the fork down on his plate. "You’re somethin' else, you know that?", he said, voice low and a little rougher than before. He wasn’t looking at you. He was staring at the TV like it held the answers he couldn’t find.

You smiled softly. "Good 'something else' or bad 'something else'?".

That finally made him look at you. Really look at you. And the sheer weight of it nearly stole your breath.

Dean's jaw flexed, and for a second it looked like he was fighting himself. His hand twitched like he wanted to reach for you, touch you, hold you, but he didn’t. He just stared, like he was trying to memorize you.

"Good", he said finally. His voice was thick, like it scraped something raw inside him. "The best kinda good".

You blinked, your chest tightening painfully. "Dean…".

He leaned forward suddenly, bracing his forearms on his knees, his head hanging low. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he was gripping his hands together tight enough that his knuckles were white.

"I ain’t good at this", he muttered, like it physically hurt him to admit it. "This… havin’ someone give a damn".

You reached out without thinking, your hand brushing against his arm, gentle, careful.

"I do give a damn", you said, voice steady even though your heart was hammering.

Dean let out a rough breath, almost a laugh, but it cracked halfway through and turned into something broken. For a terrifying second, you thought he was going to tell you everything… that he was going to unload whatever heavy, bloody thing he was carrying.

He looked at you, and there was so much ache in those green eyes it nearly knocked you flat. "I…". He started, then shook his head like he could physically shake the words away. "I just… I don’t want you to get hurt".

You frowned, confused. "Dean, I’m fine. You’re the one who’s hurt".

He gave you a small, pained smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Yeah", he said softly. "Maybe this time".

You opened your mouth to ask what he meant, but he reached out then, carefully, gently, and covered your hand with his. It wasn’t a kiss. It wasn’t a confession. It was something quieter. Stronger.

A promise he didn’t know how to put into words yet. You squeezed his hand back, letting him feel it, the certainty, the trust, and Dean’s shoulders dropped just slightly, some invisible weight easing off him.

You didn’t need all the answers right now. All you needed was this. Him, here, with you. Still trying. Still fighting to be the kind of man you deserved.

Hours slipped by like seconds.

Neither of you seemed in any hurry to move, even as the clock crept later and later. Dean stretched out on the couch beside you, nursing the last of his drink, your knee resting against his thigh in a quiet, constant touch that neither of you commented on.

You couldn’t remember the last time you felt this safe just existing beside someone.

When you yawned and tucked your legs up under you, Dean immediately shifted like he was about to stand, like he didn’t want to overstay his welcome.

You caught his hand before he could move. "Stay", you said, your voice soft but certain. "Please".

Dean blinked at you, like you’d just asked him to move mountains. His hand tightened slightly around yours. "You sure?", he asked, rough and hesitant, like maybe you’d change your mind if he breathed wrong.

You smiled sleepily. "Yeah. I want you here".

For a second, Dean just stared at you, like he was trying to memorize this, burn it into his skin, and then he nodded, a little stiffly. Like it cost him something to say yes, to accept it. "Alright", he said, voice rough.

You led him toward the bedroom. It felt strangely natural, like this wasn’t the first time, like you’d been doing this forever.

When you both stood by the bed, though, the air shifted again, something crackling under the soft domesticity.

Dean hesitated, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt, clearly not sure what to do. He still wore his jeans, his boots long gone but the stiff denim clinging to his bruised legs like armor.

You turned away politely, rummaging through a drawer for your oversized sleep shirt, trying to give him space. "You’re gonna be uncomfortable if you sleep in jeans", you said lightly over your shoulder, pulling your shirt over your head. "You should change".

Behind you, Dean swallowed hard. Because while you had your back to him, delicate, soft, beautiful, he was standing there feeling like the roughest, most broken thing on the planet.

He didn't want you to see. Didn’t want you to see the bruises covering his ribs and back, the scars, the jagged wounds still healing from whatever terrible thing he’d fought off just days ago. He didn't want you to look at him differently.

But he also didn’t want to lie to you. Not tonight.

So, heart hammering against his battered ribs, Dean finally peeled his t-shirt off and stripped out of his jeans, standing there in just a pair of dark boxers. He felt exposed. Raw. Small in a way he hated.

You turned back around, sleep shirt hanging loose off your frame, brushing your thighs, and the moment your eyes met his, Dean felt something in him break a little.

Because you didn’t flinch. You didn’t stare at the bruises or the scars or the ugly things life had carved into him. You just smiled, sleepy, trusting, beautiful and climbed into bed like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Dean stood frozen for a second longer, watching you tuck yourself into the blankets, your body curling slightly in the soft light. So pure. So good. Everything he thought he didn’t deserve… yet somehow, you wanted him.

Slowly, carefully, he slid into bed beside you, lying on his back stiffly, unsure if he was allowed to pull you closer or if he should stay right where he was. You answered the question for him without a word, curling up against his side, resting your head gently against his chest.

Dean sucked in a sharp, quiet breath, barely able to move. It hurt, his ribs ached, his body protesting, but none of it mattered. Because for the first time in a long time, the thing pounding in his chest wasn’t just pain or survival. It was something softer. Something that terrified him even more than the monsters he fought.

Hope.

Dean hesitated just a second longer before he finally, slowly, wrapped an arm around you, careful not to pull too tight.

You pressed your face into his chest, sighing contentedly, and Dean closed his eyes, feeling your warmth seep into all the cold, broken parts of him. It was terrifying. It was everything.

And as he lay there, battered, bruised, and entirely yours, Dean Winchester realized one very simple truth: He wasn’t just falling for you. He already had.

Dean didn’t know how long he lay there, wide awake in the quiet dark, just watching you.

You slept curled against his side, your breathing slow and even, your hand resting lightly over his chest, right above his heart. Like you were holding it there. Keeping it steady.

The bruises and aches of the last few days faded into the background, dulled by the warmth of you tucked into his side. He could’ve stayed like that forever.

But then you shifted slightly, murmuring something soft and half-dreamed, your nose brushing against his collarbone and Dean felt his whole world tilt.

He turned his head to look at you, really look at you. Your hair was messy from sleep, your face peaceful, lips slightly parted. You looked so delicate, so beautiful and pure, like you belonged to some part of life he thought he'd never be allowed to touch.

And he… he was him. Broken, bruised, bloodstained inside and out. You deserved better. He knew that.

But God help him, he couldn't walk away. Not from you. Not from this.

Dean’s fingers moved before he could stop them, brushing a piece of hair gently away from your face, careful not to wake you. You stirred, blinking sleepily up at him, your eyes soft and a little confused at first and then they focused. Right on him.

Neither of you said a word. Dean swallowed hard. His hand hovered near your cheek, shaking slightly. For one terrifying, perfect second, he let himself lean in. Slow. Careful. Giving you every chance to pull away. But you didn’t.

You tilted your chin up slightly, eyes fluttering closed, trusting him. Dean’s heart damn near burst in his chest.

His lips brushed yours, the faintest, softest touch, almost like he didn’t trust himself not to break you if he wasn’t careful.

You sighed into it, your hand sliding up his chest. That tiny sound you made, the quiet, relieved little hum, broke him wide open.

Dean pressed in again, a little surer this time, still feather-light but full of everything he didn’t know how to say. I'm here. I want you. I’m yours, if you’ll have me.

Dean pulled away first, just barely, resting his forehead against yours, his breath shaky against your lips.

Again, neither of you spoke. You didn’t have to. The feeling was written in the quiet space between heartbeats, in the way Dean finally, finally, let his arm wrap fully around you, pulling you closer like he could shield you from the whole damn world.

And you let him. Because somewhere deep down, you already knew, bruises and scars and broken edges and all, Dean Winchester was yours. And you were his.

The morning sunlight crept slow and golden through the edges of the curtains, casting long, warm lines across the bed. You woke to the sound of soft breathing, not your own, and the heavy, comforting weight of Dean’s arm draped loosely around your waist.

For a moment, you stayed perfectly still, soaking it in. His body was warm against yours, solid and real. His chest rose and fell steadily, his face turned slightly toward you. He looked so much softer like this, the usual sharp lines of tension smoothed away by sleep.

You glanced down and caught sight of the curve of his bare hip peeking out from the sheet, the way the bruises and scratches darkened his skin. Your heart twisted painfully at the sight, but there was something beautiful about it too, something honest.

Dean Winchester was a fighter. A survivor. And somehow, he'd let you into his guarded world.

You shifted slightly under the covers, the hem of your oversized sleep shirt riding up your thighs. Beneath it, you wore nothing but a simple pair of panties and suddenly, you were very aware of just how little was separating your body from his.

Dean stirred at the movement, his hand tightening slightly on your waist, thumb brushing lazily over your side like he was grounding himself. He murmured something low and gravelly under his breath, then blinked his eyes open.

For a second, he looked disoriented. Then he focused on you.

And you watched it happen, that moment of pure, stunned realization, the way his face softened, the way his lips parted slightly like he couldn't quite believe you were real. "Mornin'", he rasped, voice thick with sleep.

You smiled, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. "Morning".

Dean's eyes flicked down for a heartbeat, catching the sight of your bare legs tangled with his under the sheets and you swore you saw the tips of his ears go pink.

He cleared his throat, suddenly shy in a way that made your chest ache with affection. He pulled his arm back a little, giving you space like he thought maybe he was crowding you. "You, uh… sleep okay?", he asked, voice rough.

You reached out before he could pull away fully, catching his hand and threading your fingers through his. "I slept great", you said softly. "Best sleep I’ve had in a long time".

Dean’s mouth twitched at the corners, like he wanted to smile but was still a little too in his head about it.

You squeezed his hand gently. "And you?", you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Dean looked at you for a long moment, his thumb tracing tiny circles over the back of your hand. "Yeah", he said finally. "Best in… longer than I can remember".

The words weren’t flashy or poetic but they hit you straight in the heart.

You smiled, cheeks warming.

Dean squeezed your hand once before finally, reluctantly, rolling onto his back with a groan, muscles protesting the movement. He winced, and you sat up instinctively, worry flashing across your face.

Dean caught the look and gave you a lazy, crooked grin. "M’fine. Just a little… banged up".

You narrowed your eyes but let it slide, for now.

Dean scrubbed a hand through his messy hair, then looked over at you, sheepish. "So… breakfast?", he offered, like he wasn’t half-naked and bruised to hell, lying in your bed looking stupidly gorgeous.

You laughed softly. "You cooking?".

Dean smirked, already pushing himself upright with a low grunt. "Don’t sound so skeptical, sweetheart. I can make eggs without burnin’ your kitchen down".

You swung your legs out of bed too, standing up with a stretch that made your oversized shirt ride even higher up your thighs.

Dean caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and immediately looked away like a gentleman. Well. A gentleman who was very clearly dying inside. His ears turned red again.

You grinned to yourself, heart flipping over at how sweet he was, how he was trying so damn hard not to be an idiot about this.

Dean stood too, raking a hand through his hair and heading for the kitchen, still barefoot, still just in his black boxer briefs.

And as you followed him, bare-legged and smiling, you realized something simple and overwhelming: This didn’t feel scary. It didn’t feel rushed. It felt right. It felt like home.

Dean moved stiffly, but he was stubborn about it, already rummaging through the fridge for eggs and whatever else he could find. His back was to you, the broad lines of his shoulders tense as he shifted things around one-handed.

You leaned against the doorway, arms loosely crossed over your chest, just… watching him.

It wasn’t just the bruises anymore, though they tugged at something protective and tender deep in your chest.

It was him.

The way the morning light caught the strong lines of his back, the flex of muscle under battered skin, the way his boxers clung low to his hips, hinting at strength and power he didn’t even have to flaunt.

Dean Winchester, bruised and half-dressed in your kitchen, looked like every reckless daydream you never dared admit you had.

You bit your lip without thinking, feeling your cheeks burn. You should look away. You should be decent. But you couldn’t.

Dean finally turned around, holding a carton of eggs in one hand, and caught you staring. He froze for half a second, and something shifted in the air, thickened, sweet and dangerous all at once. His green eyes darkened slightly as they dropped, flickering over the way your shirt barely covered your thighs, the way you were biting your lip, your cheeks flushed pink. Dean's grip on the egg carton tightened just a little. Like he was physically restraining himself. "You keep lookin' at me like that, sweetheart", he said, voice low and rough, "and we ain’t makin' it to breakfast".

Your mouth went dry. You opened it, probably to say something clever, but nothing came out.

Dean’s lips quirked into a crooked little half-smile, but even that couldn’t hide the tension radiating off him. The way his whole body was practically humming with restraint. He set the eggs down carefully on the counter, moving slow and deliberate, like he didn’t trust himself not to pounce if he got too close.

You swallowed hard, heart hammering against your ribs. Without thinking, without planning, you took a small step closer.

Dean watched you like a hawk, every muscle in his battered body tight and alert.

Another step.

You could feel the heat rolling off him now, see the way his chest rose and fell faster, the way his fingers twitched like he was fighting every instinct he had. You stopped right in front of him, looking up into his eyes, so green, so raw and you swore the whole world stopped spinning.

Dean's hand lifted and brushed the side of your face, his thumb tracing lightly over your cheekbone. "You’re killin' me", he murmured, voice barely more than a breath.

You tilted your head into his touch without even thinking, your eyes fluttering closed for a heartbeat. And that was it. That was all he needed.

Dean leaned down, closing the distance between you and kissed you.

This kiss wasn’t careful like the first. It was deeper, surer, tinged with the raw hunger he’d been holding back for weeks. But it was still him. Still so heartbreakingly gentle with you, careful even now not to hurt or scare you.

Your hands slid up his bare sides, feeling the heat of his skin, the faint roughness of healing bruises. Dean made a low sound in his throat, half growl, half sigh, and pulled you closer by the small of your back, careful of where he was hurt but still desperate to have you near.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing harder, your foreheads pressed together, eyes closed.

Dean smiled against your lips. A real, slow, lazy smile that made your heart stutter. "Definitely not makin' it to breakfast now", he murmured.

You laughed softly, your fingers curling into the waistband of his boxers, feeling him shiver at the touch.

You rested your forehead against his, breathing him in. The scent of him, warm and familiar now. Your heart hammered so hard you were sure he could feel it.

You met his eyes, steady, serious, and whispered, "You sure you’re up for this?".

Dean blinked, caught off guard for half a second. Then a slow, cocky grin pulled at the corner of his swollen lip — pure Dean.

His voice dropped to that low, dangerous murmur that made your knees weak. "Sweetheart", he rasped, "I’ve been through worse for less".

And before you could even react, he slid his big, calloused hands down your sides, gripping you firmly under your thighs and lifted you clean off the ground.

You gasped, grabbing at his shoulders instinctively as he set you down on the kitchen counter, your legs dangling over the edge, wide-eyed and breathless.

Even hurting, even battered and bruised, Dean moved you like you weighed nothing.

He hid it well, but you caught it, the tiny hitch in his breath, the way his jaw clenched for a second as he fought through the pain. But he didn’t let it show on his face. Because he was Dean Winchester. And right now, he wasn’t thinking about his bruises, or his cracked ribs, or how much his body screamed in protest. He was thinking about you.

He stepped closer between your legs, his hands settling lightly on your thighs, his body heat wrapping around you like a second skin. "You", he said, voice thick, rough, meaningful, "are the only thing I’m worried about right now".

Your breath hitched at the look in his eyes — all fire and sweetness and pure devotion. You reached up, brushing your fingers lightly through his messy hair, feeling him lean into your touch like he needed it more than air. "You’re an idiot", you whispered, smiling.

Dean chuckled, that low rumble vibrating against your legs. "Yeah. But I’m your idiot".

You leaned in, kissing him again, slow and deep, your fingers tangling at the nape of his neck. Dean responded instantly, one hand sliding up to the small of your back, pulling you gently but firmly against him, careful even in his eagerness.

You could feel the shudder that ran through him when you curled your legs lightly around his waist, pulling him closer. Could feel how much he wanted you but also how hard he was holding himself back, making sure you led this. Because you weren’t just a pretty face to him. You were everything.

You broke the kiss slowly, your nose brushing his, feeling the way his breath stuttered against your lips.

Dean pressed his forehead against yours, his hands gripping your thighs like they were the only things keeping him standing. "Not gonna break", he whispered, almost like he was reassuring you, not himself.

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes, all that stubbornness and rough-edged tenderness burning there, and smiled softly. "I know", you whispered back.

Dean stayed pressed against you for a long breath, forehead resting against yours, like he was making sure, one last time, that you wanted this too.

You tilted your face up, brushing your nose against his, giving him your answer without a single word. And something in him broke, not in a bad way, but like a dam giving way under the flood of everything he'd been holding back.

He kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, like he wanted to savor every second, every taste. His hands roamed down your sides, over your thighs, moving with such aching gentleness you almost wanted to cry.

When his fingers brushed the hem of your oversized shirt, he hesitated, giving you time to stop him if you wanted to. But you didn’t. You just tightened your legs a little around his hips, pulling him closer, trusting him completely.

Dean let out a shaky breath against your lips, like he was barely holding himself together. Then, slowly, so slowly, he slid his hands beneath the shirt, his fingers tracing lightly over your hips until they hooked into the sides of your panties.

He swallowed hard, his hands almost trembling as he eased the thin fabric down your hips, over your thighs, down past your knees, until they fell to the floor with a whisper.

The entire time, he moved like you were made of glass, like you were something sacred he didn’t deserve to touch but couldn’t stop himself from worshipping anyway.

He dropped to his knees in front of you, wincing slightly at the motion but not letting it show. His hands came to rest on your bare thighs, thumbs stroking light circles against your skin.

You thought he might rush, might get lost in the heat sparking between you, but he didn’t. Dean leaned in, pressing a feather-light kiss to your inner thigh, so gentle it made you shiver. He looked up at you from beneath his lashes — those impossibly green eyes full of awe and hunger and something so much deeper.

You reached out, threading your fingers into his messy hair, your breath catching when he gently, so carefully, spread your thighs a little wider with those big, battle-scarred hands. Like he was making space for himself. Making a place to worship.

And damn, the way he looked at you, like you were the only beautiful thing left in his broken, bloody world, made your whole body ache in the best way.

Dean’s voice, when it came, was low and reverent. "You’re so damn beautiful, sweetheart".

Dean stayed there for a heartbeat longer, hands steady on your thighs, his thumbs stroking slow, grounding circles into your skin, as if he was giving you every last chance to change your mind. As if he couldn’t quite believe you were real. But you were. And you wanted him.

You gave a soft, shaky nod, your fingers tightening slightly in his hair, the silent permission he was waiting for.

Dean let out a low, shaky breath, like he’d been holding it for hours. And then, slowly, reverently, he leaned in.

His mouth brushed over your inner thigh again, hotter this time, sending sparks dancing across your skin. He worked his way closer with patient, devastating tenderness, soft kisses, a scrape of stubble that made you whimper under your breath.

Dean groaned low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your skin.

He was careful, so careful, almost like he was afraid of hurting you, even now. His hands slid up your thighs, steady and warm, spreading you just a little wider with gentle, coaxing pressure.

When his mouth finally found you, you gasped, one hand flying to clutch the edge of the counter, the other tangled tight in his hair.

Dean worked slow at first, unbearably slow, his tongue tracing slow, lazy circles that made your whole body light up. He wasn't trying to rush you. He wasn’t chasing anything for himself. He was savoring you. Like you were something precious. Something he'd dreamed about but never dared believe he could have.

You bit your lip, trying to hold back the soft, broken sounds spilling out of you, but Dean just growled low in approval and pulled you closer, his hands firm but still gentle on your hips.

He licked into you with slow, devastating skill, every flick of his tongue measured, focused entirely on you. He watched you too, eyes flickering up through his lashes every so often, as if drinking in every tiny shiver, every hitched breath you made.

"You’re perfect", he rasped against you, voice wrecked. "You taste so damn sweet, baby".

Your head fell back, a helpless moan slipping past your lips. Dean groaned like he was the one coming undone, tightening his grip just enough to ground you as he worked you higher and higher.

Your thighs trembled around his shoulders, your whole body taut with the need he was pulling from you so easily, so completely.

It built slow, not a wildfire, but a steady, aching climb, until you were gasping, your hips bucking slightly against his mouth, chasing the pleasure he was giving you so selflessly.

Dean felt it, the way you started to lose control, and he leaned in harder, his mouth claiming you fully now, pushing you right to the edge. "That’s it, sweetheart", he murmured against you. "Come on. Let go for me".

It was his voice, rough, low, that finally sent you crashing over the edge.

You came with a broken cry, your whole body shuddering, your hands clinging to him like he was the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

Dean didn’t pull away. He stayed with you, coaxing you through it, slowing his movements, whispering soft, filthy praises against your skin until your body finally sagged back against the counter, trembling and spent.

He pressed one last kiss to the inside of your thigh, so gentle it almost broke your heart, before standing slowly, his body stiff with pain he stubbornly didn’t show.

You blinked up at him, dazed and wrecked and so full of love you could hardly breathe. Dean cupped your face with one big, calloused hand, brushing his thumb over your cheek. "You’re okay?", he asked, voice hoarse, rough with more than just lust, rough with feeling.

You nodded, still breathless, and pulled him down for a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips, feeling the way he melted into you, still so careful even now, as if you'd break if he touched you too hard.

After a long, breathless moment in the kitchen, you gently tugged at Dean’s hand, leading him toward the bedroom again. He followed without a word, barefoot and half-dressed, his body battered but his heart so full it was a miracle he was still standing.

The second you reached the bed, Dean leaned down, catching your mouth in another slow, aching kiss. His hands slid down your sides, reverent, like he couldn’t believe you were letting him touch you at all.

He guided you back toward the bed, lowering you carefully onto the mattress, his body moving over yours. You felt him hesitate, just for a second, the way his muscles tensed, the way his breath caught.

Dean was fighting himself. Fighting the pain. Trying not to let you feel the way his ribs ached, the way every movement sent flashes of agony through him.

But you felt it anyway. You felt the strain in his body, the trembling in his arms as he struggled to hold himself above you, not because he wanted distance, but because he didn’t want to hurt you. Didn’t want to collapse onto you with his full weight, bruised and broken as he was.

"Dean", you whispered against his lips, your hands cupping his face. "It’s okay. Let me".

He opened his eyes, green and wide and full of so much raw emotion you could hardly breathe. Before he could protest, you shifted carefully, gently turning the two of you until he was lying flat on his back, his head sinking into the pillows, his body relaxing under your touch.

You climbed over him, straddling his hips carefully, your oversized sleep shirt brushing against his bare stomach. Dean’s breath hitched, his hands instinctively finding your thighs, gripping them lightly, grounding himself. You sat up slightly, your hands trailing down his sides, your eyes never leaving his face. His boxer briefs stretched low across his hips, the only barrier left between you.

Dean looked up at you, bruised, beautiful, yours, and you saw it again, that flicker of fear. Not fear of you, but fear of not being enough. Of hurting you. Of ruining something too good for him.

You leaned down, brushing a kiss against his bruised jaw, working your way down the strong line of his throat, feeling him shiver beneath you. When you reached his hips, you sat back slightly, your fingers hooking gently into the waistband of his boxers.

Dean closed his eyes for a long moment, like he was physically bracing himself against the sheer force of what he felt for you.

You began to ease his boxer briefs down, slow, careful, reverent, revealing inch after inch of scarred, bruised, perfect skin.

Dean hissed quietly through his teeth when the fabric brushed a tender spot, but he didn’t stop you. He let you see him. All of him.

When you finally tossed the boxers aside, you leaned back slightly, drinking him in. Dean Winchester, strong and scarred and beautiful, lying there beneath you, his body laid bare, his heart even more so.

Dean kissed you like he was drowning, slow and deep and desperate for every single second of you. His hands roamed your back, your thighs, everywhere he could touch without hurting you or himself, trying to memorize the feel of you against him.

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes and then, slowly, you reached down and grabbed the hem of your oversized shirt.

Dean’s breath caught audibly.

You pulled it over your head in one smooth motion and let it fall to the floor, leaving you completely bare above him.

Dean’s hands tightened instinctively on your hips, his chest rising and falling fast, his eyes drinking you in like he didn’t know where to look first, like he couldn’t believe someone like you was real, was his. "Shit, sweetheart", he breathed out, reverent and shaking.

You leaned down, kissing him softly, trying to steady your own racing heart, feeling the heat of his skin against yours everywhere you touched.

When you pulled back again, you reached for the top drawer of your nightstand, fumbling a little before grabbing a small foil packet.

Dean’s eyes darkened, his jaw flexing, but he didn’t move, just watched you, every muscle in his body vibrating with restraint and need and something almost tender.

You straddled him again, heart pounding, your small hands tearing open the condom wrapper carefully. When you took him in hand, he hissed quietly, his head falling back against the pillow, one bruised hand gripping the sheet beside him like he was barely holding himself together.

You tried to roll it on him, but he was big, thick and heavy in your palm, and you struggled slightly, your hands trembling with nerves and need.

Dean opened his eyes, catching your little frown of concentration, and for the first time since you started, a low, breathless chuckle rumbled out of him. "You’re killin' me, baby", he rasped, his voice rough and wrecked with affection.

You bit your lip, cheeks flushing deeper, shooting him a mock-glare that only made his grin widen.

Dean reached down carefully, slow, guiding your hands with his much bigger ones, helping you roll it down the thick, hard length of him.

The whole time, he kept his eyes on you, like watching you touch him, prepare him, was the greatest thing he’d ever seen.

When it was finally on, you sat back slightly, both of you breathing heavily, your bodies trembling with anticipation and emotion and that raw, aching tenderness neither of you could hide.

Dean’s hands slid up your thighs again, so gentle, so reverent, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he wasn’t careful. "You sure about this?", he asked, voice low, rough, serious.

You leaned down, pressing your forehead against his, your hand splayed over his bruised chest, feeling the steady, pounding beat of his heart under your palm. "I’m sure", you whispered, meaning every word. "I want you, Dean. I want this".

Dean groaned low in his throat, half need, half disbelief, and wrapped his arms carefully around your waist, pulling you flush against him. "You have no idea", he rasped against your skin, "what you do to me".

And with a slow, aching gentleness that left you both trembling, you shifted your hips, lining yourself up with him.

Dean’s hands gripped your thighs tighter, trying to hold himself back, trying to give you the control.

Slowly, carefully, you began to sink down onto him.

Both of you gasped at the first touch, the overwhelming heat, the stretch.

Dean’s hands shot up to your hips, his grip tight but not forceful, grounding himself as you took him in inch by inch. It was slow. It was intense. It was everything.

Dean kept whispering broken things under his breath, things you could barely hear, things like "so good", and "so perfect", and "mine, baby, you're mine".

You finally seated yourself fully, your thighs trembling slightly with the effort, and Dean let out a wrecked, desperate groan, his head falling back against the pillows.

You both stayed like that for a long, shuddering moment, bodies joined, hearts hammering, the weight of everything between you settling into something steady and real.

Dean’s chest heaved under your palms, bruises blooming beneath his skin, but he didn’t care. He only cared about you.

Slowly, he sat up, groaning quietly under his breath from the effort, until he was upright, his strong arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer against him. The movement pressed your bare chest flush against his, the brush of your soft skin against his rough, bruised one sending a shiver through both of you.

Dean's hands slid up your back, cupping the nape of your neck, holding you like you were something he could never get enough of. Your foreheads touched, your noses brushed and then Dean kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t demanding. It was slow, deep, achingly tender. Like he was pouring every broken, precious piece of himself into you.

You kissed him back just as slowly, your hands tangling in the short hair at the back of his neck, careful not to pull too hard, aware of the way he winced slightly when your body shifted against his bruises.

You moved carefully on his lap, your thighs straining to take him, your body stretching around his thick length with every slow roll of your hips.

Dean groaned into your mouth, his hands sliding down to your waist again, helping guide you, not forcing, never forcing, just grounding, supporting.

"That's it, baby", he rasped against your lips. "You're doin' so good".

Your body trembled with the effort, with the intensity, with the sheer size of him, filling you so deeply it felt like he was imprinted on your very soul.

Dean buried his face in your neck, breathing you in, kissing your skin between whispered words you barely caught, sweet, broken things.

You rocked your hips carefully, finding a slow, steady rhythm that made you gasp into his mouth. Dean moved with you, every shift of his hips sending shudders through both of you, but he held himself back, barely, afraid to push too hard, too fast.

Every movement sent tiny sparks of pain through his bruised body, but he didn’t care. He welcomed it. Because feeling this, feeling you, was worth every ache, every scar.

You clutched at his shoulders, your forehead resting against his, moaning softly every time you sank down onto him again.

Dean's hands slid over your back, your hips, your thighs, everywhere he could touch without hurting you, his rough fingers tracing worshipful paths over your bare skin. "You feel so damn good", he breathed against your mouth, his voice shaking. "So perfect".

You whimpered at his words, your body clenching around him, and Dean groaned low and desperate, his hips jerking up into you before he caught himself with a tight, pained breath.

You pulled back slightly, cupping his face, looking down into those wild, wrecked green eyes. "You okay?", you whispered.

Dean let out a choked laugh, one hand cradling the back of your head, holding you so gently. "Never been better", he whispered hoarsely. "Never… never had anything like this".

You kissed him again, deep and slow, and rocked your hips just a little faster, drawing a wrecked sound from deep in Dean’s chest.

Your bodies moved together, carefully, tenderly, every roll of your hips sending pleasure spiraling higher, every brush of skin against skin stitching something broken in him back together. This wasn’t just sex. This was Dean giving you everything. And you taking it, loving him right back, without fear, without hesitation.

Dean kept his movements small, gentle. Not because he didn’t want to lose himself in you, but because every deep thrust, every shift of his body, sent sparks of pain through his ribs and back. Still, he didn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop for anything.

His forehead stayed pressed against yours, his breath hot and ragged against your lips, his hands stroking up and down your sides, steady, grounding, full of wordless devotion.

You could feel it building between you, slow, steady, unstoppable.

Dean was whispering broken things against your mouth between kisses, things he probably didn’t even realize he was saying.

You moved a little faster, a little harder, feeling him swell even thicker inside you, his bruised body trembling under the strain of holding back, of letting you set the pace while he clung to every last second of this, of you.

Dean groaned low in his throat, his hands sliding up to cup your face, tilting your head so he could kiss you again, deep and desperate and full of everything.

The pleasure built higher with every careful movement, slow and aching and perfect, until you felt yourself teetering right on the edge.

"Come for me, sweetheart”, he rasped, his voice wrecked and shaking. “Wanna feel you… please, baby…”.

That was it. You shattered around him with a soft, broken cry, your body clenching tight, your hands fisting in his hair as waves of pleasure rolled through you, stealing the breath from your lungs.

Dean gasped against your mouth, his whole body seizing beneath you, his arms locking around your waist as he thrust up into you once, twice, as deep and careful as he could before he came too, groaning your name like a prayer.

His release hit him hard, harder than he expected, and he clutched you tight, burying his face against your neck as he trembled through it, his bruised body shuddering with the force of it.

You clung to him, holding him through it, feeling the way he shook, not just from the effort, not just from the pain, but from the sheer magnitude of what he was feeling.

When the aftershocks finally faded, you stayed wrapped around each other, neither of you moving, neither of you wanting to break the fragile, perfect bubble you’d created. Dean’s arms loosened just enough to let you breathe, but he kept you close, his hand stroking up and down your back in slow, shaky passes. “You okay?”, you whispered against his jaw, still breathless, your heart pounding in your chest.

Dean let out a low, shaky laugh, one full of disbelief, wonder, and something rawer, deeper. “Never been better”, he murmured hoarsely, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You kissed the side of his neck gently, feeling him shudder again, this time not from pain, but from emotion he couldn’t hide. And you stayed there, tangled up with him, your heart still racing, your bodies still joined, breathing each other in like you were the only thing keeping the world from falling apart.

Eventually, your breathing began to slow, the wild, pounding beat of both your hearts settling into something softer, a quiet thrum that filled the room.

Dean shifted under you slightly, wincing before he caught himself. He masked it quickly, so typical of him, but you caught it anyway. The way his body tensed. The flicker of pain he tried to hide.

You leaned up slowly, your hands framing his bruised face, your thumbs brushing across his rough stubble. “You’re hurting”, you whispered, more fact than question.

Dean gave a little shrug, trying to play it off, but his arms stayed wrapped around you like he couldn’t let go, like he was terrified that if he loosened his grip, this would all disappear. “’M fine”, he muttered gruffly. “Just… sore”.

You kissed him again, soft, lingering, before finally, reluctantly, easing off him. He groaned low in protest at the loss of your warmth, his body instinctively reaching for you even as he lay back, utterly spent. You smiled and whispered, “I’m not going anywhere”.

Dean’s arms dropped to his sides, his battered chest heaving with slow breaths as he watched you with those impossibly green eyes, open, raw, no defenses left.

You moved gently, grabbing a clean towel and easing it between your legs with a shy, soft smile. Dean’s gaze followed every little movement, full of so much tenderness it made your chest ache.

Then you slipped back into bed beside him, grabbing a box of tissues from your nightstand and leaning over him.

Dean opened his mouth to protest, to tell you he didn’t need anything, but you shot him a look that made him shut up immediately. He huffed a quiet, breathless laugh, turning his head to the side as you began carefully, lovingly wiping the sheen of sweat from his bruised, overheated skin.

You were so gentle with him, careful of every scrape, every tender spot. Dean just lay there and let you, blinking up at you like he didn’t understand what he’d done to deserve any of this. No one had ever touched him like this before. Not just the sex, the after. The care.

The way you smoothed the cloth over his ribs with careful little touches, like he was something precious instead of something broken. “You don’t have to…”, he started, voice rough.

You cut him off with a soft look. “I want to”.

Dean’s throat worked as he swallowed hard, like he was trying not to choke on whatever emotion was clawing its way up inside him.

When you finished, you tossed the cloth aside and slid back under the covers, curling up beside him carefully, mindful of his injuries. Dean immediately pulled you against him, even though it clearly hurt.

You laid your head against his chest, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart under your cheek. Dean pressed his lips to the top of your head, breathing you in like you were air and he’d been drowning without you.

For a long moment, you just lay there, wrapped around each other in the golden hush of the morning light.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Taglist: @blackcherrywhiskey @baby19sthings @suckitands33 @spnfamily-j2 @lyarr24 @deans-baby-momma @reignsboy19 @kawaii-arfid-memes @mekkencspony @lovziy @artemys-ackles @fitxgrld @libby99hb @lovelyvirtualperson @a-lil-pr1ncess @nancymcl @the-last-ry @spndeanwinchesterlvr @hobby27 @themarebarroww @kr804573 @impala67rollingthroughtown @deans-queen @deadlymistletoe @selfdestructionandrhum @utyblyn @winchesterwild78 @jackles010378 @chirazsstuff @foxyjwls007 @smoothdogsgirl @woooonau @whimsyfinny @freyabear @laaadygisbooornex3 @quietgirll75 @perpetualabsurdity @pughsexual @berryblues46 @deanwinchestersgirl8734 @kr804573 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @barnes70stark @roseblue373 @shanimallina87 @ascarriel @deanwinchesters67impala @thebiggerbear @quietgirll75 @barnes70stark @kellyls04 @spxideyver @ralilda @americanvenom13 @ozwriterchick @lmg14

[communionwafers]

tumblr's photo viewer sucks immensely, it's overly complicated for what it needs to do, i shouldn't have to wait an additional 15+ seconds for an image that's already loaded on my screen to load in what is essentially a separate application, it's literally faster and less annoying to download the image and just open it on my phone if i want to zoom in on it and look at the details, plus i don't risk accidentally swiping up and being subjected to some freak shit image that i don't care about and did not want to look at. does anyone understand. i feel like i'm going insane

[blank-potato]

that's what i like

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary:

It's impossible to teach when you’re hopelessly, irreversibly, maddeningly in love with the one you’re training. “So what now?” he asks, rolling up his sleeves. Big mistake. Huge mistake. Because now you’re at serious risk of going into full cardiac arrest. You didn’t even know you had a thing for forearms until Bob Reynolds. And his? They’re absurd. Or You love everything Bob does, and he doesn't seem to notice.

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, love confessions, friends to lovers, Bob and reader being cute, thirsting over the void a little

WC: 3.1k

A/N: Thank you again to @fire-joestar for the request/idea. Wrote something with the same kind of concept for John Walker, linked here. Enjoy!

***

Bob Reynolds is ruining your life.

Not in the dramatic, villain-of-your-story kind of way, but in the slow, quiet unravelling of your sanity. It’s too hard to be around him with all the smiling and casual charm and accidental intimacy that he does without even realising it.

And it’s always the little things which somehow make it worse.

His voice, for one. You were obsessed with his voice. He could be reading the back of a cereal box or listing off the ingredients in engine coolant, and it would still sound like poetry. Sometimes he’d actually read to you. You and Bob were the only members of the unofficial Avengers book club.

You’d often talk about books you’d read, trading recommendations like secrets, excitedly dissecting plot twists and favourite characters. It became a quiet ritual between you and Bob.

“There’s no audiobook,” you groaned one night, holding up the newest paperback in your stack. “I was hoping to listen to one so I could fall asleep.”

Bob, ever the calm in your chaos, looked over at you with that soft little smile he always wore when he was about to offer something way too generous.

“I can read it to you,” he said, casual like it wasn’t the most heart-stoppingly sweet thing you’d ever heard.

You blinked. “You sure you don’t mind?” you asked, voice tinged with both hope and hesitation.

But he just shook his head, already pulling a chair up beside your bed, brushing off any notion of it being a burden. “Not at all.”

His voice was too much. It filled the space in your room like a blanket. He didn’t touch you, not once, just sat a few feet away reading by the soft light of your bedside lamp. But somehow it still felt intimate, like his voice alone was petting you gently, like fingertips tracing down your spine, calming every frayed nerve.

But his voice wasn’t just soothing, it was sexy. You’d never tell him or the other Avengers this because of the whole traumatic experience and whatnot, but even when he became the void, his voice was something else.

It was dark and mocking, and it had you feeling some kind of way, only a little, because people were literally being turned into shadows and living out their trauma. But still, it pulled at something deep inside you and maybe made you discover a few things about yourself. Maybe something you should be concerned about, but nevertheless...

Although his voice isn’t the only thing that’s contributing to your downfall. 

Just this morning, you’re barely awake and walk in to be greeted by the sight of Bob making breakfast, one of your favourite sights. 

“Morning,” you mumble, suppressing a yawn.

“Morning…” he replies with an easy smile, going about his routine, setting up to make breakfast.

“Thank you, Bob,” you say, turning to him, feeling completely in control, your head still firmly attached to the rest of you.

But then you catch something, he’s cracking eggs one-handed. Now, you don’t know why that’s so captivating. Maybe it’s how strong and big his hands look, maybe it’s the effortless confidence in the motion. Or maybe it’s just because you’re so hopelessly in love with him that everything he does feels like it’s dipped in gold.

Either way, you liked it. A lot more than you probably should’ve.

“You could crack me like an egg,” you mumble quietly to yourself.

“Did you say something?” Bob asks, not hearing what you said, thank goodness.

“No, nothing at all. You’re looking good, the... the breakfast is looking good, I mean…” You stumble over your words, cheeks warming as you try to play it cool.

This crush you had on him certainly didn’t help when you had to help him train. He was like a baby cow, clumsy, unsure, and somehow always one step away from falling over his own feet. And everything he did just made him that much more endearing. The way he bit his lip when he was concentrating, the little apologetic smiles when he missed a step or fumbled a move, the way he always tried again without complaint. It was everything.

“You have to…um you have to…” You start, but your voice trails off as you catch the way he’s looking at you.

Another one of Bob’s quirks that has you going feral… the eye contact. He’s always so focused, so intent, like he’s really watching you, really seeing you. His eyes hold this sharp, unwavering attention that’s equal parts intense and disarming. It totally throws you off your game.

You’re brought back to your senses by him saying your name repeatedly.

“Where’d you go?” he says, putting his hand on your shoulder. You shake off the Bob-induced daze and look at him with full attention.

“I’m too hopeless a student?” He asks.

“Rather, I’m too hopeless of a teacher,” You reply with a chuckle, and it was true. It's impossible to teach when you’re hopelessly, irreversibly, maddeningly in love with the one you’re training.

“So what now?” he asks, rolling up his sleeves.

Big mistake.

Huge mistake.

Because now you’re at serious risk of going into full cardiac arrest.

You didn’t even know you had a thing for forearms until Bob Reynolds. And his? They’re absurd. The veins, the muscle, the smooth strength of his arms just disappearing under the fabric of his shirt. You can only imagine what his biceps look like. Or his shoulders. Or—

You shake your head quickly, trying to banish the rapidly spiralling thoughts. You know Bob is probably confused, waiting for an answer, but your eyes? Yeah, they’re glued to his damn forearms.

Damn his forearms.

“Break,” you blurt. “Ten-minute break. Minimum.”

Before he can respond, you practically launch yourself toward the water fountain, needing a distraction, a cooldown, and maybe divine intervention.

You take a long drink, trying not to think about veins. Or rolled-up sleeves. Or Bob at all. 

But Bob lived in your mind; he had taken up residence there as soon as you met, and he wasn’t moving out anytime soon. It wasn’t fair that he was cute but also kind and helpful? It made you want to crash into a wall. 

You were struggling with a particularly stubborn jar, the kind that mocks you with every twist. You could fight ten people with one hand tied behind your back, balance complex equations in your head, but you couldn’t defeat this jar of pickles.

Bob appears, quiet as ever, and silently offers to take it from your hands. You hesitate, then sigh and surrender.

He reaches over, his hand brushing yours, and takes it. In one fluid motion, he opens it like it's nothing. Like it hadn't just reduced you to near madness. Like your struggle had never even happened.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice barely making it past your lips.

He smiles softly, unbothered, warm. “What are friends for?” he says, placing his hand gently on your shoulder. It’s a brief touch that somehow says more than the words. And then he disappears down the hall, like it was nothing.

Right… friends. 

***

You’re wandering the tower again. When you have nothing to do, your feet always seem to lead you to Bob.

You knock on his door, and after a muffled "Come in," you step inside.

You look around and there he is, shaving in front of a small mirror propped up on the windowsill.

“Hope I’m not intruding…” You say hesitantly.

He glances at you through the mirror, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His hair is slightly damp and tousled, a few strands falling stubbornly into his eyes. He’s probably just stepped out of the shower a few minutes prior, the smell of his shampoo and lotion filling the air. 

He’s holding a razor, face half-lathered, brow furrowed in concentration. You liked him like this, all cute and focused. There was something about the way he moved with such care, guiding the blade with precise, practised strokes. It was intimate in a way you couldn’t explain.

“You don’t have to, but can you help me?” Bob asks, voice gentle but sure.

“Sure,” you reply, stepping closer.

And again, you’re hit with that electricity that crackles between you when your eyes meet. He watches you, patient and open, and you always wonder if he realises just how much that look affects you.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle,” you whisper, picking up the towel and dabbing away some stray foam. Your hand is steady now, more confident, and with it comes a strange kind of comfort. The scent of him surrounds you, clean, warm, a little woodsy. It was comforting and something else, too. You wanted to dive into it. To stay wrapped up in that scent, in him. You could only imagine waking up to your sheets smelling like him.

How the hell was the way he smelled even sexy?

“You smell good,” you say, without thinking.

You both go extremely still, equally flustered.

“So do you,” he finally replies, and there's another little pause. You stare at each other, your heart performing an Olympic-level gymnastics routine inside your chest.

“W–where’s your aftershave?” you ask, trying to find something to focus on that isn’t the intensity of his gaze.

“Bathroom,” he says, voice lower now.

You nod, quickly turning away. A second later, you’re back with the bottle in hand. You open it, the scent hitting you all over again, it’s undeniably him.

Without asking, you step closer and start applying it for him, your fingers brushing gently against his jaw, his cheek, his neck. Every feature, each line of his face, every angle was something you could get addicted to. A slow study of a man who somehow never felt like too much. 

You glance up.

He’s standing still, letting you do it, but he’s no longer meeting your eyes.

Now he’s the one who can’t make eye contact.

And it’s… adorable.

He’s quiet under your touch, eyes lowered, breath just a little more shallow than before. You can tell he’s holding back. Holding himself still, as if afraid that leaning into your hand might unravel something he’s worked hard to keep together.

The way his lashes flutter when your fingers graze the curve of his jaw. The way his shoulders tense, then ease, like he’s trying not to sink into the warmth of being seen.

He’s touch-starved. You can feel it, not in desperation, but in the aching restraint. The way his fists clenched and unclenched as if to distract himself. 

And you’re not much better off. Your hand lingers, thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone, and you’re forced to get a hold of yourself.  

“I’m, uh… all done,” you say, pulling your hands away from his face. You see the way his shoulders drop just slightly as he deflates, but you don’t read into it.

Bob nods, almost like he’s coming out of a trance. Like he can finally breathe again. “Well… thanks,” he says, voice soft.

You offer a quick, awkward smile, and then you’re scurrying your way out of his room like you’ve just committed a felony.

Because, honestly? Being that close to Bob felt like grounds for something dangerous. Emotional trespassing, maybe. Or reckless heart behaviour.

He was too fine for his own good.

And way, way too fine for your good.

***

Bob was always there for you, the most supportive presence anyone could wish for. So when you crashed into his room late at night, just as he’d finally started to fall asleep, he wasn’t mad. Not even close.

“There’s a spider in my room!” you declared, breathless and dramatic.

“It’s midnight…” Bob mumbled, mid-yawn, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Exactly! Imagine my surprise when it came lunging at me from inside my wardrobe. I tried to catch it, but the stubborn fucker escaped and crawled up my wall like it owned the place.”

He blinked at you, then sighed and swung his legs out of bed, already standing. His hair was messy, and his t-shirt clung a little unevenly from sleep. His steady steps led toward your door.

“It’s fine. You can hide behind me,” he said with a soft smile.

Then he casually and instinctively took your hand.

And just like that, something settled in your chest. His hand was warm, steady, and strong. His fingers laced through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. You could’ve let him hold it for hours.

You followed closely behind, using him shamelessly as a human shield. “Where is it?” he asked, already scanning your room like a man on a mission.

“There,” you pointed, spotting the tiny monster halfway up the far wall. “That’s him. The bold bastard.”

Bob narrowed his eyes and, without hesitation, lifted gently off the floor. You blinked. It still caught you off guard, seeing him use his powers. You hadn’t seen him even float since that day. And now here he was, levitating to defeat a spider for you.

It was more than just endearing.

It was… kind of ridiculously attractive.

He could’ve pulverised it. Turned it to dust without blinking. But instead, he hovered close, cupped it carefully in his hands like it was something fragile, and opened the window to let it go. 

Why the fuck was that so hot?

“Thanks…” you said softly, watching him touch back down, the faintest smile still on his lips.

He looked at you, all sleepy eyes and soft concern. “It’s no problem,” he said, his voice low. “Plus, I kind of liked saving you.”

Your heart did a little twist. You swallowed.

“This is… and you are completely within your right to say no, but…”

He tilted his head slightly, curious.

“Would you stay the night?” you asked, trying to sound casual. “You know. Just to protect me from any future spider insurgencies.”

His smile widened, just a little. “Well,” he said, moving closer, “can’t leave you defenceless now, can I?”

You smile and shift slightly, making enough space for him in the bed. He hesitates for only a moment before settling beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight.

You stare at him, his face softly illuminated by the distant glow of streetlights and the scattered lights of other buildings outside the window. His messy hair is fanned out against your pillow, and you can feel his body heat slowly merging with yours, a quiet warmth that pulls you in like gravity.

“Why’d you come and get me? Why not someone else?” Bob asks, his voice gentle as he turns toward you, rolling a little closer.

“You’re the one I want protecting me from evil spiders,” you answer honestly. No one else even came to mind. The moment you were scared or the least bit unsure, you could always turn to Bob. It was like instinct. 

“Why?” he presses, softer this time. He’s not looking at you now, his gaze shifted to the ceiling. You take a moment to just look at him—his side profile, the way his jaw tenses like he’s bracing for something, the small crease between his brows.

“Because…” you begin, the words slow. You pause, focusing on all the little things you like about him. His kindness, his dry humour, his quiet strength, and the way he always seems to make you feel calm.

Maybe it’s because it’s too late at night. Maybe it’s the safety of the dark. Maybe it’s the way your brain feels hazy and open and ready.

But the next words out of your mouth are:

“I like you.”

Bob freezes for a second, then jumps just a little, like the words caught him off guard. He slowly turns his head to look at you, his expression unreadable at first.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just stares.

And you wait. Heart in your throat. Every second, stretching. Either he was about to tell you he felt the same… or this was the moment your friendship shattered.

“I like you too,” he says.

His voice is soft and low, like he’s afraid saying it too loud might wake him from a dream. But his eyes are steady. And you can tell that he’s telling the truth.

You scoot closer, close enough to feel the way your breath mingles.

“So…” you murmur, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile, “what should we do about this little situation we’ve got ourselves in?”

Your heart is pounding so loudly, you’re sure he can hear it.

He leans in just a little, voice almost a whisper.

“I think we know.”

Tentatively, he reaches out, fingers brushing your cheek with a touch so careful it makes your breath catch. He looks at you like really looks at you as if trying to memorise the moment, commit it to something deeper than memory.

You exhale, slow and steady, and let yourself give in. You lean forward until your lips finally meet.

It’s soft at first, the kind of kiss that makes your heart soar and your whole body ache with relief. Bit by bit, it becomes more passionate as you melt into one another.  He deepens it, cupping your face fully in his hands, pulling you closer like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

And before you know it, you’re climbing into his lap, your arms around his shoulders, his hands steady at your waist. Everything feels like too much and just enough all at once.

He pauses, just barely pulling back, breath ghosting against your lips.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice husky, careful, but laced with something vulnerable.

You meet his gaze, no hesitation. You were in this for the long haul.

“More than anything.”

The next day, upon seeing Bob’s door wide open and no Bob anywhere to be seen, the team went into immediate panic mode. They searched high and low, worried he’d disappeared on them in the middle of the night.

“Have you seen—?” Yelena begins, swinging open your door mid-sentence, only to stop dead in her tracks at the sight of you and Bob fast asleep, wrapped up in each other’s arms.

The rest of the team crowds in behind her, eyes wide, jaws dropping.

You jolt awake at the sound, blinking in confusion as you realise the entirety of the Avengers are now in your doorway.

You shriek, diving under the covers and yanking them up to your chin to salvage whatever dignity you have left. “Privacy! Ever heard of it?!”

“Called it,” Ava and John say in perfect sync, like they just won a bet.

You groan, your entire face heating as you sink lower into the sheets, mortified.

Meanwhile, Bob? Still fast asleep, completely unbothered by the intrusion, his arm still draped across your waist like nothing’s changed. How is he sleeping through this?

You glance at him in disbelief, then back at the group.

“Can everyone get out now?!”

Yelena smiles. “We’re so happy for you two.”

“Out!”

Masterlist

[jungwnies]

wreckage - charles leclerc

୨ৎ : pairing : charles leclerc x wife!reader ୨ৎ : synopsis : after a heated argument with charles, you watch in horror as his car crashes during a race

୨ৎ : genre : angst ୨ৎ : tws : car accident/injury, arguments/conflict, anxiety/panic, trauma, medical trauma. ୨ৎ : wc : 1318

part one | part two | part three | part four

They say life can change in the blink of an eye. One second, everything feels steady, solid, like the ground beneath your feet couldn’t possibly give way. And then it does. Maybe that’s the irony of it all—you never see it coming. Not really. You think you’re prepared, think you’ve braced yourself, but you’re never quite ready for the moment it all falls apart.

You fought this morning. Not just a little spat about something trivial—no, this was one of those fights that echoed louder than it should have. The kind that lingered, thick in the air, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth even hours later.

It wasn’t about anything catastrophic, either, but somehow, with Charles, the small things had a way of snowballing. His schedule. Your schedule. The time you didn’t have together. The things he didn’t say and the things you did.

“I’m trying, okay? You think it’s easy for me?” he’d snapped, his accent sharpening the edges of his words. “You know what this life is like.”

“Yeah, Charles, I do. But I also know you don’t get to use it as an excuse every single time something gets hard. I’m here, too, and I’m trying to make this work just as much as you are.”

His jaw had tightened, his gaze flickering to the ground before meeting yours again. “Sometimes it feels like no matter what I do, it’s never enough for you.”

You’d felt the sting of those words, like a slap across the face. But you weren’t one to back down, not even when the weight of his frustration pressed heavy on your chest.

“You don’t get to say that to me, not when I’m the one waiting, worrying, wondering if this is ever going to feel… stable. Do you know how hard it is to love someone who’s never really here?”

The silence that followed was deafening, his features a mix of hurt and anger, like he didn’t know which to lean into more. And then he’d said it.

“Maybe it’s hard because you don’t trust me enough to believe that I’m doing my best.”

You hadn’t answered, and maybe that was the problem. The fight ended there, not because either of you wanted it to but because there was no time to fix it. Not when he had a race to prepare for, and you had to pretend like none of this was tearing you apart from the inside out.

When you arrived at the paddock, it felt impossible to mask the weight of the argument. You greeted a few people with forced smiles, but you could see some of them watching you a little too closely. It didn’t help that Charles seemed just as tense, his jaw set and his usual ease nowhere to be found.

Carlos was the first to pull you aside, his brown eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned closer. “¿Qué pasa, eh? You look like someone stole your churros, and Charles… well, he looks worse. What happened?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “It’s fine.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Amiga, por favor. I know you, and I know him. Whatever this is, it’s not nothing.”

You sighed, glancing over your shoulder where Charles was talking to his engineers. “We just… had a fight this morning. It’s not a big deal.”

Carlos gave you a skeptical look. “Not a big deal? You’re both walking around like someone cancelled Christmas. If you’re not okay, neither is he. You should talk to him before the race.”

You hesitated, the memory of this morning’s argument still fresh in your mind. “I don’t want to distract him. He needs to focus.”

Carlos clicked his tongue, shaking his head with a small smile. “Tch. If you think he’s focusing now, you’re wrong. You being upset is a bigger distraction than anything else. Go.”

Reluctantly, you nodded and made your way toward Charles. He was still in deep conversation with one of his engineers, but when he saw you approaching, his expression softened—just slightly.

“Hey,” you said quietly, folding your arms across your chest.

“Hey,” he replied, his voice lower than usual. There was a pause, the tension between you lingering like a storm cloud.

“Good luck out there,” you finally said, your voice steadier than you felt. “I mean it. Be safe.”

Charles studied you for a moment, his green eyes searching yours. Then he nodded. “And… I’m sorry. For earlier.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, someone called for him, signaling it was time to get ready. He gave you one last look, then turned and walked away, leaving you standing there with words unsaid.

The race began, and for a while, the roar of engines and the blur of cars distracted you. Charles was in good form, holding his position, making clean overtakes. You found yourself exhaling with relief every time his car flashed across the screen.

But then it happened.

It was almost too fast to comprehend. One moment, Charles was rounding a corner, perfectly in control. The next, there was smoke, debris, and the sickening crunch of metal against metal.

Your heart stopped.

The commentators’ voices rose in panic, their words a jumbled mess that barely registered in your mind. “Oh no, that’s Leclerc… that’s a big one.”

Everything else faded—the noise of the crowd, the hum of your thoughts—until all that remained was the image of his car, mangled and still.

“Red flag,” one of them said, and that’s when it hit you. They’d stopped the race. It was bad.

Your hands trembled as you gripped the edge of the table, your breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening.

The minutes crawled by like hours, every second another layer of dread settling in your chest. You kept your eyes glued to the screen, desperate for any sign, any update, anything to tell you he was okay.

When they finally cut to the scene, you saw the medics surrounding his car, moving quickly but carefully.

“He’s conscious,” one of the commentators said, and you felt a rush of air leave your lungs, but it wasn’t enough. Not until you saw him. Not until you heard him.

You thought back to the fight, to the last thing he said to you, and it made you sick to your stomach. This couldn’t be the last memory you had of him, the last words you exchanged. It couldn’t.

You were already reaching for your phone, dialing his team, someone, anyone who could give you more than the vague reassurance of the broadcast.

“Please,” you whispered, the word barely audible over the pounding of your heart. “Please let him be okay.”

It’s strange, how quickly everything can unravel. You think you’ve got it all figured out, that the argument was just another bump in the road. But in the back of your mind, there’s always that voice whispering, telling you that things might never be the same.

And now, with every second that ticks by, your thoughts spiral, faster and faster, until you can’t breathe. What if this is it? What if those were the last words you ever said to him?

You close your eyes, trying to steady yourself, but all you can see is that image of his car, broken and still. Your pulse races. You told him you loved him today, but did he really hear you? Was he ever truly certain, or was that last moment of tension, the words left unsaid, enough to make him doubt everything?

You hate this. You hate the fear gnawing at you. You hate that you're sitting here, helpless, as he’s out there fighting for his life. That feeling of powerlessness—it’s unbearable.

Please, you think again, clutching the phone like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality. Please, don’t let this be the end.

© 2024 jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

[kruegerspillow]

simon riley who just needs to be understood. that's all. one whole jar of pity wouldn't do it, he needs you to acknowledge him. and, when you do, he'll surrender himself faster than he should.

The rain pours down heavily against the roof, the sound of pitter-patters humming throughout your house.

It had been weeks ever since Simon's leave and the sudden change hits you harder than a damn truck. It's just going to be a few weeks, he wrote down in the letter. But, you never really believed him, no. Fuck, you know he'd do anything (that includes lying) just for you to be at ease.

Though, the bed felt colder than before. Your place felt even more... tense, with the feeling of unease running through your body and the unusual, eerie silence. His job wasn't an easy one, and with the fact that his life is on the line, it made it worse.

Your heartbeat quickened as you looked down at your phone, scrolling through the messages and pictures Simon had sent the other day. You don't understand how soldiers could be so composed in the middle of the battlefield, including Simon himself. You'd be damned if you heard a single gunshot ringing across you.

Suddenly, the familiar sound of a car engine knocked you out of your trance. Your head perked up, a feeling of hope sparking up in your weary heart. Could it be him? You thought to yourself. He's earlier than usual.

You placed your phone on the table, gaze locking onto the front door as you leaned back against the armrest of the couch, a pillow pressed against your back. The sound of the engine eventually came to a stop, then—

Click.

There he was. Simon motherfuckin' Riley.

He took off his boots and placed them aside as soon as he met your gaze. The smell of rain and dirt lingered around him, but he didn't care anymore. Not when the love of his life is right in front of him, waiting patiently to be placed into his embrace. But, he's fuckin' exhausted, and he can't help but let the feeling of fatigue take over his body.

He closed the door behind him, walking towards you with a look of deep longing and care. His bags were left right beside the front door. Your eyes travelled over his figure, searching for any new scars or wounds.

"Bloody 'ell, I missed ya s'much." He murmured, his voice raspy and carried a handful of emotions.

Before you knew it, he plopped down onto you, head resting against your plump thighs, earning an amused gasp from you. His arms softly wrapped around your waist, slipping underneath your shirt before caressing your bare skin. You sighed in content, relaxing beneath him before your hands made their way to his hair, running your fingers through his hair.

"Welcome home, Simon." You greeted him, your voice filled with warmth and relief.

He grunted in response, burying his face between your thigh, causing you to nearly whimper in response. But you knew he ran out of the energy, having finished a tiring deployment. Your gaze softened at the sight before you. Sometimes, even the strongest souls get exhausted.

"Want me to make tea for you, love?" You softly whispered into his ear.

He shook his head, wanting to hold you just for a while (that's a lie. He'd go through the whole month burying his face into you) and you understood, staying silent as you embraced him. You let him do his thing and fuck he was turned on by that mere fact. But, for now, lust was long forgotten, buried away by the need of your comfort and warmth.

Your hands gently massaged his tense shoulder, feeling the way his muscles relaxed under your touch. Slowly, his vision fades into nothingness, for your touch has provided comfort even to the soul of the corrupt. Surrendering himself into sleep had never felt so... easy.

And, soon, he'll show you just how lucky he is to have you.

kruegerspillow © 2024 ➵ do not feed my work into ai, repost or translate my work. Reblogs are much appreciated ୨ৎ

[lnracer]

Hey babe, I have a little request if you’re open to it !!

Could you maybe write something Kimi Antonelli x fem!reader where she’s still in high school and doesn’t come from money at all? Like she feels super out of place in his world — all the hotels, race weekends, the fancy people, and she kind of feels like she’s not “enough.”

But he’s just… soft. Gentle. The kind of guy who makes her feel safe, like she does belong, even when everything feels overwhelming.

I’d love something comforting, maybe with a tiny bit of angst because… identity crisis hits hard sometimes. I just feel like we don’t get enough of that dynamic. Golden boy driver and the girl who still takes the bus to school. No pressure at all! But if it ever inspires you… I will cry. In the best way.

Thank you so much if you do fill my request and of course I understand if you don’t. Have a lovely day!

Pairing: Kimi Antonelli x High Schooler! Female Reader.

Warnings: Mild angst with a happy ending, emotional arguments, self-doubt/insecurity, class difference/social disparity and hurt/comfort.

Word Count: 2.164k.

a/n: Ahh, thank you so much for the request! 🥹 It's really not the kind of dynamic I usually see around here, but I loved writing about it and I hope I was able to capture what you imagined (even the saddest and most complicated parts) I hope you like it! ☺️🩵

Her heels clicked softly against the pristine pavement of the Monte Carlo paddock, the sound nearly swallowed by the hum of engines and a buzz of conversation laced with designer perfume. She tugged at the hem of her floral sundress — a soft, pretty thing she’d found on sale weeks ago — and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, trying not to flinch under the eyes that passed over her.

They weren’t cruel. Not exactly. Just curious. Polished. Intrigued.

She knew how she looked next to them — tall women with sleek blowouts, tailored blazers thrown over slinky minidresses, legs that disappeared into Louboutins. Everything about them screamed expensive.

And then there was her. Pretty, sure. But simple. Sweet. A soft pink lip gloss in a sea of sharp red lips.

Kimi noticed. He always noticed.

“Hey,” he said as he reached her side, sunglasses pushing up into his curls. His hand found her waist like it was muscle memory, warm and easy. “You okay?”

She nodded quickly, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just… not really used to all this.” Her voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the luxury around them. “It’s a lot.”

Kimi’s jaw tensed, just slightly. He saw the way her gaze dropped whenever another glamazon strutted by, saw the way she folded inward, like she was trying to shrink herself.

He leaned in, voice low so only she could hear. “You don’t have to be like them. I don’t want you to be like them.”

She looked up at him, surprised.

“I like your dress,” he added, brushing a finger down the strap of her sundress. “I like that you’re here, even when it’s not easy. I know this world is loud. But you make it feel quiet.”

She blinked, heart stuttering at the way he looked at her — like she was calm in the chaos.

And in that moment, even surrounded by gold watches and camera flashes, she started to believe that maybe… she was enough.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

Until she didn't think so.

It was past 6 p.m. by the time they got back to the hotel suite — lavish, towering above the harbor, too many mirrors and far too much silence. Kimi was in the shower, washing away the sweat and stress of qualifying. She was curled on the edge of the bed, phone clutched tight in her hand, screen glowing with a headline that made her stomach twist:

“Kimi Antonelli’s mystery girlfriend spotted in the paddock — pretty, but painfully out of place?”

Her cheeks burned. Her jaw clenched. And the comments were worse — anonymous, faceless words from strangers, dissecting her like she was a novelty.

“Looks like she wandered in from a flower shop in the countryside.”

“She’s cute, I guess, but she looks like a schoolgirl next to those women.”

“Sweet, but not really WAG material, huh?”

She locked the phone and dropped it onto the nightstand like it burned. It wasn’t new — she’d felt the stares. She’d felt the way some of the grid girls looked her up and down. But seeing it written out, confirmed, cemented in black-and-white — that hit different.

When Kimi stepped out of the bathroom in a t-shirt and sweats, towel-drying his curls, he spotted her right away — still, quiet, distant.

“Hey,” he said gently, moving to sit beside her. “You okay?”

She looked at him, eyes glassy. “I saw something.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

She didn’t answer right away, just reached for her phone, handed it to him. Kimi read the headline, then the comments. His expression hardened. “This is bullshit.”

She gave a soft laugh, bitter and barely there. “Is it?”

He turned to her, eyes sharp. “Yes.”

“You didn’t think that the moment you brought me here? That maybe… maybe I don’t fit?” Her voice cracked. “Kimi, I’m still doing high school homework while you’re out there in an F1 seat. I don’t own a single designer anything. I smiled at Susie Wolff earlier and she looked at me like I was sweetly delusional.”

The air thickened. Kimi stood, pacing for a moment, frustration simmering under his skin. “I’m doing homework too. I’m your age too. Just because there’s money and cameras doesn’t mean I’m not still figuring things out.”

She shook her head. “It’s not the same. You’ve been groomed for this world since you were a kid. I… I still have to ask if we can split dinner when I go out with friends. I don’t come from anything, Kimi.”

He crossed the room in two strides. “I chose you. Out of everyone. And I don’t give a damn if you don’t have a designer bag or if you do homework in my hotel bed — I love that about you.”

She blinked at that. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I want to say it.” His voice was low. “Because it’s true. But if you keep looking at yourself through their eyes — those people who don’t know you — you’ll ruin us before they ever could.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Her eyes were glassy again. “I just… don’t want to hold you back.”

“You don’t.” He stepped closer, hand brushing her jaw, tilting her chin up. “You keep me grounded. Don’t push me away because the world doesn’t make room for girls like you. I’ll make room.”

He was genuinely sincere — he always was — she knew he really meant it, what she wasn't sure about was whether it would be easy in practice.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

Barcelona, Spanish Grand Prix – Saturday Night

The air in the hotel suite was warm, heavy with humidity and tension. She sat on the window bench, knees pulled up, trying not to cry. Again.

Kimi stood near the dresser, pulling off his team hoodie with too much force, like it had personally offended him. “You didn’t even come to the garage today.”

She flinched. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Bullshit,” he snapped, turning to her. “You’re avoiding me.”

She lifted her eyes to meet his, voice low. “Because every time we talk lately, we fight.”

Silence. Harsh and sudden.

He ran a hand through his curls, exhaling hard. “So what? You just give up?”

She stood then, too fast. “I didn’t give up. I’ve been trying so hard, Kimi. But it’s like I’m never enough for this world. And now I’m starting to wonder if I’m not enough for you, either.”

His face twisted — hurt and anger flickering in equal measure. “Don’t put that on me.”

“Then what do you want from me?” she said, voice shaking. “To keep pretending I’m okay when the comments get worse, when I feel like your accessory instead of your girlfriend? When I’m expected to smile next to women who have million-dollar contracts and ten-year media training? You have no idea how hard it is to stay in a world that constantly tells you you’re out of place—”

He cut her off, sharp. “You think this is easy for me as well? Balancing racing, press, you—”

“Oh, I’m a burden now?”

He froze. “That’s not what I meant.”

“But you said it.” Her voice broke. “You said it and you meant it.”

Kimi looked down, breathing hard. “I didn’t. I swear.”

But it was too late. The damage had been done.

She stepped back like he’d physically struck her, arms folded across her chest like armor. “Maybe we should take a break.”

His eyes snapped up, wide with disbelief. “No.”

“Kimi—”

“No,” he said again, voice rough. “You don’t get to walk away just because things got hard.”

“I’m not walking away,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “I’m just… trying to protect what little of me I have left.”

He stared at her then, quiet, wrecked, and helpless. Like a boy lost in a world that was suddenly too big for both of them.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them knew how.

And in the silence between them, it was suddenly obvious:

They were still in love.

But maybe that wasn’t enough anymore.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

They barely spoke in the car that morning.

He asked if she wanted coffee. She said no.

He reached for her hand. She pulled her sleeve over her fingers.

It wasn’t cold in Spain, but something between them was frozen.

She didn’t make it to the paddock that day. Said she had homework to catch up on. He didn’t argue. He just nodded with a tight smile, then left.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

The post-qualifying press conference was routine until it wasn’t.

A woman with too-white teeth and a smug smile leaned into her mic. She wasn’t with F1 media. Not really.

“Great quali, Kimi,” she purred. “You’ve been quite impressive this season. Seems like you’re adapting quickly to the F1 lifestyle — fast cars, jet-setting, glamorous weekends…”

He nodded once. She continued, voice light but loaded.

“…Just wondering, with all the attention and, let’s say, expectations around young drivers and their image, do you ever feel pressure to — hm — upgrade your personal life to match the brand?”

A few chuckles from the room. Microphones crackled. The other drivers turned to look at him.

He knew what she meant.

She meant her.

He sat up straighter. Calm. Still. But his voice cut like a blade.

“Are you asking if my girlfriend doesn’t fit the aesthetic you expect?”

The woman blinked. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

“Because that’s what you just implied.”

“No, I—”

“She’s not the one who needs upgrading,” he said, firm and deliberate. “She's smart. She’s grounded. She reminds me that there's more to life than this bubble. And if that doesn’t match your ‘brand,’ then maybe it’s your idea of success that needs to be rethought.”

Silence. Heavy and uncomfortable.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t offer a wink or a joke to smooth it over.

He just sat there, eyes locked on her like he dared her to speak again.

The moderator quickly moved on, but the damage — or maybe the justice — was done.

Clips went viral before the press conference ended.

And later that night, when she opened Twitter and saw the clip — Kimi Antonelli, eyes sharp, voice unwavering — defending her against the world she feared…

She didn’t call him.

But she showed up, cheeks pink from the cold, and whispered, “Thank you.”

He didn’t say anything, just pulled her into his arms like he’d been waiting all week.

“You didn’t have to do that, Kimi,” she said softly. “I didn’t ask you to defend me like that. I never wanted to cause you any trouble…”

He took a deep breath, shaking his head, guilt creeping into his chest. “I didn’t do it for trouble. I did it for you.” His hand brushed her arm, soft but desperate. “You’re not a distraction. You’re not a burden. You’re… you’re everything. You make me feel alive.”

The tears she’d been holding back slipped down her cheeks, and Kimi’s heart twisted in his chest. She looked so small, so vulnerable in this big, overwhelming world she didn’t ask to be a part of.

“I told you once,” he murmured, voice rough. “I don’t care if you don’t fit this world. You fit with me.”

She shook her head, sniffling. “But… I’m not like them. I don’t know how to… how to be the girlfriend you’re supposed to have. I’m just—”

“Stop.” Kimi wiped away a stray tear from her cheek. “You’re everything I need. You’re exactly who I need. And if I have to fight every damn person in this world to keep you — then that’s what I’ll do. I’m not in this for the ‘perfect’ girlfriend. I’m in this for you.”

She collapsed into his chest then, shaking as sobs wracked her body. Kimi held her close, his arms wrapping around her like he was afraid she might disappear if he let go.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I never meant to make you feel like you didn’t belong. I just… I just wanted to protect you. I didn’t want you to think you were alone in this.”

She squeezed him tighter, the tears soaking into his shirt, but for the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t feel so alone.

“I don’t need anyone but you, Kimi,” she whispered against his chest, voice muffled. “I never did. I was just scared... I was scared I wasn’t enough for you.”

Kimi pulled back slightly, cupping her face in his hands, forcing her to meet his eyes. “You’re more than enough. You’re exactly what I need. Don’t ever doubt that.”

For the first time in weeks, they were both quiet — no more doubts, no more words left unsaid. They simply stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, letting everything else fade away.

And when she finally looked up at him, her eyes swollen but sincere, Kimi knew:

It didn’t matter if she fit into his world or not.

They fit with each other.

And that was all that ever mattered.

[twirlyleafs]

“Professional girlfriend.”

Lando Norris x engineer! Reader

TW: nothing special I think

~~~~

Usually you were pretty good at separating your professional relationship with Lando from your personal one, but today it seemed to be tougher than usual. Everyone knew you and Lando were dating, you’d never tried to hide it, but you also never acted like a couple in the garage or around the other engineers. Not that you met too much during the workdays, since you worked principally on Oscars side. During debriefs or meetings you could sometimes catch Lando looking at you and he always offered a discreet wink, making you have to push down a smile as you quickly looked away again, but never more than that.

“Alright, today was obviously not our best.” Andrea spoke up from one end of the long line of tables. That was putting it lightly. Qualifying had been rough, straight out, with bad tyre temps, shitty strategies and yellow flags fucking everything up, making Oscar start seventh tomorrow and Lando down at tenth. From the second he stepped into the room you could tell he was beating himself up for it and you couldn’t help but feel the girlfriend side of you crumble a bit. Lando hadn’t met your gaze even once and as Andrea kept talking about the day you noted how his shoulders just kept slumping more and more. Taking a deep breath you pulled your gaze from your obviously upset boyfriend, trying to focus back on the data displayed on the screen in front of you. You gave your report, keeping it short and straight to the point, and then you leaned back in your chair and waited for the meeting to be over. When Andrea finally excused you, ending with some inspirational quote about tomorrow being a new day, you gathered up your things with a sigh. You saw Lando talking with some of his engineers and you decided to go and drop off your stuff before meeting up with him. Unfortunately you got caught up for a while, chatting with your colleagues, and when you were finally free you almost felt a bit stressed to get to Landos driver room, wanting to be there to comfort him before he spiraled to much.

“Lan?” You knocked softly on the door, trying the handle even though you didn’t get an answer. The door opened and it didn’t take you more than a couple of seconds to conclude that he wasn’t there. Sighing you hoisted your bag higher up on your shoulder, setting out to find your boyfriend. Everyone you met offered sympathetic smiles, they all knew you were the one who’d comfort Lando tonight, but when you asked them if they’d seen him they all shook their heads. No one knew where he was. For several minutes you walked around the unit until you almost bumped into Will.

“Hey!” The man’s gaze snapped up from the iPad he was carrying, surprised look softening into a tired smile when he saw you.

“Hey, you’re still here?”

“I can’t find Lando.” You mumbled, getting straight to the point, and Wills face fell slightly. When you raised your eyebrows he let out a soft sigh.

“I think he might still be in the conference room, he said he wanted to go over some things from today-“

“Will.” You practically groaned, shaking your head. You and Will had talked about this before, agreeing that it wasn’t good for anyone to let the drivers sit alone and nitpick things even if they wanted too. You said drivers, but it had basically never been an issue with Oscar. Lando, on the other hand, was an expert at staring himself blind on the data, ending up feeling worse the more he watched.

“I know, I know.” Will sighed, shaking his head. “I tried to tell him but he wouldn’t have it. He told me he’d talked to you about it already.”

“He definitely hasn’t.” You checked your phone to be sure but you knew there wouldn’t be a text from him. Looking back at Will you offered a crooked smile. “I’ll get him. Thank you. But you need to be harder on him when it comes to this.” At that Will couldn’t help but scoff, shrugging his shoulders.

“You know he doesn’t listen to anyone. Maybe you, a bit, definitely not me.”

You said goodbye to Will, quick steps taking you back towards where you last saw Lando. When you reached the conference room you first thought Will had been wrong, not seeing Lando through the glass wall. The lights were dimmed, most screens turned off, but as you got closer you could see the light from one computer still flickering in the room. Stopping just outside the door you watched the back of your boyfriend for a few seconds, feeling your chest clench at the way he sat with his shoulders slumped, staring at the screen. With a soft sigh you pushed the door open, carefully letting it click closed behind you again as you placed your bag down on the floor. Lando didn’t hear you, or if he did he didn’t react. You watched the back of his head for a moment, gaze trailing his tense shoulders before you slowly moved closer to him. The second your hands came in contact with his back, stroking over it gently, Lando flinched slightly.

“Sorry.” You mumbled quietly, feeling him relax under your touch. As your hands kept rubbing his back, moving up over his shoulders, Landos gaze never left the screen in front of him. It wasn’t until you finally wrapped your arms around his shoulders from behind, leaning down to press a couple of kisses against his ear and cheek, that he actually acknowledged you. It wasn’t much, but he lifted one hand to grab onto your arm across his chest, stroking it slowly with his thumb.

“Hey.” His voice was quiet and you could tell how down he was by just that one word. Not that you had expected anything else.

“Are you ready to go back to the hotel my love?”

“I don’t think so. Sorry.” His hand dropped from your arm.

“Come on baby, you know this isn’t good for you.”

“You can go, I’ll come later. Have some stuff I need to review.” You could tell by his voice that he wouldn’t listen to you, he wouldn’t leave. Despite just calling Will out for letting Lando make the decisions you couldn’t help but accept defeat, pausing for a second before slowly pulling away. A moment later you were seated in the chair next to him.

“What is it we need to review?”

“No, you don’t-“ he actually turned to look at you, pausing when he noted the expression on your face. Lando knew you well enough to realize you wouldn’t leave him alone and despite wanting to be left in his bubble of self hatred he couldn’t help but feel appreciative. As he hesitated you spoke up again.

“If you have things you want to look at, we’ll do it together. Then we leave together. I’m not letting you sit here alone and beat yourself up over today.” You tried to speak as softly as you could while still remaining stern, you wanted him to know you were on his side. Always. Lando waited for a moment but eventually nodded, taking a deep breath.

“Okay. Yeah, okay.” His hand swiped across the surface of the table, closer to you, and you were quick to wrap your fingers around his larger ones. Lando watched your hands for a second before his gaze flickered up to met yours. “Thank you.” At that you couldn’t help but smile softly, nodding as you squeezed his hand.

”Anytime.”

The two of you stayed for a while, looking through the data and discussing exactly what went wrong where. While you were always honest with Lando, agreeing that he had done some mistakes that probably cost him a couple positions, you were also quick to point out all the circumstances that he had nothing to do with. Team mistakes, flags, weather- you made sure he didn’t take the blame for more than he should. As the clocked ticked on you felt yourself slump more and more and soon enough you were leaning against your boyfriend, cheek pressed against his shoulder and eyes fixed on the screen.

“You tired?” Lando suddenly paused the video the two of you were currently looking at, glancing down at you. You blinked rapidly a few times, pulling away to force some energy back into your body.

“Me?” You shook your head. “I’m fine.” Lando stared at you, raising an eyebrow as he waited for you to tell him the truth. You wouldn’t, however you couldn’t stop the yawn escaping your lips and Lando let out a soft chuckle.

“Maybe it’s time to get out of here?”

“Yeah? You feel ready to pack up?”

“Yeah well,” Lando sighed. “You know I could sit here until tomorrow morning and pick at things…” he trailed off and you reached over to wrap your fingers around his wrist, stroking over his pulse point.

“But that wouldn’t help.”

“Probably not.” He turned to look at you again. You tilted your head, offering a sweet smile.

“If you’re ready to leave, I am too. I think it’ll be nice to get back to the hotel? Take a nice warm shower together? Order up some food, eat in bed…” you pulled your hand from his wrist to reach up and drag it through his curls, gently scratching down his neck. “I’ll give you some back rubs if you want?” Landos eyes were trained on you as you spoke and you loved the way the corners of his lips actually began to turn upwards.

“You had me at shower, honestly.” He mused quietly, earning a laugh from you.

”Alright, let’s go then big boy.” You gently patted his cheek, offering a quick wink before pulling away. Pushing your chair out from the table you stood up, stretching with a soft groan before turning around to grab your stuff from the floor. You didn’t make it more than a step before fingers wrapped around your arm and with a soft tug you were pulled back around to face your boyfriend. Before you could react his hand had found its place holding your jaw and barely a second later his lips were on yours, offering the sweetest kiss. You couldn’t stop the smile spreading across your face, hands snaking across his abdomen to squeeze his sides through the fireproofs as you kissed him back. When he eventually pulled away he did so barely an inch, eyes flickering between yours a few times before he offered a couple more hard pecks against your lips. You hummed out a giggle, leaning back to look up at him.

“Thank you.” Lando mumbled, the softest little smile on his face. Pursing your lips you shrugged your shoulders, snaking your arms around his torso.

“I’m just doing my job. As an engineer and a girlfriend. I take them equally serious.” That had Lando actually let out a small chuckle and the smile on your face widened.

“You’re a professional at both, I’d say.” He mumbled softly, leaning down to kiss you again. “Especially the latter.”

[piastriprincess]

under  an  april  sky  ⸻  oscar  piastri  x  reader  .

featuring  oscar  piastri  ,  driver!reader  ,  she  fell  first  he  fell  harder  ,  first  kiss  . word  count  1.3k author’s  note  when  the  lovely  @tsunodaradio  requests  extras  i  give  them  extras  !  kae  you  are  an  angel  and  i’m  endlessly  grateful  everytime  i  see  your  name  in  my  dms  or  inbox  <3  this  scene  was  originally  written  as  the  last  part  of  the  birthday  build - a - fic  ,  but  i  liked  the  more  ambiguous  ending  at  the  photoshoot  .  i  was  so  sad  to  cut  her  originally  so  i’m  glad  i  got  to  rework  her  a  little  and  she’s  finally  seeing  the  light  of  day  !!  this  can  be  read  as  a  standalone  but  i  recommend  reading  orange  show  speedway  first  for  context  .  and  because  i  can’t  leave  these  two  alone  …  another  little  blurb  is  in  the  works  hopefully coming  out  this  weekend  heehee  !  title  is  from  apple  pie  ,  also  by  lizzy  mcalpine  !

You really shouldn’t be awake. 

It’s just past midnight — the witching hour, your mother used to call it. The term makes the crisp desert air feel heavy with meaning and magic, even if it’s just another chilly April night in a city that’s not your own. The hotel pool is empty this late, steam rising off the water as the underwater lights cast rippling turquoise motifs over the concrete. You sit at the edge, slipping your bare legs into the balmy water, and trace absentminded patterns over the surface with your fingertips. 

You have a race tomorrow. You have a curfew. You should be tucked soundly away in bed by now. But sleep has been elusive ever since the photoshoot, since Oscar’s words hung in the air between you like something fragile and precious you didn’t dare touch. 

You didn’t even have to try, and it was hard not to look at you. 

It’s hard to shut off your brain when the line runs through your mind approximately seven thousand times a day. Every time you manage to calm your restless thoughts enough to drift off, your dreams are still filled with blushing cheeks and phantom honey-brown eyes. 

It’s been nearly six weeks since the sentence that turned your world on its axis, and things between you and Oscar have shifted in a way that you wouldn’t have believed if you weren’t living it. The crush you once thought was hopelessly one-sided suddenly has company. Where you once got polite smiles and friendly professionalism, now you get the kind of attention that makes you a little dizzy. He lingers by the Racing Bulls garage so much that your engineers have started jokingly speculating he’s trying to commit team espionage. Sometimes, you catch him looking for you in the crowds, like he’s not quite settled unless he knows where you are. Your text conversations have evolved from race talk to everything and anything else — late night debates about music, complaints about the paddock lunches, inside jokes that make your heart kick wildly in your chest. 

Even with all the obvious affection, though, he hadn’t made a move. Not a real one. Sure, he’d let your knees knock together in driver’s briefings, brushed his hand over yours when he passed you things, smiled at you in that soft, boyish way of his. But there’d been no kiss, no confession. No moment you could point to as the stepping stone from almost to something more. It’s worse in a way, watching someone you’ve quietly pined over for months reciprocate at a careful distance, like he’s running the numbers in his head about whether or not it would ruin something to want you this much.

Still, you were trying very hard not to be greedy. Whatever you had with Oscar now was already more than you’d ever expected to get. 

“Thought I might find you here,” someone says, and for a moment you think you’ve really gone off the deep end with the feelings and started hallucinating his voice in your head. But when you glance over your shoulder at the door, there’s Oscar in an oversized hoodie and shorts, hair damp and curling around his ears the way you like it best, eyes warm and familiar. 

“How did you know?” 

“You told me you like hotel pools,” he replies, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like it wasn’t something you mentioned offhandedly weeks ago when you first started texting, about how you used to sneak up with a book for peace and quiet while the boys you karted with drank warm beer and roughhoused in their hotel rooms. You never expected him to remember it. It makes something warm bloom in your chest. “Can I —”

“Stay,” you say a little too quickly. His eyes widen slightly, pleased, and you can feel your cheeks heat up under his gaze. “I-I mean, if you want,” you stammer. “You’re not bothering me.”

His smile is impossibly soft. “Okay.”

He sits next to you, feet in the water, close enough that you can smell the sweet scent of his deodorant. When his pinky brushes against yours, you don’t pull away, even when your heart beats so hard it feels like it’s chafing against your ribs. The silence between the two of you is comfortable, easy. The kind of quiet you could make a home in.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” you ask finally, watching the waves lap against the wall. 

Oscar kicks at the water gently, sending ripples splashing over your legs. “Too wound up, I guess.”

“Big race tomorrow,” you say, swirling your foot in circles as you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. “Chance for the championship lead.”

He sighs, ruffling a hand through his hair. And then his eyes dart unmistakably towards you, with an expression that looks almost longing. “That’s not what’s keeping me up.”

You try not to blush under his gaze, but it’s a losing battle. “Then what is?”

There’s silence, for a long moment. And then:

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Oscar says desperately, and his voice is so raw that it makes something in your chest twist and snap. “About this. About us. I mean, you hate the attention, and the media would have a field day, start dissecting every little interaction between us, and I don’t know how I could protect you from that. And there’s the team politics to consider. And what if I’m not good enough at striking the balance, what if I have to choose between being a good driver and being a good boyfriend —”

“Oscar —”

“— and I like you so much and I don’t want to do anything that would ruin it, and I keep thinking maybe it’s smarter to wait or keep things the way they are even if it kills me to pretend it doesn’t mean what it means to me, and —”

Enough is enough. You lean forward and press your lips to his. 

The boldness shocks you, even as you do it. Apparently it surprises Oscar too, because he stills completely for a moment before he melts into the kiss, letting out a soft sigh against your mouth that has your pulse going haywire under your skin. His hand comes up to cradle your face, the other resting on your thigh like he’s trying to steady himself. It’s everything you imagined and nothing like it at all. No dream could have captured the way his lips move against yours, hesitant at first and then deeper, more certain, like he’s been waiting for it as long as you have.

When you finally pull away, he looks slightly dazed, cheeks pink even in the pale blue light. “Oh.”

You smile at him broad and sublimely happy, forehead pressed against his. “Oh?”

“I — That was —” Oscar blinks, hard, like he’s trying to reboot his brain. “Sorry — what was I saying?”

His eyes are wide, awed nearly, and he’s looking at you like you’re something incandescent. You giggle, the soft sound echoing off the tiles. “You were overthinking a little bit.”

He grins sheepishly at you, pink creeping up his neck as the last dregs of uncertainty in his eyes give way to something steady. “I’d say I’m sorry, but… kind of hard to be upset with the result,” he says, intertwining his fingers into yours. 

You kind of forget how to form sentences at that. You’re sure you would blush or smile stupidly or say something terribly awkward, if he wasn’t leaning in to kiss you again, slow and sure like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of your mouth against his.  

Much, much later, you sneak back to your room with Oscar’s sweatshirt draped around your shoulders and the taste of his smile still on your lips. You drift off easier than you have in months, sleep sound and untroubled.

There’s no need to dream anymore. Not when you have the real thing right in front of you.

[beeboopneep]

Danny moves to Gotham after spending his whole life in Amity Park. He becomes the King of the Infinite Realms and flees to Gotham after his parents find out he's a ghost.

And it starts out great. He enrolls in Gotham University, moves into his campus apartment, signs up for the extensive benefits the local billionaire supports for GU students, and volunteers on the weekends. He even feeds the strays!

It's great! Actually, even better than great: Clockwork teaches him more about his ghost side while he's there and can safely explore it without the risk of getting caught and vivisected. He can work on powers he barely knows he has... and that includes shapeshifting.

And shapeshifting is easier to start with smaller body parts. Like ears.

Like cat ears.

So he gives that a go and, well, if he decides he likes them and keeps them longer than the supposed training time then that's his business.

He spends his first semester of his aerospace engineering major enjoying his freedom for the first time. No food trying to bit him back, no threat of death around every corner. He makes friends and drinks for the first time. He explores the nightlife and learns to not, in fact, explore Gotham nightlife. He realizes he may not be as bad at school as he thought, and then he actually starts to believe it.

At the end of the first semester he's a well-known face around campus. He's tall, ethereally beautiful, and a STEM prodigy with multiple professors practically begging to mentor him.

And it doesn't hurt that four different people swear up and down to have seen cat ears in his hair when he bent over.

He's practically the talk of the town (not that he knows it).

But he does know that he starts to perfect the look: along with ears, he sharpens his fangs. He growls when he's annoyed and purrs when he's happy. Sometimes he plays into it even more, like slow blinking and keeping a healthy distance to any dogs.

One thing that's for sure, cats know whats up with that "laying in patches of sun" stuff. He started doing that and when he realized how nice it was he just couldn't stop. He can be seen all around campus laying in the sunlight when it's nice out (whenever that is. Gotham is overcast to it's core).

He lounges beautiful and stretched out and sleepy for everyone to see.

And... wouldn't you know, he starts to get an admirer.

Well, don't get him wrong, he's had more than enough of those, but this one stood out. He was... cute. Very cute.

A lit major who obviously worked out religiously, who hovered around the corners of Danny's life. He sees him around campus (obviously), looking a bit too long even for someone admiring his prettiness, and then a few times at the cafe Danny worked at, and then a few times more around town. More than a few. More than was reasonable, actually. Definitely not an accident.

A cute little stalker, Danny thought every time he saw him out of the corner of his eye. He suppresses the urge to laugh (or purr).

A very cute, not-so-little stalker.

Hm.

There were definitely worse things.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

How lock-in hurts design

Berliners: Otherland has added a second date (Jan 28) for my book-talk after the first one sold out - book now!

If you've ever read about design, you've probably encountered the idea of "paving the desire path." A "desire path" is an erosion path created by people departing from the official walkway and taking their own route. The story goes that smart campus planners don't fight the desire paths laid down by students; they pave them, formalizing the route that their constituents have voted for with their feet.

Desire paths aren't always great (Wikipedia notes that "desire paths sometimes cut through sensitive habitats and exclusion zones, threatening wildlife and park security"), but in the context of design, a desire path is a way that users communicate with designers, creating a feedback loop between those two groups. The designers make a product, the users use it in ways that surprise the designer, and the designer integrates all that into a new revision of the product.

This method is widely heralded as a means of "co-innovating" between users and companies. Designers who practice the method are lauded for their humility, their willingness to learn from their users. Tech history is strewn with examples of successful paved desire-paths.

Take John Deere. While today the company is notorious for its war on its customers (via its opposition to right to repair), Deere was once a leader in co-innovation, dispatching roving field engineers to visit farms and learn how farmers had modified their tractors. The best of these modifications would then be worked into the next round of tractor designs, in a virtuous cycle:

https://securityledger.com/2019/03/opinion-my-grandfathers-john-deere-would-support-our-right-to-repair/

But this pattern is even more pronounced in the digital world, because it's much easier to update a digital service than it is to update all the tractors in the field, especially if that service is cloud-based, meaning you can modify the back-end everyone is instantly updated. The most celebrated example of this co-creation is Twitter, whose users created a host of its core features.

Retweets, for example, were a user creation. Users who saw something they liked on the service would type "RT" and paste the text and the link into a new tweet composition window. Same for quote-tweets: users copied the URL for a tweet and pasted it in below their own commentary. Twitter designers observed this user innovation and formalized it, turning it into part of Twitter's core feature-set.

Companies are obsessed with discovering digital desire paths. They pay fortunes for analytics software to produce maps of how their users interact with their services, run focus groups, even embed sneaky screen-recording software into their web-pages:

https://www.wired.com/story/the-dark-side-of-replay-sessions-that-record-your-every-move-online/

This relentless surveillance of users is pursued in the name of making things better for them: let us spy on you and we'll figure out where your pain-points and friction are coming from, and remove those. We all win!

But this impulse is a world apart from the humility and respect implied by co-innovation. The constant, nonconsensual observation of users has more to do with controlling users than learning from them.

That is, after all, the ethos of modern technology: the more control a company can exert over its users ,the more value it can transfer from those users to its shareholders. That's the key to enshittification, the ubiquitous platform decay that has degraded virtually all the technology we use, making it worse every day:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/twiddler/

When you are seeking to control users, the desire paths they create are all too frequently a means to wrestling control back from you. Take advertising: every time a service makes its ads more obnoxious and invasive, it creates an incentive for its users to search for "how do I install an ad-blocker":

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/07/adblocking-how-about-nah

More than half of all web-users have installed ad-blockers. It's the largest consumer boycott in human history:

https://doc.searls.com/2023/11/11/how-is-the-worlds-biggest-boycott-doing/

But zero app users have installed ad-blockers, because reverse-engineering an app requires that you bypass its encryption, triggering liability under Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act. This law provides for a $500,000 fine and a 5-year prison sentence for "circumvention" of access controls:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/12/youre-holding-it-wrong/#if-dishwashers-were-iphones

Beyond that, modifying an app creates liability under copyright, trademark, patent, trade secrets, noncompete, nondisclosure and so on. It's what Jay Freeman calls "felony contempt of business model":

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

This is why services are so horny to drive you to install their app rather using their websites: they are trying to get you to do something that, given your druthers, you would prefer not to do. They want to force you to exit through the gift shop, you want to carve a desire path straight to the parking lot. Apps let them mobilize the law to literally criminalize those desire paths.

An app is just a web-page wrapped in enough IP to make it a felony to block ads in it (or do anything else that wrestles value back from a company). Apps are web-pages where everything not forbidden is mandatory.

Seen in this light, an app is a way to wage war on desire paths, to abandon the cooperative model for co-innovation in favor of the adversarial model of user control and extraction.

Corporate apologists like to claim that the proliferation of apps proves that users like them. Neoliberal economists love the idea that business as usual represents a "revealed preference." This is an intellectually unserious tautology: "you do this, so you must like it":

https://boingboing.net/2024/01/22/hp-ceo-says-customers-are-a-bad-investment-unless-they-can-be-made-to-buy-companys-drm-ink-cartridges.html

Calling an action where no alternatives are permissible a "preference" or a "choice" is a cheap trick – especially when considered against the "preferences" that reveal themselves when a real choice is possible. Take commercial surveillance: when Apple gave Ios users a choice about being spied on – a one-click opt of of app-based surveillance – 96% of users choice no spying:

https://arstechnica.com/gadgets/2021/05/96-of-us-users-opt-out-of-app-tracking-in-ios-14-5-analytics-find/

But then Apple started spying on those very same users that had opted out of spying by Facebook and other Apple competitors:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

Neoclassical economists aren't just obsessed with revealed preferences – they also love to bandy about the idea of "moral hazard": economic arrangements that tempt people to be dishonest. This is typically applied to the public ("consumers" in the contemptuous parlance of econospeak). But apps are pure moral hazard – for corporations. The ability to prohibit desire paths – and literally imprison rivals who help your users thwart those prohibitions – is too tempting for companies to resist.

The fact that the majority of web users block ads reveals a strong preference for not being spied on ("users just want relevant ads" is such an obvious lie that doesn't merit any serious discussion):

https://www.iccl.ie/news/82-of-the-irish-public-wants-big-techs-toxic-algorithms-switched-off/

Giant companies attained their scale by learning from their users, not by thwarting them. The person using technology always knows something about what they need to do and how they want to do it that the designers can never anticipate. This is especially true of people who are unlike those designers – people who live on the other side of the world, or the other side of the economic divide, or whose bodies don't work the way that the designers' bodies do:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/20/benevolent-dictators/#felony-contempt-of-business-model

Apps – and other technologies that are locked down so their users can be locked in – are the height of technological arrogance. They embody a belief that users are to be told, not heard. If a user wants to do something that the designer didn't anticipate, that's the user's fault:

https://www.wired.com/2010/06/iphone-4-holding-it-wrong/

Corporate enthusiasm for prohibiting you from reconfiguring the tools you use to suit your needs is a declaration of the end of history. "Sure," John Deere execs say, "we once learned from farmers by observing how they modified their tractors. But today's farmers are so much stupider and we are so much smarter that we have nothing to learn from them anymore."

Spying on your users to control them is a poor substitute asking your users their permission to learn from them. Without technological self-determination, preferences can't be revealed. Without the right to seize the means of computation, the desire paths never emerge, leaving designers in the dark about what users really want.

Our policymakers swear loyalty to "innovation" but when corporations ask for the right to decide who can innovate and how, they fall all over themselves to create laws that let companies punish users for the crime of contempt of business-model.

I'm Kickstarting the audiobook for The Bezzle, the sequel to Red Team Blues, narrated by @wilwheaton! You can pre-order the audiobook and ebook, DRM free, as well as the hardcover, signed or unsigned. There's also bundles with Red Team Blues in ebook, audio or paperback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/24/everything-not-mandatory/#is-prohibited

Image: Belem (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Desire_path_%2819811581366%29.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

[meeraonpole]

You Should’ve Told Me

Summery:Reader as not been feeling well for a week and Lando now finds out.

The low hum of the car engine filled the quiet space between you and Lando as he drove down the winding road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting absentmindedly on your thigh. The sky outside was painted in soft hues of orange and pink as the sun began to set, casting a golden glow over everything in sight.

You had spent the afternoon together—just the two of you—driving around, grabbing snacks, and listening to music. It was the kind of simple, peaceful day you both cherished when he wasn’t off racing around the world.

Lando had his sunglasses perched on his nose, one elbow resting on the open window as the wind tousled his curls. He looked effortlessly good, like he always did, completely at ease in the driver’s seat. His fingers tapped against your leg in time with the song playing on the radio.

Then, you decided to ask.

“Hey, Lando?”

He hummed in response, glancing at you briefly before returning his eyes to the road.

“Can you take me to the doctor tomorrow?”

The second the words left your mouth, you felt his hand tense slightly against your thigh. His fingers stilled, no longer drumming to the beat. His expression shifted—subtle, but you caught it.

Lando never liked when something was wrong and he didn’t know about it.

He straightened up in his seat a little. “Wait, what? Why?”

You shrugged, trying to keep it casual. “I’ve just been feeling kinda dizzy lately. Thought I should get it checked out.”

His jaw tightened as he processed what you’d just said. “Dizzy?” He repeated, his voice a little sharper now. “Since when?”

You hesitated. “Uh… like a week?”

His foot lifted off the gas pedal slightly, and his grip on the steering wheel tightened. “A week?” he echoed, glancing at you in disbelief before looking back at the road. “Y/N, why the hell didn’t you tell me sooner?”

You sighed, fiddling with the hem of your sweater. “I didn’t think it was a big deal. It’s not like I’m passing out or anything. Just… you know, lightheaded sometimes.”

Lando scoffed, shaking his head. “Not a big deal?” His voice was softer now, but there was frustration laced within his words. “You’ve been feeling like this for a week, and I’m only hearing about it now?”

You reached over and squeezed his arm gently. “Lan, I’m fine. I just wanna be sure, that’s all.”

He exhaled through his nose, clearly still annoyed, but he covered your hand with his and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“Yeah, well, we’re going first thing in the morning,” he muttered, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

You smiled at his protectiveness, leaning your head back against the seat. “Thank you.”

Lando sighed again, running a hand through his curls as he pulled into your driveway. Once he parked, he turned toward you, his blue-green eyes scanning your face as if searching for any sign that you were worse off than you were letting on.

“You’re really okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “I promise.”

He studied you for another moment before shaking his head with a soft chuckle. “You’re so annoying,” he murmured, leaning over to press a gentle kiss to your forehead.

You laughed. “How?”

“Because you make me worry,” he muttered against your skin. “And I don’t like worrying about you even though i always do but now you make me worry even more.”

Your heart melted as he pulled away just enough to look into your eyes.

“Well, now you know how I feel every race weekend,” you teased.

Lando rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the fond smile tugging at his lips. “Touché.”

He reached for you again, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into him. You sighed contentedly, letting yourself melt into his embrace.

“I’ll take care of you, okay?” he murmured, his lips brushing the top of your head. “You just have to tell me when you’re not feeling good.”

You nodded against his chest. “Okay.”

He kissed your hair again before pulling back with a cheeky grin. “And if the doctor says you just need to eat more snacks, I’m never letting you live it down.”

You groaned, swatting at his chest. “Shut up.”

Lando just laughed, pulling you closer once more. And in that moment, wrapped in his arms, you knew that no matter what, he would always be there for you.

[lunajay33]

The One🐾

Summary: Life always felt like something was missing and falling into a funk you go to move to forks to live with your best friend Jacob and everything seems to fall into place when he introduces you to his friends

Pairing: Paul Lahote x f!reader

•Masterlist•

Every since I was little I felt like something was missing, like no matter how happy and whole my life felt it was never enough and when I grew into my teen years it just got worse, so my mom thought it be best to send me to live with our family friends in Forks Washington where we use to live before we moved

Getting out of the cab seeing the familiar red house feeling the fresh coastal air breeze across me something clicked in me, like everything was gonna somehow be better here

I got my suitcase out of the car waving goodbye to the man that drove me all this way from the airport

“Y/N!!! YOURE HERE!” I turned seeing Jacob running out the door to me with wide open arms

Dropping my bags I jumped into his arms as he swung me around holding me tight then setting me gently on the ground again

“I can’t believe you’re back, I missed you so much”

“Jake we call almost every day” I laugh as he picks up my bags leading me back to the house

“I know but it’s not the same as actually having you here, plus I think it’ll be good for you, I have a bunch of friends now and we do stuff all the time and they’ll love you!” He was as excited as a little kid in a candy shop and it warmed my heart, finally being back in the town I was born in, the place I only ever felt right before moving

He dropped my bags in a little room, seemingly nervous at what I’ll think of it

“I love it, thank you and Billy agains for letting me stay”

“Anytime! Now I planned a little welcome home fire tonight for you, food, music and you’ll get to meet the whole pack!”

“Pack?”

“Oh umm yeah like….i mean my friends, our whole group, my friend Bella from town and some of the elders, I remember how you loved those stories they’d tell us as kids”

“You did all that for me?!”

“Of course, you’re back home where you belong, it’s only right we celebrate”

The night came and Jake was driving us to the go to spot they had fires and gatherings, we pulled up to a big open field by a little house, a big fire already roaring bright, hearing the cheerful voices from my open window as Jake shut off the engine

“Come on what’re you waiting for?” Jake asked from my now open door, my nerves taking hold of me not even noticing he got out and was now waiting for me on my side of the truck

“I’m a little nervous what if….what if they don’t like me?”

“They’re nothing to be worried about, just think of them just like me, and you’re always relaxed around me now come on let’s get some food before Paul eats it all” his words soothed me finally coursing me out of the truck

“Oh I remember Paul, he use to play with us sometimes at the beach right?”

“Yeah he’s become a bit of a hot head but he means well, he’s pretty protective of things that are important” he said handing me a plate as we got to the tables filled with food

“Hey!! Jake come over here got a spot for you!” I heard a girl by the fire say waving him over

“That’s Bella, I’m gonna go talk with her, mingle around these people will be in your life as long as you live with me” he smiled soothing my worries as he walked off

I picked up a chocolate chip muffin and placed it on the plate when someone spoke next to me

“Hey you must be the girl of the hour, I’m Emily Jake hasn’t stopped talking about you since he found out you were moving here, I’m glad to finally meet you!” She smiled giving me a warm motherly vibe

“It’s nice to meet you too! Thank you for coming I can’t believe everyone came just for me, I’m excited to reconnect and meet everyone!”

“Come on I’ll introduce you around” she brought me around, I met Seth Clearwater who wasn’t even born before I left but I remembered his sister Leah as well as Embry, I talked to Billy and the elders a bit before we moved on to the next

“Hey Paul! Remember y/n and few of the others do already!”

“How could I forget that little rascal” he laughed as he looked up at me from his plate, his smile dropping as we made eye contact, his plate crumbling to the ground

Everything felt still, this connection and pull I felt to him like he’s the only thing the matters, that no matter what happens or where I go I’ll be safe and loved, he drops to his knees as I place me hands on his shoulders, admiring his features he’s changed so much, so tall so muscular so handsome, the chatter around us stopped feeling everyone’s eyes on us but I don’t care all I care about is this moment

“No no no no NO, Paul really? Out of everyone it had to be my best friend?” Jake fumed snapping us out of this strange trance

“Like I can help it, but I’m not complaining she’s beautiful” he said making my heart thump

“Ummm what just happened?” The confusing starting to set in

“Right, I wouldn’t expect you to remember, come on we’ll tell you everything” Jake grabbed my hand and sat me next to him at the fire, Paul quick to sit on my other side, his body heat relaxing me

The “pack” went on to tell me everything, that the legends were true and most of the people including my best friend was a shifter, a wolf, it was hard to believe I mean wolves? But it wasn’t until they told me about imprints and that I was now Paul’s, but it didn’t feel wrong it felt completely right, like magically I was whole again

Everyone looked at me expectantly, anxious and waiting expression on everyone

“I know it’s a lot and we understand if you need time honey” Billy said comfortingly

“No……I’m fine really, I actually feel the best I have in a long time” I smile sheepishly as my cheeks rush with heat

“That makes sense, it’s said that if you’re separated from your soulmate even if not imprinted yet it drains you and now that you’re back, you’re where you’re suppose to be” Sam stated as he squeezed Emily’s hand

I look next to be to Paul who’s rough exterior I always remembered was gone now replaced with adoration as he looked at me like I hung the moon in the sky

“Would you like to go talk…..privately?” I asked

“I’d loved to Angel” he took my hand and led me away from the fire to the house, it was cozy just like Jake’s home, well mine now too

“Soooo I guess I’m your soulmate”

“I’ve been waiting for you, I always did have a crush on you when we were younger, always got jealous when Jake would talk about you” he smirked as he brushed back my hair

“Really? You had a crush on me?”

“Always, missed you a lot when you left, tried to forget about you but I never could get you out of my head, felt like something was missing with you gone and now I know why”

“So what are we now?” My heart thumping fast

“Anything you want Angel” he said squeezing my thigh

“Can we start with a date?” I ask placing my hand ontop of his that rested on my thigh

“I’d love that, how about I pick you up tomorrow at 5 I’ll plan something special!”

The clock showed 4:30 and I was a nervous wreck, this is my first date ever and it’s with a guy who’s my soulmate and a wolf, how did my life change so drastically

I combed down my hair for the millionth time hearing Jake laugh behind me as he was sat on the bed

“And what are you laughing at?”

“You, you’re fidgeting like crazy”

“Jake stop…I’ve never done this before what if we go out and he realizes he doesn’t wanna be with me, then I’m alone again”

“Y/n/n he’s gonna love you, hell I see how jealous he’d get everytime I’d bring you up”

There was a knock at the door and my heart jumped, I got up and flattened down my ivory dress

“Okay how do I look?”

“You look great now go on don’t keep him waiting!” I rush to the door taking a deep breath and opening it to see Paul standing with a pair of jeans and a tight black short sleeve and a bouquet of wild flowers in his hands

“You look beautiful wow” he said in a daze as his eyes roamed over every inch of me

“You don’t look to bad yourself handsome”

“Here these are for you, but they can’t compare to how pretty you are” he said handing them over

“Paul stop you’re gonna make me blush” I smiled placing the flowers in a little vase

“That’s the goal, now let’s go I’ve got everything ready” he gently took my hand leading me to the open field infront of the house

“Where’s your truck?”

“We’re going on foot” it’s just up the hill

We walked hand in hand for a while till we reached the cliff side with a beautiful view, there was string lights across the trees hanging over a comfy blanket with a picnic basket

“Wow you did all this for me?”

“Of course and I got all your favourites! Had to get a few tips from Jake” he laughed as we sat down

“This is so sweet, so far this is an amazing first date” I said taking a bite of a strawberry

“First? You’ve never been on a date before?”

“No….ive never been interested in anyone before….well before now” I looked at him a bit embarrassed but being around him felt like he’d never judge me

“I get that, no one ever compared to how I feel for you, you’re the one, my only one”

Part 2?

[thebibliosphere]

In case you were wondering how deep down the Batfam fixation hole I am, it's something I've actually been talking about in therapy a lot.

Not like, in a worried way, more just when my therapist asks me what I'm doing in my downtime, my answer always used to be either "sleeping" or "I don't have downtime. I have too much work to do."

Now my answer is "playing my Batman game" or "watching Batman show/reading comics/writing unhinged Batman x Muppet fanfic."

And my therapist is delighted. She's fucking ecstatic. She's like, "You have interests again!" and I'm like !!!! Because here's the thing.

Almost dying in 2019 kinda irrevocably fucked up my brain, like, a lot. Like a lot, a lot. And I've been grieving over that for the last few years as well as recovering from the physical aspects of it. And to cope with it, I threw myself into work even though I wasn't physically or mentally well enough, and that made everything worse, and well, if you've been here, you know.

My brain has not been kind to me for a long time. It still isn't. But I do the work. I do multiple types of therapy a week. I piece myself back together on the daily and try to remember what it means to be human and not just this numb static void that sometimes sounds like shrieking if you listen too closely.

And then randomly, a few months ago a friend bought me Gotham Knights on Steam, and it was like a light turned back on. The engine that'd been refusing to turn over for years suddenly sputtered back to life, and something in my brain went, "Hey, I remember this... this is fun?"

And then I started tentatively searching the tags here on Tumblr, and yeah, actually. I remember this. I remember enjoying this. I can dip my toes into this. This is safe. This is a childhood interest from Before the almost-dying-trauma. And besides, it won't get in the way of my work. This isn't going to consume me. Nothing consumes me like it used to. I'm too broken for that.

Except, haha, jokes on me because, for some fucking reason, Brucie fucking Wayne and his gaggle of chaotic crime-fighting children is what reached into my brain, picked up my trauma, and started shaking it loose like a category 7 earthquake.

I actually laughed about that with my therapist a few weeks ago. Of all characters, of all pieces of media, it's Batman that's helping me process a significant chunk of my emotional trauma in a healthy way.

The most emotionally constipated vigilante in superhero existence, and I'm weeping like a child every time I get an achievement in Gotham Knights, and it says some bullshit like this:

ID: a purple steam achievement icon that says: He'd Be So Proud Of You. Reach the maximum level as any member of the Batman Family. 6.3% of players have this achievement. /end ID.

(for context, Batman is dead in this game, and you are playing as his emotionally devastated children trying to keep it together. Wailing, gnashing, crying, throwing up etc, etc.)

And my therapist, who has sat with me through EMDR sessions and a multitude of other shit designed to rewire your brain, just shrugs and says, "Sometimes we need to externalize our emotions through safe media. For you, right now, that safety is Batman having a relationship with the Muppets."

And like... okay, yeah. I'll take the win on that one.

[milessunflowers]

Clingy!Franco x engineer!reader or mechanic!reader trying to work on the car and Franco wants attention ( suggestive if u want!) sorry if this isnt specific enough , love ur work btw :)

omg i love this (clingy!franco *chefs kiss*) and thank you so much!!

clingy!franco colapinto x mechanic!male!reader

synopsis: franco has always been clingy, theres not a single doubt about it. it just gets ten times worse when you have to work longer than he does

author's note: i also really love writing for franco if yall didnt know. hes also so ajakakwlwjrjwlaoqn like i just love him so much and hes so fun to write for! hopefully you like it!!

usually after a race you stay longer than franco to go over the car and what needs to be fixed or modified

and usually franco is pretty chill about

sometimes he gets bratty but most of the time he just waits patiently

he would usually distract himself by chatting with the other drivers or playing on his phone

however, with the times he gets super clingy and attnetion seeking he can become an asshole

he gets bratty and bitchy

he glares at people and snaps at them

its funny to most people, especially when they see the change up when he finally gets to hug you

he just melts into you

he definitely hangs off your back as you try to work

makes things harder for sure but it makes everyone else less uneasy in a way

he got happier and back to himself

as soon as you had to work on something that required full bodily movement, hes a bitch again

he follows you around like a shadow half the time

hes just whiney the entire time

its funny to watch you just roll your eyes at him and trying to hide your smile

when you are finally finished working, he is immediately hugging you

hes kissing all over your face and you are practically carrying him to the car to drive to the hotel to sleep

he loves cuddling and doesnt even care if youre all dirty

he'll cuddle you regardless

he wont let you shower until he has had his fill of cuddles

even then hes following you into the shower

and he repeats this process every race

TAGS! (if you want to be added, lmk!)

@op-81-lvr-reblogs, @koalapastries, @justaf1girl, @ghostking4m, @spoonfulofmilo, @seonghwaexile, @alex-wotton, @raizelchrysanderoctavius

[bills5lut]

unseen

synopsis: billie holds your hand in the shadows, and you keep pretending that’s enough

warnings: fluff, angst, smut halfway thru, oral, mentions and description of sa, sorta hints at internalised homophobia. 

w/c: 14k

note: happy pride angels!!!!!!

The engine of the tour bus hums like a lullaby that won’t quite settle. You lie still, but your body’s half-tensed under the thin scratchy blanket, trying to pretend sleep will come just because your eyes are closed. It doesn’t.

You check your phone again.

11:32pm.

The glow of the screen lights up your little rectangle of space. A narrow metal coffin lined with a cheap fitted sheet and a fleece throw you stole from Billie’s dressing room. Smells like her shampoo still, kind of vanilla, kind of like rose, kind of like her skin after shows when she’s damp and tired and leaning on you like she can’t carry herself anymore. You tug the blanket up over your shoulder. 

You’re on the lower bunk, second from the back. Her bunk’s at the very end, curtain drawn tight like always. Nobody shares bunks on this bus, not officially, not out loud.

You shift onto your side, cheek pressing into the pillow. The fabric’s gone cool, a little damp with sweat. Your shirt’s sticking to your back. Too hot, but you keep the blanket on anyway. Something about the weight. The illusion of being held. The illusion of anything.

There’s a bump in the road, a brief sway. You hear it then, her voice. Muffled through the thin vinyl walls, a soft, irritated sigh. Then silence again. She’s awake. You hold your breath for a second. Listen.

Nothing but the gentle creak of the chassis and the highway drone.

She’s always quiet at night. You’ve learned to read her silence. The difference between her knocked out sleep and her not asleep. The difference between peace and avoidance. This is avoidance. The kind where she knows you’re awake too, but pretends you aren’t. Pretends she isn’t.

You roll onto your back. Close your eyes.

You want her. Want her here. Want her hand on your chest, fingers brushing your collarbone, just barely there. You want the weight of her arm draped over your stomach, heavy and warm and real. You want her breath on your jaw, the way she does it when she’s too tired to kiss properly but still wants to touch you. You want the soft little noise she makes when she’s not fully asleep yet but already curling into you like you’re gravity. Like you’re safe. Like you’re hers.

You want to be hers.

You think maybe you are.

But you’re not sure. Not really.

You haven’t talked about it, not directly, not in the way that would make it undeniable. You know what it feels like when she’s curled up in your lap backstage, arms slung around your neck, face buried in your shoulder. You know what it feels like when she drags you away from crowds just to kiss you hard and fast in some storage closet and then makes you promise not to tell anyone. You know the feeling of her hand in yours in the dark, under the cover of a blanket, her thumb rubbing circles into your palm like a secret.

But in the daylight?

You’re her friend. Her really close friend.

To everyone else, anyway.

The label makes your skin itch.

Sometimes she says your name soft and slow, like it’s something she’s memorized in her mouth. Other times she says nothing at all. Days go by and she barely looks at you in front of other people. You laugh at her jokes like everyone else does. You sit next to her at catering but never too close. She ruffles your hair in a friendly way, like a sibling might. Sometimes she winks at you when no one else is looking, and you swear your heart jumps out of your chest.

You think Finneas knows. Or at least suspects. He’s not stupid. He’s caught the tail end of things too many times, heard movement in her bunk when there shouldn’t have been any, maybe saw a shirt on the floor that used to be yours. But he hasn’t said anything. Not to you.

If she’s told him, she hasn’t told you that she told him.

You’re not sure what’s worse, if she has, or if she hasn’t.

You reach down and hook your fingers into the hem of your shirt. Fidgeting. Skin warm underneath. Your stomach knots with that familiar dull tension you’ve stopped trying to name. You don’t let yourself spiral tonight. Not fully. But the feeling’s still there, like you’re on the edge of something that won’t define itself. Like the relationship is a hallway with no lights on. You’re stumbling through it, waiting for her to flick the switch.

You shift again. The mattress groans under you.

You can hear Billie shifting too now, definitely her. A rustle of sheets. The faint creak of her bunk door. Not opening. Just moving. Maybe she’s lying on her back like you. Maybe her fingers are twitching at her side like yours. Maybe she’s thinking about you.

Maybe she wants you, too. But if she does, she’ll never say it out loud. So you lie there. Still. Awake.

Breathing in the scent of her blanket. Listening to the sound of her silence.

Wanting her.

Not knowing if you’re allowed to.

You lie there for another few minutes after she stirs. The soft creak of her bunk has gone quiet again, and you hate how heavy it sits in your chest, knowing she’s just a few feet away and not touching you. Not talking. Not even trying.

You unlock your phone. The glow feels too bright, the screen harsh against the soft dark of the bunk.

You open your messages with Billie.

It’s mostly empty. Little things here and there. A photo she sent two days ago you asked her to send to you. A tiktok you didn’t open. You used to text more. Before it got complicated. Before it started to feel like all the real stuff was only allowed to exist behind closed doors.

You type it slow.

“pls can u come my bunk. just for 5. nobody’s up”

You don’t send it right away. Thumb hovering over the blue arrow, heart thumping like it might crack your ribs. It’s so small, the ask. Just five minutes. But you know the weight it carries.

You hit send.

Now all there is to do is wait. You lock your phone and flip it face-down. Curl tighter into yourself. You don’t know what answer you’ll get, if you’ll get one at all.

But less than five minutes later, you hear her. Soft steps. No shoes. The faintest drag of her fingertips on the wood as she walks past the other bunks. You don’t look. Just keep your eyes closed, even when you hear the curtain whisper open.

“Move over, baby,” Billie breathes.

The sound of her voice cracks something in you. You shift without a word, body sliding back toward the wall, and she presses her hands to the edge of the mattress, hoisting herself up, folding into the tiny space like she belongs there. Like she’s done it a thousand times before.

Because she has.

Her arms come around you the second she’s settled, pulling you into her like muscle memory. Like gravity. Your face tucks instinctively into her chest, just under her chin, breathing her in. Warm cotton. Faint perfume. The sharp little kick of deodorant after the show, still lingering in the dip of her collarbone.

You curl into her so tightly it’s like you want to disappear inside her. And maybe you do. Because even here, in her arms, you still feel so fucking lonely.

Not because she doesn’t love you, you think she does.

But because it isn’t enough to just be loved. Not when you’re being hidden. Erased.

You’re already out. You’ve been out. There’s nothing to hide on your end. You could be with anyone else, and hold their hand in public, and post a picture of them, and not feel like you were doing something wrong. But it’s Billie. And she’s not ready.

And you tell yourself she’s worth it.

You tell yourself that so often it’s started to sound like a warning instead of a comfort.

Your lips brush her jaw, a soft chain of kisses that mean I’m here and I need you and please say this is real all at once. She turns her face toward you slightly, nuzzling your forehead.

“You good?” she murmurs.

You nod, your cheek moving against her shirt. “Missed you.”

Her hand moves to your back, slow and light, fingers trailing up your spine like she’s trying to count the knots in it.

“I was only on stage for like two hours,” she says, teasing, but soft.

You sigh into her shirt. “Mhm. But then you were busy with those people.”

Her fingers hesitate.

“You’re making it sound like something it wasn’t,” she says, her tone clipped. “By ‘those people,’ do you mean tour managers and press?”

You stiffen. Just a little. You can’t tell if she’s mad. Joking. Defensive. Her voice is low, but sharp enough to nick.

You press your hands into her sides, pulling her closer before she can wriggle away.

“I know, baby. I know,” you say, maybe too loud. Maybe too needy. The edge of your voice cuts the air. “Just missed you. Missed your pretty face and your voice and…”

“Can you just, like, be quiet please?” she cuts in. “I don’t know who’s awake.”

You bite your lip. Your stomach twists.

“Yeah,” you mumble, voice already shrinking. “Sorry.”

You bury your face against her collarbone, embarrassed. Ache blooming in your throat. You press yourself into her like that might fix something. Like you can hide in her the same way she hides you.

And she lets you. She doesn’t say anything else.

Her hand finds yours in the dark, fingers threading through your knuckles. She brings it to her mouth and kisses it once, quick and distracted, then keeps it pressed between your chests like a truce.

And you just… lie there.

Her thumb draws slow shapes into your wrist. You breathe into the crook of her neck. You memorize the rhythm of her breath, the way it slows gradually, but never fully drops into sleep.

You feel the way she’s holding you, like she wants to protect you. Like she loves you. And you know she does. You’re just not sure she loves you out loud. You’re not sure she ever will.

Eventually, she kisses your temple. Once. Then twice. You’re almost asleep. Drifting.

But then she shifts. Pulls back slightly.

You groan softly, reaching for her shirt, fingertips catching the hem. “Five more minutes,” you whisper. “Please. Five more minutes.”

She shakes her head, already starting to climb out. Her thumb brushes over your palm once as she untangles herself from you.

“No, baby,” she says, barely audible. “I’m sleepy too. Can’t be falling asleep and everyone wondering where I am in the morning, finding me in your bunk.”

She says it so casually. Like it’s obvious. Like it doesn’t hurt.

You nod, even though your heart’s cracking under your ribs.

She leans in one more time and presses a soft peck to your lips, brief, like punctuation, and then she’s gone.

Back to her bunk.

Back to the version of her life where you don’t exist.

You let out a long breath. Your face crumples into the pillow, eyes stinging. You squeeze them shut. Try not to think. Try not to feel. Try to convince yourself it’s okay. That this is just temporary. That she’s worth it.

You fold your arms under your head. Curl your knees slightly. Try to sink back into the leftover warmth of her body in your bed. But it fades fast.

Everything does. Eventually, you force yourself to sleep. Even though every part of you is still wide awake, screaming.

But somehow, hours pass. You shower. You move through the motions. You show up. You don’t know why. Maybe just because she’ll be here. You still feel hollow.

The venue smells like metal and dust and leftover echoes.

It’s late afternoon, edging into early evening, but you haven’t checked the time in hours. The sun is dying slow and gold through the high backstage windows, streaking pale across the scuffed up concrete and half coiled cables. Billie’s already finished her soundcheck. You heard the last few notes of it drifting out the hallway speakers on your way in. She sounded incredible, obviously, even if you know she’ll complain she didn’t.

You’re holding a paper cup of peppermint tea in one hand, half warm at best, and your free hand is curled loose around your phone, not checking it, just holding it. Just giving your fingers something to do.

You walk through the hallway slow. Low hum of production crew, muffled laughter from the dressing rooms down the hall, someone hauling a lighting rig past. You nod at a few people. They nod back. To everyone else, you’re Billie’s friend. You’re always around. You always have been.

You reach her door and pause.

It’s slightly ajar. Not wide open, not closed.

You knock softly, twice. There’s a beat of silence.

Then her voice, flat, distracted, slightly guarded “Yeah?”

You slip in quietly, pushing the door open just a little. Your heart does that stupid thing it always does when you see her, leaps and folds and does a fucking cartwheel all at once. Like you haven’t already had your mouth on hers three times this week. Like she isn’t the one who snuck into your bunk last night like you were her secret safe place.

Billie’s sitting in the dressing room chair, slouched low, legs kicked out in front of her, one socked foot dangling off the heel of her croc. Her phone is balanced in both hands. There’s a bottle of green juice open on the table beside her and a small pile of rings and discarded hair ties.

Her head pops up when she sees you.

“Hey baby,” she says, and the way her whole face lights up, her body uncurling slightly, the curve of her lips blooming like instinct, you feel it ripple through you.

You smile, immediately, warmth crawling up your neck. You walk over without speaking, set your lukewarm tea down, and wrap your arms around her from behind. She’s still sitting, but she leans back into you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your lips press to the side of her head, half into her hair, half onto the soft skin just above her temple.

“Mm,” she hums. “You smell like cinnamon.”

You grin, murmuring into her hair. “You smell like stress.”

Billie scoffs. “True. Soundcheck was shit.”

You hum again, breath warm against her cheek. “It wasn’t.”

She glances back at you. “It was. You weren’t even there for the whole thing.”

“I heard enough,” you mumble.

Billie rolls her eyes, lazily. You move around her a little, still wrapped around her shoulders from behind, until you can see her face better. Her lashes are thick with leftover mascara. The softest bags under her eyes, she’s tired, but she always is.

“You never sound bad,” you say, clearer this time.

She scoffs again, a little dismissive, but she doesn’t argue.

You lean back slightly, hands still on her shoulders. “Hey,” you say, like you need her to really hear it. “I mean it.”

Billie turns in the chair, eyes finding yours. She reaches up, one hand settling on your jaw, thumb brushing along the bone like she’s tracing the truth there.

“Keep flattering me, baby,” she murmurs, a little smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

You giggle softly, leaning into her touch. “Not flattery. Just truth.”

She raises an eyebrow, still joking, still teasing.

You laugh, leaning forward just a little. The smell of her shampoo is faint, rose water and almond, something expensive and understated.

“Oh, shut up,” you say, bumping your nose into hers. “You know you always sound amazing.”

She opens her mouth like she’s about to fire something back, but you cut her off with a kiss.

Her lips meet yours hard, hot and fast like she was waiting for an excuse. You feel her hand tighten in your hair, the other still at your jaw, keeping you in place like she needs you close.

You giggle into it, and she doesn’t stop kissing you. If anything, she deepens it. You open for her easily. Let her tug your bottom lip between her teeth just a little. It sends a pulse through your stomach.

Billie speaks between kisses, barely pulling back at all.

“Baby…” Another kiss. “Stop…” She laughs into your mouth. “Gonna make me wet…” Another breathless kiss.

“And… people… Fin… my mom… manager…” Her voice is full of air now. “They all wanna see me… going for dinner…”

You press your forehead to hers, both of you a little flushed. The kiss breaks but your faces stay close. You nod, still catching your breath, still smiling. “Okay. Okay,” you whisper, laughter bubbling. “I’ll be good.”

She brushes her fingers across the edge of your face, light, soft, like she can’t stop touching you even when she should. Then she presses a kiss to your forehead. Slow. Still.

“God, you’re so gorgeous,” she says, like it hurts a little. Like it’s a secret she wasn’t supposed to say out loud.

Then one last kiss to your lips. It lingers. Like she wants to stay.

You stay there a beat longer, just breathing together, her forehead leaning into yours.

Then she pulls away.

You feel it the second she steps back, like a room gone cold. Like being tucked back into the shadows.

Billie stretches, adjusting the waistband of her sweats. “I’ll be back in like two hours,” she says casually, reaching for her phone again, like she’s resetting the mask. “We’re doing sushi with the press team.”

You nod. “Okay.”

She gives you a quick wink, still playful, still pretending nothing’s wrong, and walks out the door, pulling her hoodie up.

You’re left in her dressing room, alone, with the ghost of her kiss still wet on your mouth.

And all you can think is, She kissed you like she was yours. But walked away like she wasn’t.

You’ve been to three cities since she kissed you like that. Not that it’s changed anything. A few days later, another venue. 

The green room smells like hotel air, filtered, faintly floral, and somehow both too clean and slightly stale. The lighting’s dim, amber yellow from two mismatched lamps in opposite corners of the room. The overhead fluorescents are switched off. No one likes how they make your skin look.

It’s a cozy enough space for what it is. Posters from past shows paper the walls, some framed, some thumbtacked up. A little couch with a throw blanket sits against one wall, barely used. The floor is layered with a cheap patterned rug that someone probably bought in a rush off Amazon. Scattered around the rug is some mugs, a few drafts of tonight’s set list, two bags of candy someone left in here hours ago, a hoodie Billie discarded after soundcheck, and a small pile of worn, uno cards.

The three of you are sitting cross legged on the rug, in a loose triangle, heads tipped forward slightly as you lean over the game.

Outside the room, you can still hear the low hum of crew footsteps, a muted snare from the drum check, a walkie talkie buzz. The venue is coming alive, just under three hours ‘til doors.

Billie’s got one knee pulled up under her, back curved as she leans into her cards. She’s in that off duty version of herself, hair twisted up in a clip, oversized jumper slouching off one shoulder, track pants baggy and bunched at the ankles. Her hands are slightly shaky, small tremors that most people wouldn’t catch, but you do. You always do.

She’s trying to hide it, trying to be casual, but there’s a tension underneath her skin. The kind that creeps in before shows. Nerves. Pressure. That heaviness she carries before having to become Billie Eilish in front of tens of thousands of people again.

Finneas is sitting opposite her, legs crossed, holding a handful of cards like they’re sacred texts. He’s calm, always is, and grinning just a little as he eyes Billie over the top of his hand.

You’re sitting next to her, your thigh brushing hers where your knees angle toward the center of the circle. You’re in a soft black tee and sweats, one sock pulled halfway off without realizing. Your cards are crumpled slightly from over shuffling.

“Uno,” Billie says, smug, dropping her second to last card with a little snap.

Finneas groans dramatically. “You’re kidding me.”

“You suck at this,” Billie says, grinning wide now. “It’s actually impressive.”

You laugh, sliding a card from your pile and dropping it into place. “He’s not that bad,” you offer, teasing. “Just… emotionally fragile when he loses.”

“False,” Finneas deadpans. “I’m a picture of grace under pressure.”

Billie rolls her eyes. “You’re a picture of someone who just got destroyed.”

You’re smiling as you peek toward Billie’s hand, curious what her last card is. You don’t do it secretly. It’s playful. You tilt your head a little toward her, leaning just close enough to fake snoop, eyebrows raised.

She catches your look and laughs under her breath. Then, 

“Come on, baby, that’s not fair,” she says, soft. Automatic.

She’s still smiling when she says it, voice low and teasing. But the second the word baby slips out, it’s like someone pressed pause on the air itself.

The warmth of the room holds still.

Not sharply. Not dramatically. Just, quiet. A breath held.

You feel it before you register it. Billie does too.

Her fingers twitch slightly around her cards. She doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t look at Finneas either. Her face is still tipped forward, still vaguely smiling, but her posture changes in that micro way, like something curled inward. Like she’s bracing for impact.

Finneas’s head tilts just a fraction. His expression doesn’t shift much, but his eyes are sharp, trained on the space between the two of you.

He raises one eyebrow.

Just the one.

You glance at Billie. Her jaw’s clenched now. Slight. Her nails press into the corner of her card deck. Her shoulders pull a little tighter around her neck.

So you move like it’s nothing. Like everything’s fine.

Your pinky brushes the side of her hand, accidental, except it isn’t. You don’t press. You don’t linger. Just a featherlight drag of your skin against hers. Enough to say,  I’m here.

Her body stills. Then releases. Just a little.

She breathes in.

Exhales softly through her nose. You feel it against your forearm.

You don’t look at her. She doesn’t look at you. But the weight of her hand relaxes. She draws her shoulders down. You hear her swallow.

Finneas glances between the two of you one more time. Then shifts his weight slightly, looks back at his cards, and says nothing.

The silence breaks.

You reach for the discard pile like nothing happened. “Reverse,” you mutter, tossing a green card down.

Billie huffs out a little laugh, fragile, but genuine. She mirrors you. “Skip.”

Finneas groans again. “You’re both against me now?”

You shrug. “She’s winning. I’m just trying to get close to greatness.”

You glance over at Billie. She’s not looking at you. Her cheeks are slightly pink, hands no longer shaking. There’s something new in her posture, like maybe that word, baby, wasn’t a mistake after all.

Or maybe it was.

But it’s out there now. In the middle of the room, soft and floating between the three of you. Not named. Not acknowledged. Just real.

The next round starts.

Cards shuffle. Finneas makes a joke about changing the game to blackjack. Billie’s laugh is freer now. Looser.

Her leg presses against yours again, and this time she doesn’t move it away.

You say nothing. You don’t need to.

But a part of you wonders what Finneas is thinking. What he knows. Whether that raised eyebrow was silent permission or quiet curiosity.

Still, he hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t teased. Hasn’t broken the moment open.

And somehow, that feels like love, too.

You stay there on the floor a little longer. The room softens around you. Billie relaxes deeper into her sweatshirt. Her foot nudges yours once, then again, like a rhythm she doesn’t realize she’s keeping.

The moment doesn’t explode. It lingers.

Now it’s louder. Darker. Billie’s a little tipsy, and you’re trying to keep up

The bar’s loud, bass pounding through the floor, laughter spilling over the clink of glasses. The air is warm and thick with the smell of beer and sweat and something electric underneath it all. You sit at the bar, watching Billie. Her eyeliner’s smudged, lips softly stained, cheeks flushed from the heat and the drinks. She’s laughing at something Finneas said, light and a little off kilter.

Suddenly, she leans in close, breath warm against your ear, voice low and quick.

“Tour bus is empty.”

Your heart jumps, that simple, that urgent. You blink, nod. She pulls back, smirks, picks up her drink, and heads toward the back door.

You wait a moment, then follow, stepping out into the cooler night air. The pavement is still warm underfoot, the distant music humming through the walls.

Before you can think, her hand is on your waist, steady and sure. No words, just the press of her palm, the pull of her close as she walks fast, fingers lacing into your shirt.

You don’t say anything. Neither does Billie.

The door of the tour bus clicks shut behind you, sealing out the world. No words, just the electricity crackling between you. Her lips crash onto yours with fierce urgency, hungry and desperate, teeth grazing, tongues tangling in a way that makes your knees weak. Her hands grab at your jacket, fingers clutching the fabric like she needs to feel every inch of you right now.

You stumble backward together toward the front couch, bodies pressed tight, heat radiating off her skin, her breath hot and ragged against your neck. She pulls you down into her lap with a possessive grip, legs spreading slightly to invite you in. The denim of her shorts is rough and cool under your bare thighs, sending an unexpected jolt through you when you shift your hips to grind lightly. The pressure of her thigh between your legs is maddening, you gasp, chest tightening.

Her breath catches at your neck, voice low, ragged, full of want.

“Wanted you all night,” she murmurs, teeth brushing your skin. “Whole night. Fuck.”

Her hand slips beneath your shirt, fingers cool against the hot skin of your ribs, palming your breast, thumb circling the sensitive curve. You arch against her, hands threading through her soft, tangled hair, pulling gently as she kisses down your neck, leaving a trail of wet heat that sets your skin ablaze.

You tug at her shirt, pulling it over her head, fingers brushing bare skin, warm shoulders, delicate collarbones, and she lifts her arms, eyes dark and heavy with need. Your shirt follows, discarded clumsily as your mouths meet again, deeper now, slower, more urgent, skin on skin, heat building like wildfire.

Her hands trail down your body, tugging at your shorts, fingers skating over your thighs, nails grazing lightly. You hook your thumbs into the waistband, tugging your panties down and kicking them off. She sinks lower on the couch, head resting on the armrest, eyes hooded, voice low but playful.

“Come here, baby. You know what I want.”

You start to straddle her face, heart hammering, breath catching in anticipation. But just as you settle, she tugs you back, voice hoarse but firm.

“Nuh uh. Turn around.”

The sudden command tightens your chest, sends a thrill through you. You nod, breath caught, and shift until you’re facing her feet, thighs hovering just above her head.

Her hands grip your ass, pulling you gently down as her tongue traces a slow, deliberate line up your folds. You tremble immediately, whimpering, pressing forward, craving the pressure, the wet heat.

You lean over, resting your weight on your forearms across her lower stomach, cheek pressed against her warm skin. You trace the curve of her hips with the tip of your tongue whilst sliding your hand beneath the waistband of her panties, fingers brushing the soft skin there. She moans low and needy into your cunt, sending shivers down your spine.

A sly grin curls at the corner of your mouth, desperate, smug, all at once. She’s already soaking wet, dripping for you. You carefully pull her panties down to her knees, letting the fabric catch on her thighs before tugging harder, hearing the soft rip of the material. She whines softly, but her mouth never stops its relentless worship.

Her tongue presses deeper, swirling and teasing, coaxing you open. You slip two fingers inside her pussy, curling just so, feeling Billie’s body jerk and tremble beneath your touch. She spreads her legs wider without needing to be asked, hungry and unrestrained.

You trail kisses up her inner thigh, soft and teasing, then plant your lips on her slick folds, tasting her wetness. Her gasp is sharp and raw, a sound that echoes through both your bodies. You lick slow, savoring the taste, matching the rhythm of her tongue on you, then faster, demanding and frantic.

She sucks your clit, lips wrapping around it, and you gasp around her mouth, hips bucking wildly despite the couch beneath you. Your nails dig into her thighs, clutching tight, while her fingers curl into the flesh of your hips, holding you steady as waves of pleasure crash through you.

Billie’s legs tremble, shaking with the intensity. Your own thighs quiver from the effort, muscles tight and burning. She pushes her tongue deeper, relentless and perfect, as you slip two fingers inside her, curling them expertly. She arches, desperate and open, grinding down hard onto your mouth, hips jerking with mounting need. 

You’re so close you can hardly breathe, the pressure building unbearably. Then she shudders first, legs locking tight around your head, body trembling violently in release. Her moans are muffled, broken and raw, vibrating against your wet cunt, her cum dribbling across your chin. 

But you don’t stop.

Not yet.

You ride your orgasm out with her mouth still working, hips bucking, fingers slipping, breath ragged and gasping. When it finally hits, loud and desperate, it rips through you, leaving you trembling and undone.

You collapse forward, your forearms resting on her thighs, both of you shaking, sweat slicking your skin, hearts pounding loud in the silence.

A pause, just the sound of panting, shallow breaths mingling in the quiet.

Her arms snake around your waist, pulling you impossibly close, warm and steady. She presses soft kisses along the inside of your thigh, lips feather-light against your skin.

You respond with a gentle kiss on her hip, soft and slow, lingering.

Quiet laughter bubbles up between you, breathless and tender.

You carefully slide off her lap, sticky and breathless, still catching your breath.

She pulls you down beside her on the couch, bodies tangled, chest to chest, faces inches apart.

The world shrinks to just this, just the two of you, utterly tangled in heat, quiet and complete.

The bus feels impossibly warm, heat pooling under your skin like a soft, heavy blanket. The faint hum of the engine idling somewhere in the background, a constant low thrum beneath your breaths. Outside, the city lights bleed in through the narrow windows, casting a blurred golden haze over everything, painting everything soft and unreal.

You’re tangled up against Billie, limbs knotted, skin slick with the lingering heat of what just happened between you. Her body curves against yours perfectly, warm and solid, steady beneath your cheek. The small lamp by the couch glows faintly, a soft pool of yellow light that barely touches the edges of the space around you, leaving the rest of the bus swallowed in deep shadow.

Billie’s breath is slow and warm on your skin as her lips trail down your neck, light, teasing, soft against the spot just behind your ear. A little laugh vibrates through her chest, low and effortless.

“Missed you, Bills,” she murmurs, voice rough from sleep and desire. Her fingers trace lazy circles along your ribs, nails barely grazing your skin.

You blink up at her, tired but content. “Been around you all day,” you whisper back, voice thick with sleep and the softness of the moment.

She smiles, eyes hooded but bright, pulling you a little closer. You stay like that for a while, just lying there, warm and quiet, the space between you shrinking until it disappears. You share little kisses, soft and slow, pressing your lips to hers and then along her jaw, feeling the steady rise and fall of her chest against your own.

Eventually, Billie shifts, slipping a loose T-shirt over her head, the fabric falling soft and cool over her skin. You do the same, tugging your own shirt back on, the worn cotton soothing against the sensitive skin still tingling where her hands and lips touched.

You catch her eye and grin, the quiet contentment in the air making you feel like you could stay here forever. She leans in again, brushing her mouth against your neck.

“I missed you,” she says softly, voice playful but real.

You hum, half smiling, “Still here.”

Your hands find hers, fingers curling together, squeezing gently. The weight of everything, the exhaustion, the closeness, the unsaid things, settles around you like a heavy but comforting fog.

Then, almost imperceptible at first, you hear it. Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Steady.

Your breath catches, heart flickering uneasily.

The front door of the bus creaks open.

Billie stiffens instantly, her body snapping upright like a wire pulled tight. The warm, sleepy girl you’ve been holding vanishes in an instant, replaced by something sharper, harder, tense.

Her eyes flick to the door, then to you, dark and guarded.

“Get off,” she hisses, voice low but fierce, urgency biting through the soft atmosphere. “Get off. Go to your bunk.”

You blink, caught somewhere between groggy and confused. “Hm?” you mumble, trying to nuzzle closer again.

She flinches at the movement, hands trembling just slightly as she pushes you away, firm but gentle, almost like she’s afraid she might hurt you if she doesn’t stop herself.

“Seriously. Now,” she snaps, voice clipped, breath sharp.

You stumble back, unbalanced in the sudden shift. Your elbow catches the edge of the couch with a sharp jab of pain. You wince, biting your lip to keep quiet, but the sting lingers, real and raw.

Billie’s eyes flick to your arm for a brief second, a flicker of concern that’s there and gone in a flash, replaced by the same tense urgency.

You want to stay. Just a minute more. But she’s already moving, pulling the curtain closed around her bunk. You shuffle back, holding your arm gently, the sting a physical echo of the ache twisting deep inside you. Your bunk feels cold, the metal frame rough against your skin. You sit up a little, cradling your arm like it might break open again, trying to soothe both the physical pain and the gnawing ache in your chest.

The bus is quiet now except for faint murmurs and the occasional soft laugh drifting through the vents and thin walls.

You catch Billie’s voice, light, casual, easy. Laughing with Finneas, joking with the crew or maybe friends who have come aboard.

You listen for your name. For any sign that the warm, messy, tender Billie from moments ago is still there.

But there’s nothing.

No mention of you.

No hint of the closeness you just shared.

Just the cold, hollow echo of a Billie who’s already slipping back into the world she keeps so carefully hidden.

The cramped quiet of your bunk presses in on you, the rough blanket tangled beneath your legs, the metal frame cold against your skin where it peeks from under the sheets. You sit up, still holding your arm where the sharp jab from earlier burns, both the sting on your skin and the ache beneath it, deeper, heavier. Your breath catches now and then, half from the pain, half from the tight knot of something raw and twisting in your chest. The heat from your body feels too little against the chill settling inside you.

Minutes stretch, slow and heavy, but finally the silence becomes unbearable, a weight dragging at your bones. You push yourself upright, heart tight, and slip out of your bunk, careful not to wake anyone else.

The bus feels different out here, smaller, colder, less forgiving. You cross the narrow aisle, the worn carpet muffling your steps. Your hand reaches out, trembling just a little, and taps gently on Billie’s bunk curtain.

Her head pops out almost immediately. There’s a flicker of surprise, then amusement, maybe even a little showiness for whoever else might be listening nearby, a playful laugh that sounds too light, like she’s pretending this is no big deal.

You meet her gaze, steady now, voice soft but firm. “Talk to me. Outside. Please.”

Her eyes flick toward the door and then back to you. Without a word, she pulls back the curtain and steps out, following you silently.

The bus door opens with a low creak, and a rush of cold night air sweeps in. The sky is low and thick with clouds, and a steady rain falls, small beads soaking through your hair, wetting your skin beneath your thin shirt. The cold bites, making your breath fog in front of you, pale ghosts disappearing into the night.

You shiver, wrapping your arms around yourself, the dampness mixing with the ache in your arm, the cold layering over the raw heat in your chest.

The parking lot around the bus is empty and quiet, lit only by the dim orange glow of distant street lamps, the headlights of a few passing cars streaking faintly across the wet asphalt.

You turn to Billie, voice breaking slightly, fragile as the mist around you. “Billie… what the fuck was that back there? Why did you shut me out like that?”

She stiffens, folding her arms, biting back a bitter laugh. “I’m tired,” she snaps, sharp, defensive. “I’m on edge. You wouldn’t get it.”

The words hit you harder than the cold, but you push on, voice growing more urgent, a desperate tremor rising. “No, Billie, it’s not just that. You pushed me away. You made me feel like I don’t matter. Like I’m nothing.”

Her mouth presses into a thin line. There’s something flickering beneath her eyes, frustration? Fear? Something you’ve never quite reached before. But she keeps her walls up, not letting it show.

“Look,” she says finally, voice low but hard, “you knew what this was. What this is. You knew it’s complicated.”

You shake your head slowly, voice barely steady as it cracks. “You act like you want me, like you want me so badly, only when no one’s looking. You hide me, Billie.”

Her eyes flash, defensive and sharp. “I’m not hiding you,” she says.

You bite back tears, voice shaking with the weight of everything bottled up for years. “You literally told your brother we’re just friends, after you came in my mouth on the tour bus.”

The words hang in the cold night air like a stone. Billie flinches, like you’ve hit her. Her eyes glisten, bright, shimmering tears welling up in the dark. You hate yourself for that, for breaking her open, but you can’t hold it in any longer.

She presses a hand to her mouth, shoulders curling forward as if trying to fold into herself, retreat away from everything.

The rain starts falling heavier now, drumming steady on the roof of the bus, soft but relentless. Your breath clouds between you in pale, quick bursts.

You almost turn away, the words catching in your throat but spilling out anyway, quiet but sharp, “Maybe I shouldn’t do this anymore.”

Billie’s eyes widen, panic flashing so fast you almost miss it. Her tough mask cracks, and she steps forward, voice suddenly softer, urgent, real. “Wait, don’t say that. I’m sorry. I’ll make it better. I promise I’ll try.”

You want to believe her. You want to believe the words will be different this time. But you’ve heard promises like this before, fragile as glass and just as easy to shatter.

Still, the ache and loneliness are heavier than your doubt. You nod slowly, voice barely a whisper, raw with tiredness. “Okay. But I can’t keep getting hurt like this.”

She pulls you close then, arms wrapping around you, shaky, hesitant, imperfect but honest. The rain soaks both of you, cold seeping through your clothes, but for a moment, it doesn’t matter. You hold onto each other like it might be the only thing keeping you both from falling apart.

A couple of days later, the bus feels heavy with absence. Billie’s disappeared into whatever chaos her world is, maybe a press thing, maybe soundcheck, maybe a meeting with managers. You don’t ask. You don’t want to know. The only constant is the quiet, and the dull ache in your arm that no amount of rubbing will fix.

You’re sitting on the faded leather couch in the back, absently tracing the frayed seam with your thumb. The bus hums softly beneath you, the engine idling, lights blinking outside. Rain splatters against the windows, a muted rhythm that presses against the silence.

The curtain at the back shifts. You glance up.

Finneas steps out, hair messy like he just rolled out of bed, eyes clear and calm. He leans against the doorframe, hands shoved deep in his pockets, like he’s trying to seem casual but isn’t fooling you.

“Hey,” he says, voice low enough not to break the quiet too much.

“Hey,” you answer, voice rough and small.

He shrugs, glancing around as if weighing if he should leave. Then he sits down beside you, careful not to crowd but close enough that you can smell the faint trace of coffee on his jacket.

“I know stuff,” he says bluntly. No preamble.

You blink, surprised. “What kind of stuff?”

He looks at you, eyes steady but not invasive. “About you and Billie. She told me. A while ago. Before whatever the other day was.”

You swallow, heart ticking faster. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because she’s… she’s protective. And honestly, I wasn’t sure what to say. It’s complicated.” His voice drops almost to a whisper. “But I want you to know she cares. Even when it doesn’t look like it.”

You laugh, bitter, short. “Cares? She pushed me away the other night like I was disgusting.”

Finneas shrugs again, like it’s just one more thing on a long list. “She’s scared. I don’t think it’s about you. It’s everything else. The pressure, the fame, the way people talk, watch. It makes her close up tight.”

You stare at your hands, curling into fists. “I don’t think she’s scared of anything except being real with me.”

He nods slowly. “Maybe. But sometimes scared looks like pushing away.”

You bite your lip, thinking about all the nights you’ve spent folding yourself smaller, pretending not to want more than secret touches, stolen moments. The quiet, the hiding, it’s been so long you almost don’t remember what it feels like to be seen.

“Fin,” you say, voice breaking a little, “do you really think she cares? Because sometimes it feels like I’m holding onto a ghost.”

Finneas meets your gaze, eyes steady and softer than before. “Yeah. She does. More than you think. But she’s got her own battles. Just because you’re okay with people knowing things, about you, about you and her, about your identity, doesn’t mean she feels the same way about herself.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Thanks. I needed to hear that.”

He gives you a small, almost shy smile. “Anytime. And if you ever need someone who’s not her… you know where to find me.”

You nod, the weight in your chest shifting just a fraction. It’s not perfect, not even close. But maybe it’s a start.

The tour bus starts to feel different day by day. The constant low hum of the engine is no longer just background noise, it’s a quiet pulse underneath the soft shifts in Billie’s behavior. Small things that shouldn’t mean anything but mean everything. Like the way she lingers in your space a little longer when she’s backstage. Or how, during soundchecks or interviews, she throws you quick, electric glances from across the room. There’s a secret language between you now, half spoken, half glanced, that no one else sees.

It’s subtle, but it’s there. And you notice everything.

You’re sitting in the green room before a show, a quiet space filled with the hum of crew chatter. Billie’s there too, sprawled on the couch with her head resting against your shoulder. It feels like the first time she’s let herself do this in front of anyone, not fully out, but no longer hiding entirely either. Your heart stutters at the weight of her presence, warm and soft, her breath hitching slightly as she closes her eyes.

“Hey,” she murmurs, voice low and a little rough, like she’s holding back something.

You shift so you’re leaning back, careful not to disturb her too much. “Hi” you answer, feeling the familiar comfort of her against you, but also the flicker of something fragile and new.

She hums, a soft vibration that feels like a promise or a question, and you realize she’s testing the water, this closeness, this small public display of affection without a word. Your fingers twitch, itching to lace through her hair, to hold her closer. You resist, not wanting to push too fast, but also desperate to show her you’re here, always.

After the show, when the adrenaline is still buzzing in her veins, she finds you instantly. You’re backstage, the noise from the crowd fading, replaced by the quiet bustle of the crew packing up. She pulls you close, fingers tangling in your hair, and kisses you, soft, urgent, like she’s trying to memorize the moment so it can’t be taken away.

“I missed you,” she breathes against your mouth, voice cracking just a little.

You smile, lips brushing hers again. “Been here all day.”

Her laugh is a whisper, and she presses her forehead to yours. “It’s stupid, but… I don’t want to hide it as much anymore. Not with you.”

You squeeze her hand, heart thudding with something wild and hopeful. “I’m right here. Always.”

Days blend into nights and back again. Billie spends more time with you, long afternoons in quiet hotel rooms where the world feels miles away, late night walks in rain soaked streets where the city lights reflect in puddles, and in those moments, the secret edges soften.

She still won’t say it aloud. No public declarations, no instagram photos, or any photos for that matter, or bold announcements. But she’s leaning on you, touching you just enough in public to make your breath hitch. Her hand finds yours when no one’s looking. She rests her head lightly on your shoulder during long tour bus rides, the corner of her mouth quirking in a private smile only you catch.

It’s like she’s testing it all, feeling out what it would mean to step into the light with you. And you let her.

You wonder what Billie’s up to right now. It’s been a few days since you last saw her, but the question sticks, like the faint hum of the city leaking through your walls. You check your phone again, fingers hovering over the screen, then decide against it, no new messages. You stand by the window, watching the streets blur into evening, the sounds drifting up: distant sirens, the murmur of strangers, tires skimming wet pavement.

Somewhere out there, Billie moves through all that noise, that chaos. You picture her, always so calm, so steady, but maybe not tonight.

Billie steps out of the black SUV and instantly regrets it.

Her heels hit the curb awkwardly, the sharp edge biting into her skin through the thin sole. A camera flash goes off before the door even fully closes. It stings her eyes, blue and white and unrelenting, she squints without thinking, which she knows they’ll catch. They always do. “Don’t frown,” someone once told her. “You have to look like you’re enjoying yourself.” 

Her dress is tight, too tight. Not in a flattering way. Not in the way the stylist had chirped, “snatched” as she zipped Billie in an hour ago. It’s tight in the ribs, high under her arms, pressing against her chest with every shallow breath. The neckline dips lower than she’d wanted. Her bra keeps slipping, the underwire pinching, the straps digging into her shoulders. She’s already adjusted them twice. No, her stylist adjusted them, fingers poking into Billie’s cleavage like she was a hanger instead of a human. 

She’s wearing sheer gloves because “soft femme is in” and her nails are long, impractical, a pain to live in. Her hands are sweating in the gloves. She can’t wipe them dry. Her lipstick sticks to her teeth. There’s a blister forming on the back of her left heel. Every step toward the venue feels like walking into a trap, and for a moment, she wishes she could disappear back into the car, back into the quiet you’re waiting in.

She tries to walk like she’s confident, like this is easy. Her hips sway too much, too forced, her thighs chafing. Cameras flash again. She smiles, too wide, and it doesn’t reach her eyes. She already knows how fake it looks.

She hates this.

She feels like she’s wearing someone else’s body. Like she’s walking around inside a version of herself built for men, a puppet. Not for the first time, she wonders if they can tell.

Inside the venue, it’s worse.

The lighting is low and moody, purples and blues with sharp accents of gold. Her heels click against the polished floor. Everyone smells like perfume and money. Too many bodies, too close. People look her up and down, not subtly. There are eyes on her chest, her waist, the curve of her ass in the mirror, like sheen of her dress. Men approach her like they already own the right.

“You look beautiful tonight, Billie,” one producer, late 30s, too confident, says, his voice all smooth velvet. His hand slides to her waist, rests there. Lingers. Not a graze. A hold. Possessive.

She laughs, sharp, too loud, and takes a half-step away. “Thanks,” she says, looking over his shoulder, hoping to spot someone, anyone. A lifeline. There’s no one.

She feels him move closer again a few minutes later. During a photo with a group, label people, industry names, his hand slides low, onto her thigh. She doesn’t even feel it at first. Then she does. Heat, pressure. Fingers brushing the slit in her dress. Too high.

She jolts — not enough to be noticed on camera, just enough to tense. Her smile freezes. Her shoulders go stiff. Her stomach tightens, as if she’s swallowed something sharp.

He leans in. Too close.

Whispers, breath hot against her neck, “I bet you drive men crazy in that thing, huh?”

She stares ahead. Her ears ring. Her jaw locks.

She laughs, hollow, because the camera’s still pointed at her. Because people are still watching. Because she’s not allowed to cause a scene. Not Billie Eilish, the cool one, the approachable one, the not too queer, not too angry, not too difficult celebrity. She plays along. For now.

Later, she slips away. Finds a corridor near the back, dim, lined with storage cases and half empty glasses on a catering tray. Her head’s spinning. She wants to rip the gloves off. Her chest aches. Her heels hurt. Her skin crawls. She just needs a second. Just one second to breathe.

She leans against the wall, exhaling, heart still racing.

Then she hears footsteps. Him.

“Hey,” he says, like they’re in on a secret together.

Billie stiffens. She pushes off the wall, tries to walk past him, eyes fixed on the exit ahead. He shifts sideways, blocks her path. His hand catches her arm. Tight grip. Fingers on her bare skin, just above the glove.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to be so shy.”

His other hand presses low on Billie’s hip. Her stomach flips.

She tries to step around him again, but he moves with her. He’s taller. Bigger. Too close. The hallway feels smaller. Farther from sound. Farther from people. She can smell his cologne, sharp and synthetic. Her skin crawls.

“Stop,” she says, voice quiet but clear. She tries to pull back. His fingers dig harder. Now it hurts.

He moves faster than she expects, crowding her back against the wall. A thud behind her as her spine hits the plaster. His hand presses harder, flat against her thigh now. His leg between hers. Her heart is in her throat.

Her gloves squeak against the wall. Her breath comes in shallow gasps.

“Don’t,” she says, louder this time, almost a cry.

He touches her again, not her thigh this time, higher, and something in her brain snaps.

She shoves him.

Hard.

Not enough to knock him over, but enough to make him stumble back a step, startled.

He grabs her wrist reflexively. “Hey,” he says, like she’s the one out of line. “Relax. You’re so fucking uptight.”

“Get the fuck off me,” Billie says, voice shaking, eyes wild.

There’s a beat, a heavy, quiet moment, and then a voice from the other end of the corridor. A woman, someone vaguely familiar, maybe from another label, turns the corner. The man’s hands drop instantly.

He steps back, smooths his jacket. Smiles. “Just talking,” he says, too easily.

He walks off. Billie stands there, shaking.

Her gloves feel like they’re strangling her hands. Her chest is tight. Her throat burns. Her mouth tastes like bile. She pushes past the woman without a word. Finds the first bathroom. Locks the stall. Sits down on the toilet fully clothed. And finally, finally, lets herself cry.

You’re lying on your couch, still wondering what Billie is up to, TV flickering silently, some half watched rerun of something you’ve seen a thousand times playing in the dark. The city hums faintly beyond your window, distant car horns, the occasional siren, a dog barking three blocks away. You almost don’t check your phone ringing at your side. You’re used to ignoring it this late. But when you do, when you see Billie’s name, everything in you stills.

You answer immediately.

“Billie?”

There’s noise on the other end. Nothing for a second. Then, 

“Hey..Uh. Fuck god I’m sorry I’m sorry. I uh. Can I come over? Please?” Her voice stumbles out fast, too fast. Like she’s trying to keep it together through shallow, ragged breaths.

Your body jerks upright. “What? Billie, are you okay? Talk to me what’s going on.”

“No. No, I just…I didn’t know who else to call. Please. Please…don’t ask. I just need you.”

There’s no hesitation. “Come. I’m here. Just come.”

She hangs up before you can say more. The line goes dead like she’s afraid to be heard. You’re left holding the phone against your ear for another five seconds, heart pounding like it knows something you don’t yet.

You flick the light on, suddenly cold. You pace the apartment. Turn the TV off. Unlock the door. Pull your hoodie off, then back on again. Your hands are shaking.

It’s twenty eight minutes before there’s a soft, uneven knock. You open the door fast, too fast, and she’s just… standing there.

Billie.

You blink once.

She’s soaked. The kind of soaked that isn’t just weather. Like the world tried to peel her apart on the way here. Her makeup’s smudged, mascara pooled under her eyes in streaks like shadows. One earring dangles loosely, the other completely gone. Her lipstick is worn off, smudged slightly at the edge of her mouth, like someone wiped it away. Lip liner faded in all the wrong places. Her hair’s tangled, wind mussed. The lace strap of her black dress is torn, one side hanging lower, exposing the sharp line of her collarbone.

You don’t speak. You just open your arms, and she folds into you like it’s the only thing holding her up. She doesn’t fall so much as collapse, limbs heavy, breath uneven, head pressed hard into your shoulder. Her whole body trembles. Not sobbing, not yet, but shaking like something is coming undone inside her and she doesn’t know where to put it.

You wrap your arms around her back. Feel the slight damp chill of her skin through the thin fabric of her dress. Her chest pushes against yours with each rough breath she takes, the kind that feel caught halfway in her throat. She smells like perfume and cold air and sweat and something acidic beneath it, something sharp. You try not to breathe that part in.

She doesn’t speak for a long time. Her fingers clutch at your shirt like she’s scared you’ll pull away. You don’t. You don’t move.

Finally, her voice breaks the silence, barely a whisper, muffled into your collar. “It was… I didn’t think it would.. he..”

You tighten your hold just slightly, saying nothing.

“I was just standing there,” she breathes. “In the corner. And he came over. I couldn’t move. I just” Her voice breaks, “he touched me.”

Your hands are shaking now too.

She pulls back just enough to look at you. Her lips are chapped. There’s a rawness at the edge of her mouth, like maybe she bit it too hard. Her eyes won’t quite meet yours.

“I pushed him. I did. I said stop,” she says, almost like she’s convincing herself. “I told him. I said get off. I said it.”

You nod. You don’t interrupt. Just press your hand over hers where it still trembles against your chest. Her palm is cold. Her fingers twitch like they still feel him.

She exhales sharply. “Everyone saw him before. The way he was touching me. No one said anything.”

The sentence cracks in the middle. She blinks fast, jaw clenched. Her mouth opens like she’s going to say more, then closes again.

You don’t push. Not yet.

You just stand there, her arms around your waist, her body pressed to yours like a question without an answer. You run your hand slowly down her back. She flinches at first, just barely, then lets herself lean in harder.

You whisper, “You’re safe now,” even if you don’t know if it’s true. Even if you can feel how not-okay she is. Even if the trembling doesn’t stop.

She doesn’t say anything else.

And you don’t ask her to.

Not tonight.

She doesn’t say anything for a long time. Just sits there, right on the edge of your bed. Her body still hasn’t fully relaxed. Shoulders hunched forward like she’s still bracing for something. One hand grips the hem of her torn dress, fingers twitching, as if replaying it all in the fabric. Her other arm is loosely folded over her stomach like she’s holding herself in. The room is quiet except for the hum of your fridge in the next room and the soft, uneven sound of her breathing, not quite crying anymore, but not settled either.

You don’t ask questions. Don’t press. You just move slowly, barefoot on the hardwood, padding into the bathroom. The overhead light is too harsh, so you leave it off and flick on the small side lamp near the mirror instead, a warm, amber glow. You twist the faucet, let the water run hot, toss in a handful of the lavender salts she used the last time she stayed over. They fizzle in a soft hiss, steam rising to fog the mirror. You make it as gentle as you can.

You don’t tell Billie it’s ready, you just return to the bedroom doorway, standing there quietly until her eyes flick toward you. She looks small. Smaller than you’ve ever seen her. Her voice is quiet, almost hoarse, “You ran me a bath?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

She stands slowly. Movements tight. One hand tugs at the side of her dress like she forgot it’s ripped. Her mascara is smeared under both eyes, tear tracks drying there. As she walks past you into the bathroom, you reach out and gently, briefly, touch her wrist. Just a light graze. She doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t say anything either.

When the bathroom door closes behind her, you let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. The faint splash of water behind the door feels like proof she’s still here. You grab one of your oversized shirts, the one she always steals, and a pair of soft shorts, fold them neatly, and leave them just outside the bathroom. You don’t knock. You don’t say anything through the door.

Time passes. You don’t know how long. The apartment is dim now, lit only by the dull streetlights through the blinds. You sit for a while, then shift. Pick up the hoodie you left on the floor. Fold it. Set it on the arm of the couch. You keep yourself busy because the silence feels like it might crush you if you don’t. She’s still in there. Maybe curled up in the tub. Maybe trying not to cry again. You don’t want her to feel rushed.

Eventually, you press your hand lightly against the door, speak through it, voice quiet. “I’m gonna lie down, alright? On the couch. You take your time.”

There’s a pause. A soft splash. Then, through the door, her voice, faint “Okay. I’m sorry.”

You blink. That word hits you sideways. You swallow hard and press your palm firmer against the wood.

“Don’t be,” you say. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

Silence. Then a small rustle. That’s it.

You leave her alone.

The couch isn’t comfortable. Your body curls automatically, searching for warmth you gave away. You didn’t want to assume she’d want you in the bed. Not after what happened. Not when her skin still trembled under your touch. She didn’t push you away earlier, but she didn’t hold you either. You respect that. You don’t want to take more than she can give.

But hours pass. You can’t sleep. Not really. You drift and jolt back awake. You stare at the ceiling. Then at your phone. Nothing new. You try not to imagine her crying again behind that door. You try not to think about that word “touched.” The way her voice broke on it.

You must doze off because the next thing you hear is your name. Soft. From the hallway. Barely above a whisper. You sit up, heart thudding, Billie’s shadow cast across the sofa. 

“Billie?” you call, voice scratchy.

“Yeah,” she says.

She’s standing there in your shirt. Damp hair clinging to her neck, collarbone glinting with the remnants of water. Her legs are bare, skin blotchy from the heat of the bath. She looks like she’s been staring at the floor for a while before speaking.

“Can you… will you come lay down with me?”

You’re already moving before she finishes the sentence. She doesn’t step aside, just turns, walks back down the hall, and you follow. Quiet. Careful.

Your bedroom is dim. The sheets are rumpled where she sat earlier. She climbs back into the bed and pulls the covers up to her chest. You slip in next to her, giving her space until her hand reaches for yours under the blanket. Her fingers are damp and cold, and they curl into yours slowly, like she’s still deciding if she’s allowed.

She’s not crying. Not now. Her face is blank, staring at the ceiling, but her breath is unsteady.

“I can’t sleep,” she says quietly.

You shift slightly, close enough for your knees to bump beneath the covers. You keep your voice low, even, soothing. “You don’t have to. Just rest. I’ve got you.”

Billie turns her head toward you. Her eyes look darker in the low light, shadows catching the curve of her cheek. Her lip quivers slightly before she presses it tight. You don’t mention it.

For a long while, neither of you speaks. You just lie there, her hand in yours. Your thumb brushes across her knuckles, slow, steady. You’re not sure she’s even really with you right now, her eyes are open, but far away.

And then, quietly, she whispers, “I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not,” you say.

You mean it with your whole body.

Then finally, Billie exhales, slow and trembly. Her voice comes out like something cracked open.

“I hated it.”

You shift your head to face her, eyes adjusting to the dark. There’s enough light bleeding in through the curtain from the streetlamp outside that you can make out the curve of her cheek, the hollow under her eyes.

“What?” you say softly.

“That place,” Billie murmurs. “That night. That dress. That smile. All of it.”

Her eyes are wide, staring somewhere past you. You wait.

“I felt like I was… performing. Like I always do. But more. Worse.” Her mouth twitches. “Like I had to prove something I’m not. Just to make everyone else comfortable.”

She swallows hard, and her throat clicks. She’s facing you now, side on, her arms folded up between your chests like she’s trying to shield something.

“I didn’t want to go. But they said it’d be good for optics. Said I should look soft. Feminine. Sexy. Approachable.” She lets out a dry laugh. “I wore a fucking corset. I let them glue lashes on me. And I smiled for men. I let them touch me.”

Your chest tightens. You don’t interrupt.

“I let him…” she trails off, eyes flickering, “…because that’s what I was supposed to do. Because I thought that’s what being straight and normal and easy to market looks like. And I let it go too far. I froze.”

You reach for her hand. Her fingers don’t move at first, but then they slowly curl around yours, hesitant, then tighter. You can feel her pulse in her palm.

“It’s not your fault,” you say, quiet but firm.

She nods, but it’s shallow, like she doesn’t quite believe you yet.

Another pause. The sheets shift as she moves closer, her breath grazing your collarbone. You can feel how tense she is, how she hasn’t really let her body relax all night, like she’s still stuck in that moment, in that corner, in that skin.

“I kept thinking… what if I’d said no earlier?” she whispers. “What if I hadn’t smiled so much? What if I hadn’t worn that dress?” Her voice goes sharp at the edges, like she’s angry at herself. “What if he could tell? That I’m not even into him…that I’m…”

She stops. You already know what she meant. But the word doesn’t come.

You don’t make her say it.

“You don’t owe anyone anything, Billie,” you say, your thumb moving gently over her knuckles. “Not a smile. Not your body. Not a lie.”

She shakes her head, her forehead nudging against your collarbone. “I just… I felt like I had to pick. You or them. Me or the version of me they want.”

You’re silent, but your grip on her hand tightens slightly, just to say: I hear you. I’m still here.

“And I keep trying to choose both,” she says, voice cracking, “but it’s not working. Because I keep hurting you.”

You feel a hot sting rise in your throat. She’s not wrong. But hearing her say it out loud cuts in a different way, like a splinter finally getting pulled, like a wound starting to bleed in order to heal.

“I hate that I’ve made you feel like a secret,” she says. “You’re not. You’re not a secret to me.”

Your eyes close. Her voice is so small now.

“I think about you all the time when I’m out there. Every time I’m fake smiling in some photoshoot or flirting with some guy I don’t care about. You’re in the back of my head. You’re in my chest. You’re what feels real.”

The heat behind your eyes sharpens. Your chest swells with so many things at once, grief, tenderness, longing.

“I know it’s not enough,” she continues. “I know I’ve made it hard. I’ve made you doubt. I’ve made you wait.”

You don’t say anything yet. You wait. Because she’s still talking, and something in her is unraveling.

“But last night…” She pauses. Her throat tightens. “It scared me. Like, deep down scared. Because I didn’t just feel violated. I felt invisible. I felt like nothing.”

She pulls in a shuddering breath. “And I thought… if something happened to me, if I didn’t make it home, if I disappeared into that corner or let myself go numb just to survive, no one would even know the truth. Not really. Not about me. Not about us.”

You feel her shake. Her body, fragile and tense against yours, finally starts to soften as you hold her.

“I don’t want to live like that,” she says, voice almost inaudible. “I don’t want to keep pretending. Not if it means losing who I am. Not if it means losing you.”

You move your hand gently to her face, brushing your thumb under her eye. Her skin’s damp. Her cheek is hot from crying.

“I don’t want to be someone I’m not,” she whispers. “Not anymore.”

Your own throat is thick, but you nod, once, slowly.

“I don’t need it to happen right now,” you say. “But I needed to know you felt that way. That it mattered to you.”

“It does,” she says quickly. “It does.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s careful. Muted. Like two people holding a truth between them that’s too new to be loud.

You lay there for a long while. Eventually, her breathing steadies. Her body starts to really rest, limbs slackening into the mattress, her hand still holding yours, chest warm against your ribs.

She doesn’t fall asleep for a long time. Neither do you.

But when she does, it’s the first time since that night that her face doesn’t look tense.

Weeks later, the bedside lamp glows faint gold, soft as breath, casting low shadows across the creased bedsheets of Billie’s room and the bare skin tangled in them. It’s hot in the room, not temperature hot, but the kind of heat that lingers after bodies have pressed together too long, too close, and too desperately. The kind that smells like sweat and sex and Billie’s perfume, that strange citrusy woodsy smell she always wears that clings to her sheets like memory.

You’re curled against her, one leg hooked loosely over hers, your cheek resting against her stomach, the gentle slope of it rising and falling beneath your skin with each slow breath she takes. Billie lies on her back, arm behind her head, the other hand tracing lazy patterns down your spine, fingers light and aimless like she’s drawing nothing at all. The air’s quiet, the silence swollen and intimate, pierced only by the faint creak of the walls and the rhythmic click of the ceiling fan overhead.

Your muscles ache in that way you like. Your body feels heavy in the good way. Billie hasn’t said much for the last ten minutes, but it’s not awkward. It never is, afterward.

You’re just letting it stretch out, the stillness. Letting your breathing slow down. Letting it be.

Then, her voice cuts through the dark, low and casual, like she’s asking you if you want tea or what time it is.

“Oh. The Grammy noms came out today, by the way.”

Your eyes stay closed at first. You hum something that could mean anything, “Mmm?”,  sleep thick in your throat. A second later, it registers.

“…Wait..what?”

You blink up at her. Her face is half in shadow, lips parted, eyes distant. You shift up on one elbow.

“And you didn’t say anything?”

She shrugs. Her left shoulder lifts, smooth and slow, then sinks again against the pillow. “Didn’t feel like a big deal.”

You scoff. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

Billie turns her head slightly, that crooked little smirk tugging at the edge of her mouth, the one she does when she knows she’s messing with you. You reach for her face and kiss her jaw, warm and clumsy.

“Well?” you murmur. “Did you get any?”

She blinks at the ceiling, then back to you. Her voice is low. “Yeah. ‘Hit Me Hard and Soft’ got pretty much everything. Album. Song. Record. All of it.”

You blink. Then laugh, half in disbelief, half in awe. You sit up straighter, arm draped across her middle. “Billie, what the fuck? That’s huge.”

“I guess,” she says softly. Her hand finds your forearm, gives it a lazy squeeze.

You kiss her again. Quick. “I’m so fucking proud of you.”

She just breathes, steady and quiet. You let yourself settle back down, nestling against her chest this time. Your cheek against her collarbone. You close your eyes again, body still but mind suddenly awake. The ache in your thighs has dulled into a warm hum. Your fingers absently trace her ribs, feel the curve of her side, the soft swell of her breast under your arm.

“Is it fun?” you ask quietly. “Or is it just like… four hours of clapping and pretending you’re not dead inside?”

She snorts, a breathy, half-muffled laugh.

“It’s both. Fun if you win. A nightmare if you don’t. And then there’s the red carpet, the hair, the interviews, the seats that make your ass go numb… so yeah. Mostly a mask. But free booze.”

You laugh too, quiet into her skin. “Mmm. The perks.”

You fall silent again, the kind of silence that stretches easy between people who know each other too well. You’re tired, your limbs slack and heavy, but Billie’s fingers keep drifting along your shoulder, fingertips just barely grazing your skin.

Then she says it.

“You wanna come?”

You freeze. Not stiff, not panicked, just paused. The question dangles in the air like it’s nothing. Like she just asked if you wanted pancakes in the morning. But you know it’s not nothing. You know it’s everything.

You lift your head slightly. “Yeah, right.”

She turns to look at you, slowly. Her expression is unreadable. Not pissed, not hurt, just flat. “I’m being serious. But never mind.”

She shifts beneath you, adjusting the pillow, moving like she’s closing the door again. Like whatever nerve she had to say it is gone now.

Your chest goes tight. “Wait”

You sit up a little more. The air’s cooler now. It touches your skin in a way it didn’t before.

“I mean… yeah. Of course. I’ll come. I just didn’t think…”

You trail off, because you don’t know how to say what you mean without sounding desperate.

You didn’t think she’d ask.

Not like this.

Not after everything. Not after months of being hidden behind curtains and backstage doors. After all the green rooms where she held your hand but never let go in public. After that night she collapsed in your arms and didn’t say your name.

You swallow.

You wonder what this means. If she wants you there to sit beside her. Or just near her. If she’s thinking about the carpet. The photos. The headlines. If she’s imagining you in her frame. If she’s even thinking that far.

You say, quietly, “Thank you.”

Her face softens. Eyes heavy, but still awake. “Yeah. It’ll be fun.”

You nod. Press your mouth to her shoulder. You don’t say anything else. Because you don’t want to ask the questions you’re not ready to hear the answers to.

You lie back down beside her. Her arm wraps around you. You both close your eyes.

The air smells like her. Like citrus and skin and something slightly bitter beneath it. The sheets are still warm.

And for the first time in months, you let yourself imagine being seen.

The hotel suite only a few meters from the Grammys smells like hairspray, expensive perfume, and nervous energy. The room is a whirlwind of movement, stylists darting in and out, adjusting the hem of a dress here, smoothing the sharp crease of a sleeve there. The hum of conversation is punctuated by soft laughter, clipped commands, and the steady tapping of shoes on the polished floor. Finneas stands near the window, scrolling on his phone, the tension behind his calm face barely concealed.

You sit on the edge of a plush velvet chair, fingers entwined in your lap, wearing a black dress that feels both elegant and alien on your body. Technically, you’re “just her friend,” the phrase echoing hollow in your mind as you watch Billie move around the room. She’s half dressed, the silk of the designer gown slipping between her fingers as the stylist works the zipper up her back. Her skin glows under the warm light, the delicate curve of her collarbone exposed where the dress dips low.

Billie glances at you in the mirror, eyes catching yours briefly. For a heartbeat, her hand twitches and she reaches out, fingers brushing yours on the armrest of the chair. But then, someone’s gaze flickers over, and she pulls back immediately, like a secret being tucked away. You feel the electric pulse of that tiny, stolen touch, and she knows you feel it. Neither of you says anything. There’s a wall there, but behind it, a quiet understanding.

“I’ll see you out there,” she murmurs, voice soft but steady.

You nod, swallowing the lump of nerves in your throat. “Yeah.”

The journey to the ceremony is surreal, you’re led in through a side entrance, your staff badges flashing past security without the flash of cameras or the buzz of fans. It feels like you’re a ghost, shadows trailing Billie’s orbit but never quite part of the spotlight.

Out on the red carpet, you watch from behind the scenes as Billie steps into the glare of the cameras. She smiles, effortless and radiant, posing with other artists and industry faces who are all public in her life. The flashing lights feel distant, surreal. No one asks who you are. No one even looks your way. Your heart aches with that familiar sting, the ache of invisibility.

Inside the arena, the atmosphere hums with anticipation and buzz. You sit in Billie’s row, a few seats away. Finneas sits between you, his calm presence a buffer against the tension. Managers and handlers hover nearby like shadows. There’s a barrier, physical and invisible, that keeps you just outside the inner circle.

During a lull in the proceedings, Billie shifts in her seat. With a quick, barely perceptible motion, she swaps places with Finneas, sliding silently over to sit next to you. Your leg brushes against hers beneath the seat. Your breath catches.

Her hand finds yours under the armrest, pinky threading slowly around yours. It’s a small, secret gesture, but it feels like fire, raw and electric. Neither of you looks around. No one notices. No one sees.

The room hushes as the Album of the Year is announced.

“Hit Me Hard and Soft.”

The words hang in the air like thunder.

Billie freezes for a moment, stunned. You see it in her eyes, disbelief, joy, fear, relief all tangled together. Finneas leans in close, whispering congratulations. She breathes in, then stands to accept the award, her face shimmering with tears.

At the microphone, her voice trembles slightly.

“Thank you. Thank you so much. To my fans, you are everything. To my family, my heart. And to the people who see me, even when I’m hiding.”

Your brow quirks in surprise at the cryptic phrase, your cheeks flushing. What did that mean, exactly? You want to ask, but the moment is already shifting, dissolving.

Back in her seat, Billie’s hands shake as she clasps the award to her chest. You lean in quickly, wrapping your arms around her in a hug, whispering, “I’m so proud of you.”

She laughs, the sound soft and shaky, tears slipping down her cheeks.

Then, her voice is low,  urgent and real.

“I want to kiss you.”

You freeze, heart hammering. “You want to what?”

Her hand squeezes yours, her eyes locked on yours, vulnerability raw and unguarded.

“I want to kiss you.”

Before you can react, she leans in, brushing her lips against yours. It’s quick,  a secret pressed into shadow, hidden behind the bulky figure standing in front of you. No flashes catch the moment. No one notices.

But you do.

And in that stolen kiss, beneath the weight of a thousand eyes that don’t see, you feel something terrifying and real.

A fragile hope.

Hours later, the afterglow of the ceremony buzzes in your veins, but the world feels miles away now, a distant hum behind the close, steady rhythm of Billie’s breathing against your shoulder. You’re tucked together in a quiet corner of the hotel suite, far from flashing cameras and the staged smiles of the red carpet.

Billie’s still in that ethereal dress, the fabric cool and smooth beneath your fingers as you absentmindedly trace the line of her collarbone. Her hair is loose now, soft waves tumbling around her face, and the tension you saw on stage has melted into something tender, fragile.

You can feel the weight of the kiss just given, quick, hidden, impossible, but real. Your fingers twitch with the memory, and you swallow, unsure what to say, or if words even matter right now.

She shifts beside you, the side of her face pressed to your temple. Her voice is a soft murmur, not quite a question. “I know it’s still… complicated.”

You nod, because it is. Because she’s still afraid. Because the world isn’t ready, or maybe she isn’t yet. But here, now, it’s just the two of you.

“I’m here,” you whisper, the words more for yourself than her. “For all of it.”

Her hand finds yours, fingers lacing through yours in a slow, deliberate squeeze. “Yeah,” she breathes. “Me too.”

For a long time, you just sit like that, two quiet heartbeats in a vast, noisy world that doesn’t have to see you. The soft hum of the city through the windows, the subtle scent of her perfume lingering in the air.

You don’t talk about the cameras, the applause, or the forced smiles. You don’t talk about secrets or fear or what comes next. You just breathe, together, holding onto this small moment like it’s the only thing that matters. Because maybe it is.

Your apartment is quiet. Still. That particular hush that only happens on a weekday afternoon when no one’s texting, no one’s calling, and the world outside is going on without you. Just the hum of the washer, the clink of a button tapping against the glass as it spins, and Billie’s footsteps somewhere down the hall.

She’s been here for two days straight, not that she said she would be. Not that she ever does. She just shows up now, suitcase half-zipped, hair in a messy bun, eyes tired but relieved in that particular way she gets when she walks in your door like she’s finally able to drop her shoulders. She doesn’t say it, but you know why. After what happened, after the assault, being here is something like safety. And maybe it’s healing something in her or trying to.

You’re bent over the hamper, sorting through clothes. Half of what’s in the basket is hers. She’s taken over your drawers without asking. Her perfume lingers on your sheets, your hoodies, even your towels. You don’t mind. You never did.

You call out casually, “Hey, you need anything washing?”

“Uh…” Her voice drifts from the bedroom, muffled and distracted. “Yeah, actually.”

A few seconds later, she appears. She’s barefoot, sweatshirt sleeves shoved up past her elbows. She pads in holding a bundle of stuff, a couple of soft t-shirts, a black tank top, underwear. You take it without comment and add it to the drum. Press the button. The machine lurches into life, slow at first, then faster, water soaking in. Her shirts tumble with yours, tangling. White and black, blue and soft lilac. Her lace underwear loops through the sleeve of one of your sweatshirts. Your jeans wrap around the tank top she wore the night she arrived. Everything merges.

You step back, wiping your hands on your thighs. “Done,” you mutter.

But she doesn’t move.

Billie’s just… standing there. Still. Staring at the washer.

You watch her.

It’s not casual, the way she’s watching. She’s not zoning out. She’s studying it, head tilted slightly, arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes trace every slow spin, every slip of cotton over lace, the gentle chaos of it all. You glance at her again, confused, then half smiling.

“What’re you looking at?” you ask, voice light.

She doesn’t answer right away. Then, quietly, she shifts toward you and lays her head on your shoulder. Her body leans into yours, soft and warm and slightly damp from a recent shower.

You let her rest there.

“Our stuff,” she says, pointing faintly toward the machine. “Swirling together.”

You huff out a laugh under your breath, tilting your head to glance at her. “You had a drink?”

She shakes her head without looking away, still watching the whirl of damp cotton and thread.

“No,” she says. Her voice is small. Different. “I just… I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

You don’t say anything. You know it’s not stupid. Not at all.

She shifts again, more fully pressed against your side now, arms loosely circling your waist. Her voice is muffled against your hoodie when she speaks again. “It’s just… this. All of it. It’s yours and mine. It’s ours. It’s together. Not separated.”

You blink. Something about the word ours echoes in your chest like a bell.

“I like that,” she adds, almost too quiet to hear. “The way it all gets tangled. Like, you can’t tell what’s what anymore. It’s all just us.”

You open your mouth to speak but nothing comes out.

She turns then, finally meeting your eyes. Her fingers still looped through your sweatshirt hem, like she’s anchoring herself to you.

And then, so fast you almost miss it,

“Can I be your girlfriend?”

It’s not dramatic. Not some grand, orchestrated thing. She doesn’t even fully look at you when she says it. Her eyes flick toward the washer again like maybe it gave her courage. The words fall out like breath. Like something she’s been keeping pressed between her teeth for weeks.

You freeze.

You swallow.

She doesn’t take it back.

You want to say something but your mouth feels full of static. Your heart starts racing.

“You want to be?” you whisper, just barely.

She gives this tiny, incredulous laugh, almost like she doesn’t believe you’d even question it. “Um. Yeah?” she says, eyebrows raised. “Why would I ask if not?”

You giggle too, suddenly breathless, nerves fizzing through your veins. “Because…” You glance away, hands twitching at your sides. “Because you’ve never wanted that. And… well.” You don’t have to finish. The rest hangs in the air, obvious. You mean: because you’ve always said no before. Because you didn’t want to be out. Because you were scared. Because loving me in secret was easier than loving me in daylight.

But Billie’s not looking away. Her expression doesn’t shift.

And maybe you should ask her more, ask her what’s changed, if she’s ready, if she’s sure, but you don’t. Because the look in her eyes answers all of it.

You breathe in slow. “I want that,” you say, your voice raw and shaking. “Please.”

Her mouth lifts at the corner. And then she’s stepping between your legs, hands at your hips, and you don’t even have time to think before she kisses you.

Hard.

It’s not soft. It’s not shy. It’s all teeth and heat and urgency, like she’s afraid the moment might vanish if she doesn’t claim it now. Her hands are gripping your thighs, your shirt, your jaw. She pushes you up onto the counter like she needs you close, like she doesn’t want space to exist between you ever again.

And you let her.

You kiss her back just as hard, hands tangling in her hair, pulling her closer. There’s detergent in the air and steam rising from the machine, and Billie’s hands are under your shirt and her mouth is at your neck and the hum of the washer sounds like something alive.

You feel like you might cry.

Because this, this tiny afternoon in your kitchen with your laundry spinning in a drum and Billie’s breath catching in your mouth, it feels like everything.

She pulls back for half a second, lips red, breathing uneven, forehead pressed to yours.

She swallows, then says low, almost like it slips out, “It’s all mixed up now. Can’t tell what’s mine and what’s yours.”

Your chest tightens.

You don’t say anything, just nod once, because yeah. Yeah, that’s exactly what it is.

[remlionheart]

hiii !! may seem a bit basic, but chuuya picks up reader after a stressful day at work with his motorcycle fluff and smut 👾.

thank you, u're the best !!

୨ৎ❀ hey, there’s nothing wrong with simple! i appreciate you sending me a suggestion ♡ it's been awhile since we've visited my fave ill-tempered redhead anyway and he deserves all the attention ୨ৎ❀ fluff. smut. deep throating. praise. rich-boyfriend!chuuya x fem!reader. quick lil 1.9k word drabble. lemme know whatcha think, luv u ୨ৎ❀

♡ MDNI ♡

Me 'n My Girl ｡˚☽

so proud to be in your world, just me and my girl ⋆.˚

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

A warm mid-evening breeze swept through your hair as you stepped out of large doors of your office building and let out a sigh. The smell of petrichor bounced off of the pavement while a light rain cascaded over downtown Yokohama.

Under normal circumstances, it would’ve been your favorite weather, but the stillness of it was just another reminder of the unrelenting storm of anxiety that’d been plaguing your mind all day.

Nothing had really happened. Work went okay. Your commute there was okay. Your coworkers were okay. Your lunch was okay. Everything was seemingly okay, but that's what made it worse. You couldn't pinpoint the source of your discomfort. Couldn't place the blame on any one single thing for making you feel so off. It was a phantom annoyance. A problem that didn't seem to exist to anyone else besides you.

"Shit." you mumbled, feeling your purse slip from your shoulder as it, along everything it was holding, fumbled out of your reach and spilled out into the middle of the sidewalk.

You were halfway down the stairs, your pumps clicking against the concrete when your hand suddenly reached for the railing. The heel of your shoe breaking clean off, almost knocking you completely off balance.

It wasn't the time to cry. You'd made it so far - managed to hold it together for your entire shift and you were finally at the finish line, but your capacity to handle any more minor inconveniences was well beyond its limit. You swallowed down the lump in your throat, unable to fight back the hot, frustrated tears that streamed down your cheeks while you took both of your shoes off and you gathered up your belongings in defeat.

Chuuya rounded the corner not a second too soon, the loud vroom of his engine coming to a gradual halt as he kicked his foot out to put the motorcycle in park before stepping off.

He smoothed down his disheveled hair, his smirk quickly fading the closer he got to you.

"Baby..." he said softly, looking at broken pair of shoes in your hand and the haphazard way your bag had been slung over your shoulder. "What happened?"

"Nothing," You lied, shaking your head. "It's fine."

He knew you too well though. Knew that if he simply nodded and waited a minute, it would pour out of you without him having to pry. He put a hand on your shoulder, letting you avoid his stare until you finally caved.

"Today was just stupid," You sulked, "Everything was horrible for no reason and then my fucking heel snapped and now," You were fighting an uphill battle against your emotions. More tears pricking at your eyes as your gaze caught his. "And now I can't even ride on the back with you because I'm barefoot and everything is ruined."

Even though he hated seeing you get this worked up, he couldn't deny that there was something so fucking cute about how pouty and helpless you became when things didn't go your way. He took pride in knowing that you needed him, that he was the one you relied on to pick up the pieces when life got too stressful.

"Stay here," he said, taking his leather jacket off and draping it around your shoulders. "I'll be right back, okay?"

You nodded at him, watching him tuck his hands into his pockets as he crossed the street. It was easy to forget who he was sometimes. How merciless he could be with other people when he was so gentle and attentive with you. He was a Port Mafia executive who doubled as a golden retriever boyfriend when no one was looking. Calloused and feared by some of the scariest people in Yokohama and yet for some reason, physically incapable of saying no to you.

You wiped your tears away watching him flick his cigarette onto the sidewalk, an unexpectedly large Chanel bag hanging from his wrist.

"C'mere," he said, taking your hand as he led you to the Ducati.

You plopped down on its leather seat with both legs dangling off to one side while he knelt down and opened the bag, sliding a gorgeous pair of black open-toed suede heels onto your feet.

"Gimme the broken ones."

You pulled them out of your purse with a small smile, letting him throw them away in a nearby trashcan before returning back to you. "Better?" he asked.

"You know there's an Adidas store right around the corner?"

He smirked, placing both hands at either side of you, his mouth grazing yours with a whisper. "My girl had a terrible day at work and you expect me to make it worse by buying her cheap shit?"

Your heart fluttered, another slight grin tugging at the corners of your mouth as you breathed in the comforting smell of his cologne. "Your girl is really lucky to have you."

"Yeah, well…" he mused, "I have a feeling she'll be makin' it up to me later.”

⋆.౨ৎ˚.⟡˖ ࣪

The ride back to his house was peaceful with hardly any traffic for a Thursday night.

There was something about being on the back of his motorcycle that made you feel so indescribably close to him. From the way your body pressed against his to the way he'd tell you to hold onto him tighter. You loved the looks people would flash the two of you as you'd speed past them. The butterflies that flooded your stomach each time he'd start to go faster than he should've. Even if he had a bad habit of occasionally breaking the speed limit, you still trusted him entirely. He was well aware of the difference between having a little bit of fun and being reckless and he'd never cross that line when he was with you.

You felt infinitely better by the time you pulled into the garage, carefully letting your legs fall as he shut off the engine. Your bad day felt like a distant memory - your mind now comfortably occupied with the thousand-dollar shoes that were decorating your feet and the way his eyes lit up as he helped you down.

It was hard to process sometimes that he'd been waking up next to you almost every day for the last year and still looked at you like you had put the stars in the sky.

You grabbed his arm before he could make it inside the house, gently pushing him back onto the seat of his bike. He raised an eyebrow, but didn't stop you as you hovered above him and began undoing his belt.

"You always make me feel so good." You whispered, reaching up to let your lips catch his while your hands continued to unbutton his pants. "I wanna return the favor."

You could feel him growing hard as his tongue swirled against yours with fervor. A gloved hand resting on the back of your neck to pull you in closer while you reached for his zipper and freed him from the fabric that was separating the both of you.

He let out a low groan when your palm met the base of his cock, delicately wrapping your fingers around it as you started to move uppp and downnn at just the right pace, earning even prettier noises from him.

His grip tangled into your hair, moving your head to the side so that he could descend down your neck. Kissing and nipping away at your soft skin while you continued to stroke him. His movements were getting harder to control the faster you went, squeezing him so fucking perfectly that he nearly ripped the front of your shirt open.

You let out a small yelp as he roamed across your chest, lightly slipping your nipple between his teeth while his blue eyes travelled up to yours. "Get on your knees for me."

You nodded, keeping your stare locked with his. Your hand still going in the same motion as you repositioned yourself, kneeling in front of him so that your face was front and center with where he wanted you. You pulled his pants down further, your core aching as you obediently slid your tongue along his base.

"Fuck," he hissed, his mouth dropping open at how tantalizingly thorough you were, "God, that feels – hah – that feels… so.... good."

You took your time, coaxing more heady praises out of him as you made your way up his length, letting a generous amount of spit trail down his shaft while your hand held him in place. His pink tip was practically dripping with pre-cum by the time you reached it, begging to have your pretty little mouth wrapped around it.

You smiled against him, looking up at him with doe-eyes before giving in to his body's needs. "It's all mine, right?" You asked, causing him to twitch in your hand.

"All yours." He groaned, doing everything he could to stop himself from shoving your head down onto him. He wanted you so bad it hurt, but even in the midst of his clouded thinking, he was still more concerned about you. If you needed to hear him say it, then that's exactly what he'd do.

"It's all yours, baby." He exhaled. "I'm all yours… Every inch of me is all – fucking...your...s"

His words were quickly taken from him though, stolen by the way you’d flattened your tongue and pressed it firmly against his tip.

You watched his eyes roll back as his hand gripped your hair, the two of you working to find the perfect rhythm.

You loved the breathy noises he made for you. The way his hips thrusted forward while he buried himself into the warmth of your mouth. The feeling of him getting harder with each slurp and squelch that echoed across the garage as you struggled to take the whole thing.

"Keep going." He grunted, still fighting the overwhelmingly feral urge to slam into you. "Doin' so good f'me."

You went as deep as you could, easing him into the back of your throat while your tongue continued to glide across his shaft.

His movements became more frantic, his voice breaking the faster you went. "God – damn..."

You kept up the same unrelenting pace, drool spilling down your chin as your eyes locked with his again.

"Fuck," his moans turned into guttural whimpers, his body thrusting desperately in search of release. "Just like that," he choked out, "just like that, don't – fucking stop, please baby... don't stop, I'm –"

He looked lost, completely entranced by the hold you had over him as a lewd warmth coated the back of your throat. More carnal obscenities pouring from his lips as he slowly regained control over his breathing and pulled out of you.

"Next time –" he panted, helping you to your feet before leaning in to kiss you. "I'm buying you the whole fuckin' store."

⋆.౨ৎ˚.⟡˖ ࣪