#sweaty engineer content

[shootingst4rpress]

good morning to all robotfuckers and mecha kissers and people who think lovingly about maintenance in cramped spaces

[dazzlingjaeyun]

ʙʀᴜɪꜱᴇꜱ – ꜱɪᴍ ᴊᴀᴇʏᴜɴ

engineering major!jake x nursing student fem!reader

୨୧ genre: strangers to implied lovers, mostly angst & smut, MDNI | words: 17.3k | cw: jake is very in love but also lowkey emotionally unavailable, mentions of blood and injuries, self-indulgent shade on iced americano, HANDS (also self-indulgent),  jake has one wet dream, munch jake,  fingering – also semi-public (in his car),  mentions of orgasm denial, marking and biting, dry humping, nipple play,  unprotected sex, creampie, praise, aftercare!! ୨୧ 

read this as a standalone or as a prologue to bandaids! if you've already read bandaids, you can still read this one after. it'll make sense both ways ><

hanna says: huge thank you to @brklynbabyjay and @jayparked for brainstorming a lot with me & helping me with the plot. thank you su for betaing me for this monstrosity and thank you snail for giving me the idea for the title. i appreciate you so so much. also congrats to @tmrwsuns for not losing your mind (and ears) when i yapped about this too much. thank you for hyping me up instead! ily all and this wouldn't have been possible without you <3

mature content under cut, minors do not interact!

“J-Jake,” you mumble out, your fingers tightening the grip on his hair, pulling a little harder – just enough to create the perfect sense of pain. Jake opens his eyes and looks up to you, the sight alone enough to make him bring a finger up to your leaking hole while his tongue keeps focusing on your clit. Your eyes are shut almost a little too tightly, eyebrows firmly drawn together, and bottom lip pulled between your teeth, although that’s barely enough to muffle the pretty moans and whimpers that Jake so badly needs to hear.

It’s almost pathetic how his heart skips a beat at just how easily his finger slides in, how with each pump of it, he can practically see the air getting knocked out of your lungs. When he closes his lips around your clit to gently suck it between his teeth and your head falls back, perfectly displaying the dark red spots he left there so carelessly just minutes ago, he can’t help but let his free hand slip under the soft fabric of his sweatpants, palming his pulsating length through his boxers.

A low groan escapes his lips, sending a wave of vibration through your core that has you bucking up your hips. The movement forces Jake’s eyes shut, his hand almost instinctively leaving his own body and instead reaching for your hip to pull you even closer to his face. 

The second he opens his eyes, the bright rays of sunlight that peak through his curtains force him to squeeze them shut again – only to be met with the same image: you squirming underneath him, legs shaking around his head that you desperately try to pull closer.

Suddenly, his usually loose shirt feels too tight, his light blanket too heavy, and he’s hyper aware of the way his dark bangs stick uncomfortably to his sweaty forehead. He forces his tired lids to lift again and slowly sits up, leaning his back against the headboard of his bed and running his hand through his hair first and then over his face. 

With a sigh, Jake tugs at his shirt, loosening it from his body in an attempt to cool down. His eyes scan the room – books carelessly scattered across his desk, clothes piling up on the chair and the  gym bag with his favorite pair of boxing gloves dangling from it – searching for something, anything, that could distract him from his painfully throbbing hard-on.

Yet, as if he isn’t trying so hard to think of anything other than you, his gaze lands on a few loose papers piling up on the edge of his desk: The notes he took during last week’s statistics class, looming over him like a cruel reminder of the deal that got him into this very situation in the first place.

Back then, when you mutually agreed to help each other, when he promised to send you his notes in return for you taking care of his bruises whenever practice got too rough. The image of your big, innocent eyes as you inspected his bleeding knuckles and the little gash right under his eye only twists the knife of guilt further in his chest.

Jake’s mind flashes back to that one statistics lecture – the only one he was late to. How every seat in the back was taken and he had to awkwardly walk down the stairs to the very front of the lecture hall, feeling all eyes on him as if he walked the walk of shame. How he sat next to you, simply because it was the very first seat he could spot, and he accepted anything to spare him further embarrassment or a comment from the lecturer who had already been eyeing him with raised eyebrows and ‘annoyed’ written all over his face.

He only exchanged a quick, rather forced, smile with you, before rummaging around his backpack until he found a few loose papers and a single pen. Back then, he wasn’t sure if you tried to be subtle as you glanced at his desk from the corner of your eye, observing his rather poor set up, but he noticed nonetheless. Glancing back, he saw you equipped with various pens and highlighters in different colors, yet the notepad in front of you was empty save for the date you’d neatly noted down in the right corner.

You quickly averted your gaze again, glancing back and forth between your empty paper and the lecturer. The crease between your eyebrows got deeper with each phrase he uttered, and your hand stayed rooted in place. Knowing you were supposed to take notes, that there was no way to pass that class otherwise, the professor’s words began to blur together until they were nothing but a fog that clouded your understanding until all hope of making sense of the content disappeared.

Jake on the other hand quickly scribbled down words and formulas, his pen moving over the paper with ease while his focus remained almost entirely on the lecturer and the slides that he projected onto the wall. You eyed his paper again, trying to somehow make sense of the words and numbers, trying to find something you could copy by any chance – just so you wouldn’t leave the lecture hall with an empty notepad again like you’d done the previous two weeks.

But when you tried to catch another glimpse of his notes, his hand quickly rushed over the page while noting down another apparently important point the professor had just made – and your eyes landed on his knuckles.

“They’re not supposed to be that red,” you blurted out your first thought before you could stop yourself. It took Jake a few seconds to fully register your words, but his hand slowly came to a halt as he turned his head your way. He furrowed his brows in a mixture of surprise and confusion, but you barely noticed, your gaze now focused on the gash under his eye. “Neither this,” you added, a little quieter this time.

He didn’t reply, just looked at you with a blank, unreadable expression that forced you to swallow so heavily you were sure it would have been audible hadn’t it been for the lecturer’s endless ramble. You could feel your shoulders tensing as seconds went by without any response from him, and although you pressed your lips together slightly, the silence felt so oddly oppressing that you couldn’t hold back from breaking it again.

"Looks a little puffy too,” you scanned his face for any reaction before averting your eyes as if that could stop him from keeping his on you.

“It’s a bit swollen,” he replied after a while, causing your head to snap back to him, eyes slightly widening in surprise. The boy offered the hint of a smile that was gone so quickly that you barely had enough time to register, let alone reciprocate it.

“Do they hurt?” you asked, letting your eyes wander from the bruise under his eye back to his knuckles, “or feel warm?”

He curled his fingers, clenching his hand into a weak fist before replying with a short nod that you saw from the corners of your eyes, “a little bit of both.”

You hummed. “Might be getting infected.”

When he just wordlessly blinked at you again, you added, “I have some stuff if you wanna clean them up after the lecture.” This time, his reaction was almost immediate, although wordless yet again. He creased his brows another time, scanning your face up and down as if he wasn’t quite sure if he should be confused or suspicious.

“I’m in nursing school,” you clarified. “So yeah, I carry like a mini first-aid kit with me pretty much all the time.” 

Jake’s lips formed a silent ‘oh’ as he nodded understandingly, fingers hovering over his notes almost absentmindedly while he seemed to consider your offer. “I mean,” he began, eyes flashing to the rows behind from where he’d registered a quick ‘sh’, and nodded again. “Alright,” he whispered before offering another quick smile that felt a bit more honest and a lot less awkward than before, and focusing on the lecture again. 

As soon as the professor dismissed the class, you closed your still empty notepad and collected your unused pens before neatly packing them into your bag and instead pulling out a small pouch, while Jake just carelessly shoved his papers into his own backpack, leaving them half crumpled. When you turned to face him, you found his eyes on you already, his expression a mix of uncertainty and expectation.

You wordlessly pulled a small bottle of hand sanitizer out of the pouch and rubbed some of the liquid into your hands. Then, you took out a few antiseptic wipes, carefully tore open the packaging, and extended your arm to signal him to give you his hand.

His skin felt warm against yours, softer than you expected, as his long, slender fingers curled around yours to keep his hand in place, while you gently wiped off the remnants of his wound with your other hand. You watched intently as his veins became a little more present each time the sting of the antiseptic made him tighten his grip around your fingers. Then, you added a little bit of ointment, wrapped a bandage around the wound, and repeated the routine with his other hand.

As you leaned closer to examine the gash on his face and the faintest hint of your perfume tickled Jake’s nose, his breath flattened subconsciously. His eyes landed on your face, now close enough for him to notice the various shades of color in your eyes and the way your lashes curled up perfectly. Jake pulled his lower lip in between his teeth and gently bit down to stop his lips from curving into a smile at your focused expression and your slightly parted lips. Only when you gently tapped over the wound itself did he instinctively pull back just slightly, scrunching his nose in discomfort.

“Sorry.” You pressed your lips together in a tight, apologetic smile that Jake just dismissed with a smile of his own.

“That looks bad,” you mumbled as you carefully applied a thin layer of ointment.

“The other guy looks worse,” Jake stated with a mixture of triumph and amusement, earning himself a look from you that clearly showed you were trying not to snort. “I bet.”

Once you added a small band-aid, although Jake refused at first, you leaned back in your seat to examine his face and hands from a bigger distance. “Much better,” you said with a faint smile. “If they don’t heal, you should get proper medical help though.”

Jake bit back a smile and opted for a nod instead. “Thank you, I owe you.” This time, it was you dismissing his words with a shake of your head and a simple, “you’re good.”

He looked at you for a moment, as if waiting for you to row back on it. But when you didn’t, he slowly stood up from his seat. You mimicked the movement, slung your bag over your shoulder and wordlessly followed him to finally exit the lecture hall.

“Actually,” you said just before he reached the door. He turned back around, his eyebrows slightly raised to show he was listening. “Would you mind sharing your notes with me? I… have nothing,” you asked, avoiding his eyes out of sheer embarrassment. 

“Oh, sure, I got you,” he replied so casually you almost felt stupid for hesitating before. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and handed it to you, “Just save your number, I’ll send them to you later.” Nodding, you took the phone from his hand, making sure your fingers didn’t brush against his hurt ones in the process, and quickly typed in your number.

Jake quickly glanced at his phone once you gave it back, just long enough to catch your contact name, before he shoved it back into his pocket. “See you around, Y/N,” he said with a soft smile. And with that, he walked out the door.

That’s how you and Jake, who had first introduced himself as Jaeyun when he’d sent you the notes later that night, found yourselves in some sort of agreement: Every time you helped him patch up his bruises, he sent you his lecture notes. 

And yes, after some time, Jake started sharing his notes without asking for anything in return, as did you whenever he needed your help outside of your statistics schedule. But none of your interactions ever went in a way that would allow his mind to go down the alley of imagining you in any form of sexual context.

The loud ring of his alarm pierces through the silence, startling him and pulling him back to the moment – back to his bedroom that still holds way too little oxygen. Shifting uncomfortably, he reaches for his phone to turn off his alarm, only to be directly met with your name on his lockscreen. The short “thank you! :)” you sent about an hour ago, probably when you saw the lecture notes he’d sent you the evening before. Probably while he was still asleep, dreaming about nothing other than having his face buried deep between your thighs.

With a groan, Jake tosses his phone to the side, lets his head hit the headboard again, and brings his hands up to his shoulders in an attempt to knead away the tension in his muscles. Yet, no matter how hard he tries to refuse, the image of you seems to flood his mind all over again each time he does so much as blink – and even the smallest movements of his hips force him to swallow down a whimper from how sensitive his cock feels against the restraints of his boxers.

Sighing, Jake slumps further against the headboard, spreads his legs just a little to sit more comfortably and takes a deep breath before consciously closing his eyes and really allowing himself to let his mind drift back to you one last time. How he grips your hips to pull you so close to his face that your taste and scent completely take over his senses. How your moans come dulled from how hardly you’re pressing your thighs around his head. How you’re shaking underneath him, clenching so deliciously around his tongue every time he lets it sink in between your folds.

His hand itches to reach for his cock, but he presses his fingers into the mattress instead, fisting the sheets to physically hold himself back from doing so. Then, just as his mind replays your image – of how you look under him, hair sweatily sticking to your pretty face and neck covered in purple love bites – he forces his eyes open again. Clenching his teeth, he sits up straight and lets his face fall into his hands.

“Fuck this,” he murmurs to himself, before he swings his legs off the bed and gets up. He pulls his shirt over his head as he walks to the bathroom, dropping it on the floor along with the rest of his sleeping attire and stepping under the shower where he lets cold water run over his body until it washed away every last thought of you.

Once Jake arrives at the gym, determined to ditch classes in order to keep his mind off of you, he immediately starts his usual warm-up routine, but neither running nor stretching nor the music blasting through his headphones is enough to really achieve that. A tap on his shoulder interrupts his wandering thoughts mid-stretch. When he turns around, he’s met with his friend Sunghoon’s face.

“No classes today?” the younger one asks, to which Jake just shrugs. “If you will.”

Sunghoon looks him up and down for a moment, not missing the hint of distress on his face, but he decides to not ask any questions. Instead, he tilts his head towards the ring in the middle of the room. “Wanna go a few rounds then?” Jake responds with a nod, mimicking his friend as he wraps his hands, straps on his gloves and pops in his mouthguard.

Muscle memory helps him to dodge the first few blows and even land a hit or two. But then, avoiding another dangerously close punch, he makes the mistake of shutting his eyes just for a split second mid-flinch. Yet, it’s enough for a flash of you to run through his mind; a tiny fragment of his dream replaying until a jolt of pain rushes through his head and pushes the image away with force. 

Sunghoon’s eyes widen as he steps back, clearly surprised that he, in fact, landed the punch he aimed right at Jake’s jaw so obviously. “What the fuck?”

Jake just quickly shakes his head, blinking the stars away. “Again,” he orders, repositioning himself before continuing. But just when he thinks his focus is at its peak again, his mind cruelly shifts back to how easily your arousal coated his lips and chin. And then, another punch right to his ribs makes him lurch forward, the air getting knocked out of his lungs in a choked grunt. 

“Focus, Jake,” Sunghoon says, voice laced with a mixture of confusion and warning. “How did you not see that one coming?” He aims another punch that Jake avoids with a step just at the last moment. “You’re slow as hell today, what’s up with you?”

Jake straightens his back and tilts his head to both sides to quickly stretch the tense muscles in his neck. “Nothin’,” he mumbles back, taking a short, yet deep breath in before aiming a hit Sunghoon easily, almost lazily, avoids. The latter raises an eyebrow, waits for just a second and then counters. Jake dodges the first punch, but the second hits him right on the opposite side of his jaw, quickly followed by a third against his ribs.

Scoffing, Sunghoon drops his arms and takes a step back. “Nope,” he says after a while of watching Jake recover from the pain. “We’re not doing this when you don’t even try.”

Before Jake can object, Sunghoon takes off his gloves, slipping through the ropes and out of the ring. Jake wipes his jaw with his forearm, hissing at the stinging pain as his sweaty skin meets the open wound. He bites down on the glove, using his teeth to abruptly pull at the strings before sliding it off his hand and doing the same on the other side. Then, he shoves them into his bag, jaw clenched so tightly in frustration it almost aches. Because even now, all that’s on his mind is you.

Just an hour later, Jake finds himself in front of your door. After taking a deep breath, he slowly rings your bell, the rush of his own blood in his ears muffling the sound that echoes through the door. Admittedly, he hesitated for a good thirty minutes before even contacting you, typing in his message and deleting it again. But despite really wanting to see anyone but you right now, he could already imagine your scolding voice if he didn’t show up. Something about how you’d told him time and again that he should come to you whenever he needed his bruises patched up and blah blah.

“Oh God,” your quiet gasp snaps him back to reality. Only now does he realize you already opened the door and, judging from your reaction, took in the image of his battered face. Before he can react, you reach for his arm, pull him inside and close the door behind him. You wordlessly guide him to the bathroom where you motion him to sit down on the edge of the bathtub before you grab a small emergency kit from the drawer under the sink.

Jake watches you as you move – quickly but precisely, washing your hands and separating cotton pads to soak them up with an antiseptic whose scent stings almost uncomfortably in his nose. When you turn back around, he quickly looks down. Only when you place your index finger under his chin to carefully lift his head do his eyes meet yours again – and he feels his jaw tensing just by the way you scan his face with that familiar, worried expression of yours. Because once it makes his chest feel tight with endearment, it’s quickly replaced by a wave of guilt. Your simple, innocent touch is enough to make him shiver, his mind immediately racing with a million way too inappropriate thoughts and the desperate attempt to push them all away. 

Angling his face to the side, you carefully tap the cotton pad over the wound on his jaw first. “Relax,” you murmur so quietly it might as well have been a whisper when you feel him clenching his teeth even harder. You flicker your eyes up to his briefly only to find them squeezed shut – something he’s never done before. The sight makes you bite the inside of your cheek, the thought of him actually being in pain tugging at your heart just a little.

Turning his face to the other side, you take a new wipe to clean up the slightly smaller bruise there. Once you’re done, you apply a thin layer of ointment to both before letting go of his chin. Just as you want to take a step back, he opens his eyes – and although they seem to hold a vulnerability you’ve never seen before, they soften a little at the sight of yours.

“Thank you,” he mumbles after a while, eyes not leaving yours this time. He’s found himself in that position several times before; sitting on the edge of your bathtub with you standing in between his legs. Yet for the first time, his hands itch to reach out to you.

“Does the other guy look worse again?” you try to joke, but the hint of worry in your voice betrays you. Jake’s lips still twitch up into a soft smile as he shakes his head.

You slowly take a step back to create a bigger distance between you and lean against the sink. And although Jake should feel relieved by the newfound space that makes breathing a little easier again, a tiny part of him wants to pull you back right where you stood two seconds ago.

“So, are you finally gonna tell me how you end up like this every other day? Cause if not, I might start thinking you’re doing some kind of shady stuff.” You cross your arms in front of your chest.

Jake chuckles softly. “I actually do it for fun,” he begins, “and for career reasons, I guess. I’ve been boxing ever since I was a teenager and I wanna go pro.” He studies your face for a second before he continues. “That’s why I don’t put too much effort in my engineering degree, you know. I’m just… kinda doing it ‘cause my parents don’t approve of the whole boxing thing. But that’s always been my first choice.”

There’s something about the hint of pride in his voice that warms your heart, despite the worry that also settles somewhere there. “So, you’re getting beat up for your dreams?” you ask, drawing a quiet laugh from Jake.

“Hey, I beat up people too,” he defends.

“Yeah. And I don’t know if I think that’s a solid career plan.”

Jake halts for a moment and searches your eyes again, expecting that disapproving look he usually got when he shared his plans with anyone. But he only finds a hint of worry instead – and he quickly tries to dismiss the way his heart squeezes ever so slightly. “Now you sound like my parents, too.” 

“Well, thanks to them, you go to college and I won’t fail statistics,” you say with a chuckle.

Jake just responds with a soft smile that’s somehow still enough to spread a warm, cozy feeling all across your chest.

“Good, because medicine can’t afford to lose its best future nurse.”

“Break time,” Jake’s voice cuts through the silence so firmly that you flinch, pen gliding over your notes and crossing some of the words out. You look around the library to find around a dozen other students glaring in your direction, and quickly offer them an apologetic smile before your eyes dart back to Jake.

“I’m not done yet,” you reply, forcing your focus back on the textbook in front of you – until Jake takes the pen from your hand, places it between the open pages and closes the book. “But you’ve been studying non-stop for almost three and a half hours now. I can see your brain fuming,” he sighs. Just as you open your mouth to oppose, he shakes his head and gently presses his index finger against your lips.

“You know that suggesting a break when you’ve been the one to doomscroll this whole time is crazy, right?” you  mumble against the digit. He lets it rest on your lips for another second, and you swear you can see his gaze dropping – but before you can think about it, he looks up again.

“Coffee,” he suggests, although it sounds more like an order. Biting your lip, you debate whether to agree or to bury your head in your books again.

“Coffee it is,” you finally say with a sigh before collecting your stuff and shoving them back into your bag.

The walk to the small campus café is silent, but while it feels like a much needed break for you, it just seems to give Jake’s mind time and space to wander. Every time your shoulders bump against his or his fingers brush yours while walking, even if just for a fragment of a second, his skin starts buzzing. 

By the time you reach the counter, his throat feels so tight that simply asking for your order takes all the effort he can muster. For a second, you eye him with furrowed brows, not quite sure if his jaw is really as tight as it looks or if it’s just the different light inside the store that casts a weird shadow there. 

“I’ll go with a caramel macchiato.”

“Suits you,” Jake responds without thinking, only realizing what he said when your brows draw together again.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He hesitates for a moment. Then, he takes a deep breath that he masks with a shrug. “You’re also sweet.”

You look at him in disbelief, and he almost rows back on his words, until you let out a quiet chuckle. “If that’s you trying to make me pay for your coffee, it’s not working. And by the way, americano is ass. Literally doesn’t even taste like coffee, it’s just colored water and–” 

But Jake doesn’t even listen anymore, busy struggling to ignore the pang in his chest just because you remember his usual order. He bites back his comment about how ‘coffee isn’t coffee either if it contains more syrup than anything else’, instead placing the order and paying before you even get the chance to take out your wallet.

Once you settle on a small table, the silence between you feels relieving – as if your brain finally got the chance to shut off after hours of trying to fit half a semester of pharmacology into your head. Jake, on the other hand, doesn’t feel half as relaxed, seemingly not able to peel his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tries.

You look around the café for a while, watching people come in and leave, until your eyes settle on Jake again. His gaze is intense, filled with something you can’t really read, but it sure is enough to make your heart skip a beat. Enough to suddenly make you feel smaller, tension creeping into your body again.

“What?” you ask so quietly you’re not sure if he even hears over the background noise of the store. Jake only shakes his head in response and drops his gaze to his hands. Your eyes follow his and you allow yourself to watch him play with his rings for a while – turning them, sliding them off and back onto his fingers, knuckles slightly red and veins oh so prominent. Your mind wanders, replaying fragments of every time you cleaned the blood or dirt off his knuckles, or how you taped band-aids around his fingers. Of how his hands felt in yours, fragile but somewhat good, somewhat safe. 

“You’ve got something on your mouth,” Jake’s voice makes your head snap back up. As you try to wrap your head around how long you’ve been zoned-out, Jake reaches forward, wipes his thumb over the corner of your mouth and holds it in front of your lips. You part them just enough to close them around the tip of his finger and lick off the whipped cream, cheeks heating up so quickly you’re sure it’s evident. But Jake doesn’t notice, and if he does, he doesn’t point it out.

Instead, he leans back casually and grabs his drink again. “Do you wanna go back to the library?”

To his surprise, you shake your head. “My brain’s mushy, I feel like I won’t even remember what I studied today.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re always stressing too much. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

Once you sit down in the passenger seat of Jake’s car, you immediately slump against the leather, lean your head against the window and let the glass cool down your pounding temple. Jake gets in the driver's seat, but instead of starting the engine, he looks at you with his head tilted to the side. “Tired? Or frustrated?” 

With a sigh, you lift your head and turn around to face him. “I usually feel better after a break, but now I really don’t.”

“Maybe you need a… different kind of break,” he hesitates, eyes dropping to your lips for the blink of an eye, so short you barely register it. “Release some stress, you know.”

“Oh, are you volunteering?” You laugh, but Jake doesn’t reply, doesn’t laugh – doesn’t even tear his eyes away from yours. He just shrugs.

In no time, your smile fades, your eyes widen and your breath gets caught in your throat so quickly that it’s hard to speak. “I–... I was joking.”

“Well, I’m not,” he says, face as calm as ever, when in reality his heart seems to be racing a marathon and his palms begin to feel sweaty.

“Did you get hit in the head last practice?” You try to joke, but the small tremble in your voice betrays you.

He absentmindedly pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth as his eyes drop from your eyes to your lips and back up again, holding your gaze as though he could see right through the chaos that is your thoughts. Feeling your heartbeat picking up and your breath coming shorter, you try to swallow down the lump that begins to form in your throat. Jake seems to lean just a hint closer, wetting his lips with his tongue – but just as you want to lean forward too, he suddenly pulls away and sits back in his seat, head falling against the headrest with a sigh. He resists the urge of running his hand through his hair in frustration, before turning his head to the side to look at you again.

“Sorry. I probably did get hit in the head,” he mumbles.

You look at him for a moment, trying to gather your courage to say something, but the words don’t come until he reaches for the key to start the car.

“That’s so unfortunate,” you say, making him stop, “I liked the idea.”

The words make Jake’s eyes dart back to you, and for a while, he just looks at you with an unreadable expression, scanning your face as if trying to find out whether you’re joking. But your gaze is steady and your lips don’t twitch in an attempt to bite back a smile or a laugh. You just lean in a little, then stop to give him time to react. Jake’s eyes never leave yours as he mirrors the gesture.

He leans closer until you can feel the ghost of his breath fanning over your skin, letting goosebumps erupt from just that – and then, as if you’re pulled towards each other by force, you close the distance until his lips are on yours. 

He kisses you softly at first, hesitantly, as though he’s trying to savor how soft your lips feel or how effortlessly they move in sync with his. Heart beating so fast you can feel it in your throat, you reach out to get ahold of his collar and pull him closer. You feel his hands cupping your cheeks, fingertips pressing against your skin like you’d slip away otherwise. But instead, you curl your fingers around the fabric harder and tug on it with just enough force for your teeth to clash.

“Come here,” Jake murmurs against your lips, dropping his hands to your hips and carefully pulling you over the middle console and onto his lap. He kisses you again, this time with more urgency. Your hands find their way around his neck, fingers weaving through his hair and tugging on the ends when he gently bites your lip.

The space between you feels too small and not big enough at the same time, and you’re not sure whether you want to pull away or scoot closer. But before you can make up your mind, Jake tightens his grip on your hips and pulls you in until your torsos touch and you can feel his chest rising and falling against yours as he gently pulls away from the kiss.

“Feel better already?” He asks, voice slightly hoarse and lips softly brushing yours. Jake squeezes your hips as your hands slide from the back of his head down to his shoulders, solely to hold himself back from shuddering at the simple touch. 

“Don’t know,” you reply, smiling against his lips. “Might need a little more to convince me.”

You feel him reciprocating your smile before he kisses you another time. His hands tentatively slide under the hem of your shirt and to your lower back, just resting on your skin, while yours brush over his collarbones and to his chest, where you feel  his heartbeat quickening under your fingertips. 

Jake tilts his head to the side to deepen the kiss, and almost immediately, your hands rush up to his neck again, tugging on his hair just enough to draw a low groan from him. His hands move up and down your waist as though he’s trying to memorize every inch of your body. You slowly pull back, just enough to whisper his name against his lips like it’s the only thing you know how to say. His fingers dig into your skin ever so gently as he leans down to leave soft kisses against your jaw, making your breath stutter and your lips part. 

His touch feels somewhat urgent, yet not rushed – and though your heart aches at how gently he takes his time, how he pulls away barely enough to look at you just to make sure you’re okay, you can’t help the heat that spreads up your spine and down to your core. “Jake,” you whisper again, shuddering as he hums against your neck before he pulls back and scans your face for any signs of discomfort. “Want me to stop?” 

The way you shake your head almost frantically draws a chuckle from Jake. Leaning forward again, he continues to kiss your neck down to your collarbones, one hand still pressing into the flesh of your hips while the other begins to fidget with the waistband of your pants.

Your breath hitches as he slowly slides his hand past it, thumb carefully grazing over your clothed clit. “Let me take care of you,” Jake says so quietly it almost comes out as a whisper. He pulls his hand away, waiting for your response while slowly but steadily sliding the rings off his fingers.

Nodding slowly, you take a deep breath as he pulls your underwear to the side and slides a finger through your folds, collecting your slick and tracing it up to your clit again. You rest your head on his shoulder, letting the scent of his cologne tickle your nose as your breath gets shakier each second his finger carefully rubs over your sensitive bud.

You want to tell him you want more, but not trusting your voice you just buck your hips forward slightly. Jake, who understands wordlessly, bites back a smile as you can’t seem to help the quiet whimper at the feeling of his digit prodding at your entrance. “That what you want?” He asks, voice so confident it only intensifies the feeling of being completely put into his hands. You just manage a quiet hum that gets stuck in your throat as he slowly pushes the finger in, immediately curling it so perfectly that you could almost forget it’s the first time he’s ever touched you like that.

Continuing his antics, he carefully adds a second finger, angling them just right to hit the sweet spot that draws a quiet moan from you. The sound is enough to cause a shiver to run down Jake’s spine –  and suddenly, all he wants is to hear it again.

He gently presses his thumb against your clit, not able to hold back the quiet groan as he feels you clenching around his fingers. As your grip on his shoulders tightens and your breath comes even more ragged, he places a gentle kiss on the crown of your head. “Everything still okay?”

The softness in his voice makes your heart flutter a little as you try your best to stay composed enough to nod. “Just… please don’t stop,” you murmur, voice almost breaking at the end. Your breath feels hot against Jake’s neck, yet it makes him shiver. Every curve of his fingers seemingly guided solely by your sounds and the way you arch into him, Jake closes his eyes to focus only on the way your breath grows heavier as each stroke brings you closer to release.

“Let go for me, hm?” Jake asks so gently it fully contrasts the pace of his fingers, making your heart squeeze just as your orgasm hits you with a force that has you digging your fingers into his shoulders. Jake continues, helping you ride out your high, until pleasure gives way to pain and you manage a choked out ‘too much’. He pulls away quickly but carefully, slightly shaking his shoulder to get you to lift your head.

“Hey,” his eyes search yours as he gently rubs your back underneath your shirt, “you alright?” Taking a deep, shaky breath, you nod and back it up with a soft smile. Jake’s eyes drop to your lips once more, but he doesn’t lean in. Instead, he pulls your head to his shoulder again and just holds you there until your breath evens out.

When you open your eyes again and your gaze falls directly onto his strained pants, you slowly trace one hand from his shoulder down his torso. Jake’s eyes flutter shut as his cock twitches in anticipation – but just as your fingers ghost over his clothed length, he grabs your wrist to stop you. When you lift your head and give him a questioning look, he just offers a smile in return, lifts your hand to his lips, and places a gentle kiss on your knuckles.

“You don’t owe me anything, you know. I just wanted you to feel good.” You open your mouth, but he shakes his head, reassuring, “I’m okay, really. Let’s take you home, yeah?”

Even days later, you don’t talk about what happened, or how steadily he held your hand when he insisted on walking you up to your apartment. Neither about how he randomly starts coming over just to bring you snacks from the convenience store close to his gym whenever he heads home from practice. Not even after you notice that whatever he brings is always something you mentioned craving just a little while ago. 

And technically, things stay the same, except that they don’t, really. Jake still sits next to you in statistics lectures. He still takes the notes while you’re trying to figure out what’s going on, still sends them to you unasked. But now, he doesn’t pull away when his knee brushes yours under the table, and you swear he softly bumps his hand against yours on purpose while writing.

You still take care of his wounds after practice. It’s just that now, you text him every night to make sure he really is okay – even if he leaves your place just an hour earlier. And on some days, he doesn’t go home at all. You start keeping his favorite cereal in your kitchen cupboard, and suddenly, the mug he uses for his morning coffee becomes only his, and you stop using it.

He still looks after you, paying attention to your study habits and making sure you’re taking breaks. But now, taking breaks means having his head buried between your thighs. And now, revising means trying to remember what you studied just an hour ago while his fingers work you closer and closer to release, only granting it when you get the answers right.

“Metoprolol,” he reads what feels like the twentieth flashcard, thumb drawing soft circles over your clit. You sigh, closing your eyes and focusing on the feeling, until it suddenly stops. When you open your eyes, you find Jake already looking at you, waving the flashcard like a reminder. “Metoprolol,” he repeats.

“That’s a beta-blocker,” you grumble, wiggling your hips to get Jake to continue, but he just drops the flashcard to your mattress and grips your hips firmly enough to stop you.

“And what’s a beta-blocker?” He asks, biting the inside of his cheek to hold back his grin as you roll your eyes.

“You know what a fuckass beta-blocker is, Jake.”

He raises an eyebrow, slowly pulling his hand away from your core. “Come again?”

For a while, you just look at him, jaw clenched and hoping he’ll eventually give up on your pharmacology revision. But he just looks at you with an almost bored expression, not making any attempt to continue. 

“They lower heart rate and blood pressure,” you sigh, now giving him an almost pleading look. He hums, letting his thumb ghost over your skin without really touching you. “They’re usually used for hypertension or after heart attacks to–” you cut off as he finally slips a finger into your aching hole.

The first ring of your doorbell barely catches your attention, muffled like a quiet disturbance somewhere further away. But when it rings again and a third time only shortly after, you push your chair back with a sigh and stand up. Your knees almost buckle and your spine cracks uncomfortably, shoulders hurting as you roll them back in an attempt to release the tension that’s been building up from sitting for countless hours.

The fourth ‘ding’ has you rolling your eyes annoyedly. A shiver runs over your scalp and down your spine as you release your hair from the tight bun you kept them in, only now realizing that the hairstyle probably contributed greatly to the pounding in your head. You ruffle them a bit, trying to adjust them so they fall into your face to cover as much of your reddened, puffy cheeks as possible, while you drag yourself to the door and open it without a glance through the small peephole.

The air from outside immediately hits you, clinging to your bare legs uncomfortably. It takes just a look at Jake’s gym bag to recognize him, but your eyes still slowly wander up his torso and to his face.

“Are you hurt?” you try to ask, but the words only come out half. You clear your throat and ask again, scanning his face for any visible bruises, but finding nothing but a hint of concern etched onto his features.

“No,” he replies, studying your face the same way you do with his and pulling his brows together a little tighter at the sight of your glassy eyes and the circles forming underneath them. “You didn’t reply to my messages all day and that’s… kinda unlike you. So I wanted to check in on you.”

“I was studying,” you mumble.

Jake sighs almost inaudibly, just loud enough for you to register the faint sound of it. “I can see that. You look like hell.”

You meet his gaze for a second before you avert your eyes. “Thanks, Jake. Flattering.”

He ignores your remark, still scanning your face. “Were you crying?” he asks, but you don‘t reply.

Without another word or an invitation, Jake takes a step towards you, closing the door behind him with a soft click and dropping his bag to the floor. “Come on, you should really take a break,” he says softly, and although the familiar hint of concern in his voice usually causes a gentle warmth to spread across your chest, this time it feels close to infuriating. You can feel how your shoulders tense again at his suggestion and you immediately shake your head in response. 

“You’ve probably been sitting at your desk for hours. It‘s okay to slow down a bit,” Jake says so soothingly it nearly comes off as belittling. He keeps searching your face for any type of reaction, his gaze suddenly so heavy on you that you almost begin to feel small. “You‘re not going to get anything done if you‘re this exhausted,” he tries again.

“I don‘t have time for a break. Not everyone can afford to fall behind and fail their classes, Jake!” You snap, the words spilling out in a tone much harsher than intended and before your brain even finishes your thoughts. It takes only a flicker of your eyes up to his face to see his reaction – his jaw tightening slightly and a small wrinkle forming on his forehead, not from concern this time, but from irritation.

He stays silent for a moment. “That wasn‘t necessary,” he finally mumbles, the earlier softness in his voice now replaced by something firmer. You open your mouth to apologize, but your throat tightens, closes up, makes it hard to speak or even swallow down your apology.

But just seconds later, Jake lets his shoulders fall with a soft sigh, the tension on his face slowly dissolving. He takes another slow step forward and reaches out to gently place his cold hands on your heated cheeks, cupping your face with a grip ever so lightly, as though he‘s giving you every chance to pull away and step back. “It‘s okay,” he reassures quietly. “I shouldn‘t have pressured you.”

Your throat tightens even more as you look up at him the second before tears begin to blur your vision – and just when you want to turn your head away, Jake tightens his grip. Closing your eyes instead, you grit your teeth as hard as you can when one tear rolls down your cheek and you feel Jake’s thumb gently wiping it away.

When you open your eyes only to find his eyes filled with more warmth and softness than ever before, you sniff once, mumble a low, “I’m sorry,” and pull back with a little more strength.

“Wanna rant about how annoying classes are?” he asks softly, tilting his head to the side, but you slowly shake your head. “Do you want me to leave?” He bites the inside of his cheek, regretting the question before he even finished asking it. But to his surprise, you shake your head again.

“Stay,” you confirm quietly, just loud enough for him to catch. His hand itches to reach out to you again – to pull you in and hold you close until he’s made sure that you’re okay. But instead, he just nods. “Movie?” He suggests so gently that your heart almost skips a beat at his attempt to still keep you away from your desk, just not as pushy as before.

When you settle on the sofa next to Jake, he places his arm on the cushions behind you. You stare at the screen, but you don’t really pay attention to whatever is playing. All you can focus on is Jake; the scent of his body wash, the way just sitting next to him leaves the palm of your hands sweaty despite the air conditioning, and how his arm behind you makes you feel so close to him, although he doesn’t touch you. You glance down right in time to catch Jake spreading his legs a little further – just enough for his knee to softly brush against yours.

Tentatively, you lean closer until your head reaches his shoulder. He lets his arm slide off the cushions and around your shoulder almost instantly, pulling you more in so your head rests fully on his shoulder. You stay like that in silence, Jake absentmindedly letting his fingers slide up and down your arm, until you scoot a little closer. He reaches for your thigh with his free hand, slowly curling it around the inside of it just to place your leg on top of his own.

“Is this okay?” he asks quietly as he lets his hand rest on your knee. 

The simple, innocent contact is enough to make your breath hitch, enough to let goosebumps erupt on every inch of skin he touches. Not trusting your voice, you opt for a quick nod of your head that draws a sheepish smile on Jake’s face.

You stay like that for a bit, both pairs of eyes on the screen without really paying attention. Jake traces gentle patterns on your skin, trying his best to not be too obvious about how he follows every small twitch of your thigh or every inch you slowly scoot closer. Skin crackling under his touch, a soft sigh gets caught in your throat as he slings his arm around your waist and pulls you onto his lap.

“Better?” he asks quietly, almost inaudible over the sound coming from the TV. You reply with a hum, before hesitantly draping your arms around his neck. Your fingers gently lace through his hair as you lean forward to rest your head on his shoulder again. His hands settle on the small of your back, just holding you in place for a while.

Although neither of you speaks, the show that’s playing slowly wanders to the very back of your mind, attention zeroing in on the sound of Jake’s steady breaths and the feeling of your body gently pressed against his, somewhat peaceful, yet unsettling at the same time. Not enough.

As if reading your mind, Jake softly tugs at your sweater to wordlessly gain your attention. Shifting slightly, you lift your head from his shoulder to look at him. His eyes find yours immediately, softening just a bit at how they now seem much calmer than before. You allow yourself to get lost in his brown orbs, and, for the very first time, embrace the warmth that spreads through your chest. You're so absorbed in his eyes that you don’t even acknowledge the strand of hair falling onto your face until you feel Jake gently tugging it behind your ear. 

His hand lingers on your cheek as his eyes dip down to your lips. Chest buzzing from your quickening heartbeat, you tentatively lean a little closer. He lets his hand slide to the back of your head and gently pushes you forward until his breath fans over your lips – and before he can ask, you close the last bit of distance between you.

Surprised at first, Jake reacts quickly, eyes closing and lips moving effortlessly in sync with yours. His fingertips gently press against your scalp as he angles his head slightly to deepen the kiss. The blissful shiver his touch sends down your neck draws a whimper from you, so quiet you would have thought it went unnoticed by Jake if it wasn’t for the twitch of his fingers. When you slowly pull back, breaths coming more ragged, his hand moves from the back of your head down to your neck, fingers curling around your throat ever so gently – just enough to pull you back in.

He kisses you almost feverishly now, earlier hesitation gone as he glides his tongue against yours and gently bites on your lower lip. Each of his antics has you pulling on his hair a little harder, sending blissful shivers down his spine at the memory of all the times he felt that same tug on his scalp with his face buried in between your thighs.

Slowly pulling back and allowing both of you to breathe, his hand drops from your neck to your hips, pushing past the hem of your sweater to rest on your bare skin. Then, his lips are on you again, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses against your jaw, your neck, the spot right under your ear and your collarbone. He sucks on your skin, gently bites down wherever he knows it will draw a quiet moan from you, and quickly licks over the bruised skin to soothe it – all while firmly holding you close to him, fingers almost boring into your skin. 

His other hand toys with the fabric of your sweater, softly tugging on it without making any attempt to rid you of it. But the ache between your legs only grows bigger with every second that passes with him marking what seems like every accessible inch of your skin. You let your hands sink to his shoulders, squeezing softly to get his attention, but his lips stay attached to your collarbone, leaving yet another love bite.

Only when you manage to mumble his name, voice breathy and almost breaking at the end of the syllable does he pull back to look at you. “Take it off,” you mutter – and before he can open his mouth to ask if you’re sure, you beat him to it with a quiet “please.” He nods, hands sliding to the hem of your sweater to slowly, almost shakingly push it up. Trying his best to keep his eyes on yours, he can’t help but peek down as he carefully pushes the piece of clothing over your head and drops it somewhere on the sofa.

“So pretty,” he whispers, leaning forward again to softly place his lips on top of yours, hands sliding up hesitantly before cupping your boobs and giving them a gentle squeeze that draws another quiet moan from you. His lips trail down your neck again, touch gentle yet somewhat impatient, until he reaches your chest.

Raising his head to look up at you, he waits until you give a short nod, before attaching his lips to one nipple. The content sigh that leaves your lips at the contact shoots right to his hardening cock. Eager to draw another one from you, he flattens his tongue against the bud, gently sucking on it right after. Once the quiet moan reaches his ears, the corners of his lips curl up into a smirk. He pulls off to come eye-level with you, chuckling softly as he catches the hint of disappointment on your face at the loss of contact.

“Don’t hold back,” he orders, voice not as firm as he initially planned, but the hint of softness makes your heart flutter a little. “I know you can be louder than that. Let me hear you, hm?” He asks, bringing two fingers in front of your lips. You slowly open your mouth just enough for him to push the digits past your lips and onto your tongue. Keeping your eyes on his, you hesitantly start sucking on his fingers, not missing how his jaw tenses although his expression never falters once.

“I said let me hear you,” he repeats, voice dipping lower – just enough to make another shiver run down your spine, but you stay silent. He pulls his fingers out with a tsk. “You’re not usually this shy, what’s up today?”

Instead of waiting for a response, his mouth is on your nipple again, the fingers that pressed down on your tongue just moments ago coming up to flick and twist the other one. Your head lolls back with a shaky breath, nails digging a little deeper into his clothed shoulders.

There’s a part of you that wants to keep holding back, not only out of shyness, for this is the first time Jake has ever seen you shirtless. It’s the way his antics grow messier, almost desperate to finally get the reaction he wants, that just feels too good. While you’re busy wondering if just nipple stimulation has ever caused your underwear to stick to your drenched core this much, one particularly harsh pull rips a surprised moan from you. 

Although you keep your eyes closed, partly to spare you from embarrassment, you can feel Jake smiling against your skin. You subconsciously slide forward, his hardening cock pressing against your heat, and the tiny bit of friction is enough for you to clench around nothing. When you press against him again, Jake curses under his breath, but you don’t quite catch what he says. Both his hands are quick to land on your ass, fingers digging into the plush skin while he guides you, and the way the outline of his clothed hard-on perfectly presses against you draws whimper after whimper from you.

Your eyes roll back each time his tip meets your pulsating clit, the sensation feeling almost overwhelming despite the layers of fabric between you. Not knowing how to deal with the mix of not wanting to stop and really, really wanting more, his name leaves your lips in a moan that has his hips stuttering for a second.

“What do you want?” he asks softly, tilting his head to the side the adorable way he often does when talking or listening to you.

Instead of replying, you only press against him harder. His eyes roll back with a low groan, but he refuses to give in.

“Use your words, pretty.”

“Want you,” you murmur, and although he really wants to hear you say it again, he’s too impatient to make you repeat yourself. Instead, he quickly manhandles you from his lap onto the sofa, your back pressed against the cushions as he hovers over you and starts leaving more kisses from your neck over your chest and stomach down to the waistband of your shorts. He quickly pulls it in between his teeth and down your legs without breaking eye contact. Once your shorts and underwear are carelessly discarded somewhere on the floor, his hands find their way to your thighs, spreading them apart to put your dripping core perfectly on display for him. 

You let your forearm fall over your eyes as you feel the familiar heat creeping up on your cheeks, feeling timid no matter how many times he’s already seen you like this. The feeling of two fingers gently sliding in between your glistening folds makes you arch your back, and although you can’t see him, you can practically hear Jake’s grin as he speaks, “so wet just for me?”

Again, he doesn’t wait for your response and licks one long stripe from your hole up to your clit, where he circles the bundle of nerves with his tongue before tentatively sucking it between his lips. The moan that rips from your throat only motivates him to do it again, making your back arch off the sofa again. When his tongue finds your hole, his nose bumps against your clit, drawing another whimper from you while he laps up everything you give him with a content hum.

Just as he focuses on your clit again, grabbing your thighs and placing your legs over his shoulders to bury his face deeper between them, you manage a quiet “stop” in between moans.

Jake quickly sits back on his knees and brings his hands to your thighs to gently massage them. “Is everything okay?” The soft look he gives you makes your heart skip a beat, your chest feeling warm with endearment.

“I just… I want you,” you admit, watching as his eyes widen.

Suddenly, Jake’s throat feels dry, and his chest rises and falls quicker as he tries his best to find a different meaning to your words than the one he initially comes up with. “What do you mean by that?”

You hesitate for a moment. “I want you to–... I need you to fuck me.”

Jake’s hands come to an immediate halt, as he swallows the lump in his throat to physically hold his jaw from dropping at your words.

“Fuck, you can’t say this like that,” he mutters.

You don’t respond, just look up at him with pleading eyes as you can practically see his brain short-circuiting.

“I don’t have any con–”

“I don’t care,” you interrupt him, “please, Jake.” Grabbing the collar of his shirt, you pull him in for a soft kiss that completely contrasts the urge in your core. He immediately melts into the kiss, reciprocating it with the same tenderness, until he pulls back way too soon and pulls his shirt over his head.

Your hands find his skin, marvelling at the toned chest and abs he’s been hiding from you. Jake sighs softly at the contact, muscles contracting under your touch as your fingers curl under the waistband of his sweatpants to pull them down along with his boxers. His cock springs free, perfectly hard with beads of precum dribbling down the sides. You reach out, but Jake grabs your wrist to stop you. His other hand pushes your leg more to the side before he carefully guides his tip through your wet folds, over your clit and down to your leaking hole. He hisses at the feeling, clenching his jaw tight to hold back from moaning just from the feeling of your arousal alone. 

“Jakeee,” you whine, bucking up your hips just enough for his tip to slide in. Choking back a groan, he places one hand on your knee to angle your leg so that he can properly line himself up with your entrance. He looks at you as if scanning your face for any kind of uncertainty, but before he can ask if you’re sure, you nod.

Jake slowly pushes in, head thrown back as your warm walls welcome him inch by inch. His fingers dig into the flesh of your leg as he tries to hold onto whatever little sanity he has left in him and give you time to adjust.

“Doing so good for me already,” he mumbles more to himself than to you, but the praise is enough for you to clench around him in a way that draws a hiss from him while his eyes shut close. He wants to tell you how you can’t do that to him just yet, but he doesn’t trust his voice. Just as he tries to focus on not bursting without having even moved, your gentle grip on his biceps makes him open his eyes.

“You can move,” you say softly. And so he does, head dropping to the crook of your neck as he slowly starts moving.

Although the stretch feels amazing, the way his hips roll against yours so perfectly, hitting all the right places in a way you haven’t felt before, something feels off. You try to angle your hips differently, to change the placement of your legs, squirming under him for less than three seconds before he quickly comes to a halt. He lifts his head, eyes searching yours as his hand quickly comes up to cup your cheek.

“Hey… what’s wrong? Do you want to stop?” He asks so gently it almost hides the breathlessness in his voice.

You shake your head, letting out a shaky breath as you feel your body tensing in frustration. “No, I just… I don’t know what’s wrong,” you murmur. Suddenly, you feel a lump forming in your throat again, the stress from earlier mingling with the newfound frustration now.

“Babe,” he coos, the sudden nickname bringing your attention back to him. “We’ve never done this before. It’s okay if something doesn’t work out immediately.” His thumb brushes against your cheek tenderly, and leaning into his touch, you slowly start relaxing.

Jake slides his hands under your back, pulling you with him as he sits up and positions you on his lap without slipping out of you. You hold onto his arms again while you slowly sink down on his lap fully, gasping softly at how deep he reaches now. “Let’s try this,” he suggests, hands sliding down your back to your hips. He gently lifts you up a little before he guides you back down, shivers running over his body at the soft moan you let out.

“Just go with whatever feels good for you,” he says, voice so gentle you completely miss the way he’s losing his mind internally.

“But you–”

“Don’t worry about me, you feel perfect for me,” he reassures before you can voice your doubt.

So you start, going slowly, hesitantly at first, then a bit faster – this time quickly finding a rhythm that feels just right for both of you.

“Fuuuck,” Jake pants as his head falls back against the sofa and his fingertips bore a little harder into the flesh of your hips. Your hands weakly grab onto his shoulders for support as you feel the burn in your thighs intensify.

“Just a little longer, baby. Can you do that for me?” He asks when you slow down, lazily grinding on him rather than riding him. His voice is breathy – laced with a strange mix of exhaustion and lust that is enough to send shivers down your spine.

You nod tiredly, though you can’t fully register what he even asked for. His voice is muffled by the ringing in your ears; the only thing you can truly focus on is the way he fills you up so perfectly and how fresh waves of pleasure shoot through your entire body every time your clit rubs against his pelvis.

Jake lifts his head from the sofa to take a better look at your face, and if it didn’t boost his ego so much that your cheeks were flushed, your eyes almost teary and your lips slightly bruised from all the kissing, he would almost feel pity for you. 

“So pretty like that… Such a good girl for me,” he breathes, but his words don’t quite reach you. You let your head fall into the crook of his neck where every breath of yours covers his skin in goosebumps and every little whimper makes his cock twitch inside you.

You barely register how he tightens his grip on your hips until he holds you down firmly enough to stop your movements. Before you can even lift your head to look at him, he bucks his hips up, his tip kissing your cervix so deliciously that you can’t hold back a surprised moan as your nails dig deeper into the skin of his shoulders.

Jake’s eyes flutter shut at the way your walls clench around him. He rolls his hips into yours another time, leaning his head against the cushions again and relishing how good you feel around him, how your warm slick coats his length and drips down his thighs. 

His hands find their way to your ass, lifting you up just slightly, only to roughly push you down to meet his next thrust.

The world around him suddenly goes quiet – the sound of the TV playing in the background, even the quiet hum of the air conditioning that Jake always hears – none of these reach his ears anymore. The only thing he can focus on are your moans that echo off the walls, each of them only spurring him to make you feel better, to make you moan louder.

You can barely hear the string of curses he mutters under his breath, but his breathy whimpers pierce through the wall of pure pleasure, shooting straight to your core. Your legs feel numb, but the way he whines just a little louder and grabs your ass just a little tighter whenever he reaches so deep you’re sure you could see the bulge in your stomach if you had the strength to lift your head from his shoulder motivates you to keep going.

Jake moves one hand up to the back of your head, fisting some of your hair and pulling your head back so gently it’s almost endearing compared to his thrusts. “Keep your eyes on me, baby,” he mutters, holding back a moan at just the sight of your fucked out expression.

Your entire body is tingling, making it hard to not squeeze your eyes shut. “I said eyes on me,” Jake manages between whimpers, focusing his own gaze fully on your face. He can literally see how each snap of his hips brings you closer to release, and god does he love to see it. How he has you right where he wanted you for so long, how he can draw those pretty moans from you, how he doesn’t even need you under him to have full control over your pleasure.

“Jake,” his name rolls off your lips with a moan that makes his hips stutter, his jaw tensing as he tries to solely focus on not letting go just yet.

His hand slowly lets go of your hair and roams over your body, leaving goosebumps in its trace. He cups your breasts, gently squeezes your waist, places his hand on the small of your back to pull you impossibly closer until he finally settles for your clit. A small sigh escapes your lips when he starts to rub slow circles around the bud. You let your head fall on Jake’s shoulder again, strands of hair sticking to your forehead, your cheeks, covering your eyes that you shut tighter with each snap of his hips.

Jake feels his abdomen tighten, his thighs shaking as every thrust knocks the breath out of your lungs all over again. His fingertips dig deeper into your skin, relishing how fast your arousal covers his other hand and how each of your moans bring him closer to the edge.

A murmured “don’t stop,” is all you can muster as you feel the tension in your body reach the unbearable. The sensation makes your head spin – your clit throbbing under his touch, your walls clenching around him tighter and tighter and your skin tingling on every inch your bodies meet.

You can’t even warn him before your orgasm washes over you like a tidal wave, leaving your body shaking and your nails digging into the skin of his shoulders.

“Fuck, I–” Jake cuts off, his eyes rolling back as he feels his cock twitching. He places both hands on your back, pulling your chest flush against his, so close that you can feel his heart beating rapidly against yours, as he finally allows himself to let go.

He lazily thrusts his hips up a few more times, not only riding out his own high but yours too, before he stops completely and lets his head fall back against the sofa again. Your heavy exhales hit Jake’s sweaty neck as you try to catch your breath, forcing another shiver down his spine. He lets his fingers brush up and down your back gently, waiting for both of your heartbeats to slow down while he softly murmurs words you’re still too far gone to understand.

Only when you slowly lift your head from his shoulder does he open his eyes to look at you. The corners of his lips curl up, offering a smile that feels so warm you almost don’t notice how your body temperature slowly begins to drop.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice ever so gentle although slightly hoarse, as one of his hands lets go of your back and instead moves up to your face to carefully brush your hair out of your face.

You reply with a short nod, tiredly reciprocating his smile. “I’m tired,” you mumble, which earns a soft chuckle from Jake.

“Shower or bath?” he asks, letting his hand rest on your cheek and softly brushing his thumb up and down your skin. You allow yourself to lean into his touch slightly, yet you pout your lips, “nothing.”

Smiling softly, Jake leans forward to press a light kiss against your forehead. “Can you take a deep breath for me?”

Jake drops his hands to your hips, slowly lifting you up once you exhale to carefully pull out of you. Only when he gently sets you down on the sofa do your legs stop shaking. “Good job,” he mumbles. Then, he pushes himself up from the sofa, picks up his sweatpants from the floor and quickly slides them on.

You watch him, gaze wandering over his bare back, the marks your nails left on his skin and the way his muscles slightly flex with each small movement, before he turns around with a soft smile and leaves the living room.

Your eyes are barely open when he comes back with a glass of water in one hand and a dampened washing cloth in the other. He hands you the glass with a soft smile, waiting for you to drink and placing it on the coffee table after. Then, he motions you to lay back with a gentle push against your shoulders. Placing his hands on each of your knees, he slowly spreads your legs apart to carefully clean you up.

The warm fabric feels soft and the way Jake wipes it over your sore skin ever so gently makes your heart flutter as the familiar warmth of just being around him spreads through your chest. Just as your eyes begin to close, the feeling of Jake’s soft lips against your forehead makes you open them again. He’s leaning over you, eyes and smile filled with something between warmth and fondness.

“You hungry?” he asks so quietly he might as well have whispered as he reaches out to gently tuck some strands of hair behind your ear.

Your tired eyes light up at the mention of food. “Can we order pizza?”

Jake nods with a chuckle. After finding his phone somewhere on the floor, he hands it to you. “Choose what you like, I’ll be right back, yeah?” Already invested in the options, you barely register Jake leaving the room again, until he returns with a shirt in his hand. You would have mistaken it for one of yours, if not for the bigger size and the unmistakable scents of his detergent and cologne as he carefully pulls it over your head and guides your arms through the sleeves.

“I always keep an extra one in my bag,” he explains before you can open your mouth to ask.

Trying to dismiss the bubbly feeling in your stomach, you nod in response and mouth a quick ‘thank you’. Jake offers another gentle smile, before taking his phone from your hands, choosing his food and placing the order. The two of you just wait in silence, you sitting on Jake’s lap, one of his hands around your waist to hold you close while he rubs soothing circles onto your back with the other.

After you finish your food – well, Jake’s food, simply because you liked it better than your own and he immediately switched the two boxes – he curls one arm around your waist and the other under your knees and picks you up to carry you to the bedroom where he gently lays you down on your bed before crawling in next to you.

As if it was second nature, his arms find their way around your body again, pulling you in and holding you so close it almost feels like he never wants to let you go again. And despite being too tired to really think about it, you can’t help but wish he means it.

“Jake?” His name rolls off your lips before you can stop it.

You feel his chest vibrate underneath your head as he hums in response. You hesitate for a bit, letting his slow breaths lull you in until you feel yourself drifting off and you barely register the confession you mumble right before sleep pulls you under.

“I really like you.”

The next morning, you wake up from a shiver running over your body. Eyes still shut, you scoot closer to Jake, expecting to be embraced by the warmth of his body, but his side feels even colder.  When you slowly open your eyes, you’re met by the bright sunlight that shines through your curtains, and an empty other half of the bed. You hold your breath for a moment, checking for any sounds coming from the bathroom or the kitchen, for quiet footsteps outside your room. But when you hear nothing, the apartment feeling more silent than ever before, you push the air out through your nose. 

Although your body feels heavy, your legs and core a little sore, you slowly sit up and reach for your phone on your nightstand. As soon as you grab it, your screen lights up with Jake’s name, the pile of messages he sent the day before, and one from only 43 minutes ago.

Jake: had to leave early for practice and didn’t wanna wake you up :( hope you slept well tho. you looked cute haha. text me when you’re awake?

Biting your lip to hold back a smile, your eyes skim over the previous messages – his question if you wanted to grab dinner after practice, his repeated attempts to ask if you’re okay, if you’re really just studying for so long, or if he did anything to upset you – before they land on the most recent message again. You quickly type your reply and hit send, before falling back into bed, pulling the blanket over your body and letting Jake’s scent take over your senses until you’re fully embraced by it.

When he responds just a little later than usual that day, you don’t think much of it. He tells you about practice, how he doesn’t have any bad bruises this time, and even sends you a picture for proof. You smile at his messages like you’re used to by now, and your heart does that little jump when he sends a voice note to wish you sweet dreams later that night.

Then, little by little, his replies begin to come later, his calls less frequently. He slowly replaces the occasional forehead kisses for kisses on your cheek, or sometimes, none at all. And although you try to shove it away, sometimes you can’t help but think about it. You begin to wonder whether his touch really feels a little less soft than usual, or if your mind is just playing games with you. If his message was intended to sound a bit colder, or if you’re reading too much into it.

He never brings up your quiet confession, and you don’t either, unsure if he even heard, when in reality the four words are constantly replaying in his mind. When you repeat them without saying them, just because your touch is so much softer than before. Because your eyes search for his more often, and the look in them makes his heart drop. And sometimes, when he keeps his hand around yours a bit longer, you allow yourself to think that he might not let go. You almost ask. But each time, he quickly pulls away, changing the topic as though he’s terrified of what could happen if he gives you enough time to think.

Yet, he’s still around. He still comes over after practice, still eats dinner with you, still checks in on you, and still stays when you’re studying. Just not as frequently, and seemingly not as whole-heartedly.

“This one looks painful,” you mumble, standing between Jake’s legs as you clean up a cut on his lips. He doesn’t reassure you that it’s fine. Instead, he just responds with a hum that sounds more indifferent than anything else. His breath flattens when you finish up by applying some of your favorite chapstick to his lips like you usually do, its familiar scent flooding his senses until all he can think about is how it tastes on your lips. And for a second, he seems like he might lean in. But then he stands up so rapidly that his forehead almost clashes with yours, mumbles a quick thank you, something about having to run errands, and rushes out of the door with nothing more than a short goodbye-kiss to your cheek.

Jake doesn’t send you his usual good night text that night – neither the night after. He stops coming over as much. Because he’s tired, busy, or already has plans. But when you tell him that you miss him, he still responds that he does too. Until he doesn’t respond at all.

You reassure yourself he’ll text tomorrow, but tomorrow turns into the day after tomorrow, and then into the day after that. Your follow-up message remains unanswered, and the next one stays a draft until you eventually erase it.

After that, you only see him once. He walks past you in the college hallways, so quickly that you have just enough time to catch a glimpse of the angry red bruise blooming right over his cheekbone. You almost turn around, almost call his name and reach out to ask if he’s okay, but he’s gone before you can second-guess it. And you don’t see him again until he rings at your door a few days later.

“Can we talk?”

Jake almost shoots the question at you, as if he’d forget it if he didn’t get it out fast enough. You look him up and down for a moment, silently wondering why, suddenly, he wants to talk, when he’s been so painfully obvious at avoiding you for what felt like an eternity.

At first, you don’t reply, stuck between having no words to say and having too many. A part of you wants to slam the door in his face, another one wants to hear him out, and despite the feeling of discomfort in your stomach, one part in the very back of your heart hopes that this somehow means something good. “About?”

“Us.”

You swallow lightly, yet it’s enough for Jake to register. When you step to the side to let him in, he hesitates for the blink of an eye. Then, he comes in, waits until you close the door, and hesitates again when you look at him expectantly, before he takes a deep breath in and finally speaks.

“I don’t know where this is leading, and I don’t know where you want this to lead.” He takes a break, eyes searching yours as if searching for the confession you’re not ready to make a second time.

You subconsciously pick at your nails as the silence seems to stretch the small space between you infinitely. Then, taking a deep, shaky breath, you break it. “If this is about the other night, we can just forget it.”

“Did you mean what you said?” He asks quickly, sternly, voice laced with a tone that tells you there’s no correct answer to the next question. “About liking me?” 

You hold his gaze for a while, trying to make out the emotion his brown orbs hide, but to no avail. So you lower your eyes before slowly nodding your head yes – and with each passing second in silence, the air only seems to thicken with tension.

“We should stop whatever this is,” he says with an unfamiliar coldness, as if he’s trying to prove there’s no room for argument – as if the lack of an answer wasn’t the answer already. And although meeting your expectation, the words still hit you like a punch to the gut, causing your head to snap up to look at him again, only to find nothing of the usual softness on his face.

You open your mouth to respond, but the words get stuck in your throat, clogging your airways until it feels hard to breathe. Jake’s eyes flicker down to his hands, observing his bruised knuckles, before he brings them back up and locks them with yours. 

“If you want more than this, we should stop,” he repeats matter of factly, eyes never leaving yours. “I can’t be the guy you need, much less deserve. I’m not gonna take you on nice dates or be there for you on call. It took me years getting to where I am now, and I’ll work harder to get where I want to be. I can’t do it halfway, Y/n. And I won’t choose you over boxing.”

“You should have thought about that before you started to act like my boyfriend.”

Jake’s eyes widen slightly at your words. He looks at you for a while, a hint of tension in his jaw, until he visibly gulps and lowers his gaze. “I didn’t mean to–”

“Oh, you didn’t?” Your interruption makes his eyes snap back to you, the sarcastic undertone in your voice drawing his brows together. “I thought you were sure when you started all this, my bad.”

“Listen, I wasn’t trying to mess with you,” Jake replies, the slight tremble in his voice mirroring the one in his hand as he runs it through his hair, pushing back some strands that fall right over his eyes again the second he lets go. 

“It just didn’t feel that casual to me,” you mumble, unsure if he hears, or if you even meant for him to. 

But his eyes widen again, a wave of something similar to panic washing over his face. “It wasn’t casual,” he defends, almost stumbling over his own words from how fast he spits them out. And for a second, you allow a spring of hope to bloom in your chest, allow yourself to breathe – until his words snatch the air away from you once more.

“I just can’t give you more.”

You look at him, eyes boring into his as if you could find a glimmer of something else behind them. Something that tells you he doesn’t mean it, that he’ll change his mind. But he stays silent, just holding eye contact for a moment before breaking away from it.

“Right,” you say quietly, but Jake still catches the way your voice cracks a little, and he swears his heart does the same when you continue, “you could just give me enough until I slept with you.”

“Huh?” He exclaims almost a little too loudly, taking a step forward to reach out to you, simply because he lacks ideas of what else to do – but you quickly step back, eyes shooting up to his in a way that tells him to keep his distance.

“Y/n, that’s not true.”

“Well, the shoe fits,” you reply, crossing your arms in front of your chest.

He shakes his head, clenching his hands into fists to refrain from reaching out again. “That’s not true,” he repeats.

“If it wasn’t casual, what was it then?”

Your question comes quietly, but surprisingly stable. You hold Jake’s eyes, even when your throat starts burning from how tight it feels and you really want to look away just to hide the tears that you feel pricking at your eyes. But you don’t have to, because Jake is the first to look away, eyes wandering to the side to look right past you and thinning his lips as though keeping them sealed.

“Okay. Got it.”

And with that, you open the front door again and tilt your head toward it to wordlessly signal him to leave.

“Dude,” Sunghoon groans frustratedly as Jake barely dodges another punch the younger throws at him. “You’re slower than a sloth,” he continues, but Jake doesn’t reply – just stumbles back a step to avoid another hit.

“That girl still taking up all your focus?”

Jake’s eyes dart up immediately, eyebrows pulling together and lips parting ever so slightly, yet he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he steps forward, aiming for his friend’s ribs. Blocking the blow with his arm, Sunghoon’s lips curl up to a grin that tells Jake he’s simply trying to get any type of reaction from him.

“The one you were desperately trying to reach a few weeks ago, if you remember,” he clarifies unnecessarily, voice laced with mocking innocence, as if Jake could have forgotten who he means. 

“We’re not talking anymore,” he replies finally, voice tight enough to show he’s not willing to talk about it.

“But you’re thinking about her, aren’t you?” Sunghoon presses with another question that earns him a quick but sharp punch to the gut instead of an answer. He winces at first, but the initial cough from the air being pushed out of his lungs violently soon turns into an amused chuckle.

“Take that as a yes,” he mumbles before collecting himself and standing up straight despite the dull pain in his stomach. “Then she must have been really clingy. Or a really good fuck.”

Jake clenches his jaw tightly, the line between his brows deepening further. “Stop speaking about her like that.”

“You didn’t deny it,” Sunghoon replies, not even trying to hide the grin on his face as he watches Jake practically imploding.

“Shut up,” he growls, “that’s not how it was.”

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow, replacing his  teasing look with a more serious one. “How was it then?”

Jake’s face slowly relaxes, the tension disappearing little by little until there’s nothing left of it. He opens his mouth, closes it, and repeats the process once more before he slowly lowers his gaze to the floor and takes a deep breath.

“I don’t know. Good. She felt good to be around. Calming, if that makes sense. She seemed comfortable and just herself with me, and…” 

Sunghoon doesn’t reply, just hums to tell the older to keep going.

“I’m probably making that up, but I think sometimes she smiled a bit more when I was around and then my heart did that thing and it made me want to make her smile forever?”

“And how did you mess up?”

The question causes Jake to look up again, cluelessly blinking at his friend.

“You said you’re not talking anymore,” Sunghoon continues, “but it sounds like she really liked you. So: How did you mess up?”

“She does like me!” Jake exclaims so quickly he almost stumbles over his own words. “Or… did. I don’t know. I told her I can’t give her more than that and she got it all wrong, talking about how I could give her just enough until she slept with me and–”

“Woah, hold on,” Sunghoon interrupts with one hand held up, “I know you’re not an asshole, why are you acting like one?”

Jake doesn’t reply at first, just replays his friend’s question over and over in his mind.

“I just… look, she deserves the world, okay? And I’m just so caught up in boxing, and I need to focus if I wanna go pro.”

Again, Sunghoon’s eyebrow shoots up. “She ‘deserves the world’, so you go give her nothing? Doesn’t sound logical to me.”

“But making this professional has been my goal for years and–”

“I know. Did she make you choose?”

Jake hesitates, then slowly shakes his head.

“So you just freaked out.”

“I didn’t freak out.”

“I’ve known you for years now, and as your friend I feel entitled to tell you that 99% of the time you’re the epitome of freaking out,” Sunghoon deadpans. “Do you have feelings for her?”

Jake gives Sunghoon a look that somehow says everything  and nothing at once, and it’s just enough for the younger to understand.

“You’re in love with her.”

Jake hesitates, holding his breath for just a second, before pushing the air out with a sigh. Then, he slowly nods. “I am.”

“Then why’d you drop her, dumbass?” Sunghoon asks, throwing his head back with exaggerated frustration. But Jake just slips through the ropes of the ring and rips off his gloves – completely oblivious to the fact that, just around the corner, with his words echoing in your mind, you’re holding a little tighter onto the shirt you intended to give back to him. 

Diploma in one hand, you wince at the pain in your heels as you slowly push through the crowd of people. You’re almost at the exit, eager to catch some fresh air after what felt like hours of ceremony, when a soft tap on your shoulder makes you turn around. And suddenly the noise around you fades, as though the world stopped for a moment.

You look at Jake, his own diploma in one hand and a small bouquet of flowers in the other, and your breath catches in your throat when he slowly reaches out to hand it to you. Goosebumps erupt on your hand, shooting up your arm and down your spine, when his fingers softly brush yours as you hesitantly take the flowers from his hand.

“Congratulations,” Jake mumbles so quietly you don’t catch it, just reading it off his lips. He wants to tell you that he knew you’d make it, that he’s proud of you, that he hopes you’re proud of yourself, too. That he misses you to a point where it hurts, and that just seeing you again made his heart skip several beats. But the words stay on the tip of his tongue, slowly evaporating into thin air with every second he doesn’t get them out.

“Congrats to you too. Didn’t think you’d graduate, given you don’t have time for Plan B,” you manage, although the words taste bitter, feel forced, and make Jake gulp visibly. But he notices the soft look on your face, the apology in your eyes that contrasts the harsh tone of your voice, and he knows that you’re not really trying to hurt him – just trying to protect yourself from getting hurt first. 

He stays silent for a while, pulling his lower lip between his teeth, and releasing it again before responding. “Well, someone once told me that getting beat up for my dreams isn’t a solid career plan.”

Before you can help it, the corners of your lips twitch just a little, barely enough for Jake to see the faintest hint of a smile. 

“Oh, and you listened to that someone?”

“Only ‘cause that someone is special… and definitely not Plan B,” he says with a shrug that looks way too forced to make it appear casual. 

You absentmindedly tighten your grip around the flowers, wanting to snap back a reply to hide that the walls you’ve been building around yourself aren’t so stable after all – but your mind blanks. 

And Jake swears he would take the snarkiest remark, but your silence and the insecure look on your face makes his chest tighten uncomfortably.

“Anyway, you should go celebrate with your family and–”

“They didn’t come,” you interrupt with a shake of your head.

“Huh?” He surprisedly raises his eyebrows.

“My family didn’t make it. Too much work, or no flights, or whatever,” you shrug, slightly shifting from one foot to the other as if that could loosen the tension you feel creeping up your spine.

“Do you wanna join mine?” He blurts out before he can stop himself. “It’s… nothing fancy, just dinner. You should come.”

This time, it’s your eyebrows that shoot up. “Excuse me?”

“You should come.”

For a while, you just look at him. Take in the hint of hope on his face, the way he slightly raises his eyebrows in anticipation, and the way he starts fumbling with the diploma in his hand. And you try hard to ignore how your chest warms at the simple habit of his that somehow makes you realize just how much you missed him. 

“Did you mean it?” The words come out before you think about it, surprising both of you.

Jake furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “What? Of course. You shouldn’t be alone today.”

“No, I mean… Did you mean it when you said you were in love with me?”

You watch as his eyes widen and his adam’s apple pops up and down as he gulps. He opens his mouth, but you beat him to it. “I was going to return your shirt, and I guess I overheard your conversation. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, you guys just don’t know how to talk in normal volume.”

Jake looks at you with a face that doesn’t quite give away what he’s thinking – something like a strange mix of shock, relief, and uncertainty. Face paling, he waits and waits for the realization to settle, searches for things to say, but suddenly it feels like he lost all the words he once knew.

“I… Yeah, I meant it,” he begins slowly. “I didn’t realize it before– I mean, honestly, I did. I knew I liked you, but–”

“You freaked out,” you interrupt, trying to imitate Sunghoon’s tone of voice, but you can’t help the hint of sadness coating your words.

Jake reciprocates your half-smile for a second, then he nods with a sigh.

“I did freak out. Listen, I’m sorry for the way I left things, and I know sorry isn’t gonna make it better magically, but…” He trails off and lowers his head. “You mean a lot more to me than I showed you, and I’d like to prove that to you at least today.”

You gulp as if that could help you get rid of the lump that has been forming in your throat the second you turned around and faced him. And despite it getting only harder to breathe when his eyes find yours, you don’t look away this time. Instead, you let his gaze steal the air from your lungs little by little as you keep searching for the slightest hint of insincerity. But even as seconds turn into what feels like an eternity, you find nothing that makes you doubt he means it. So you slowly nod.

“Fine. But only ‘cause I really want dinner,” you give in, and although you try to sound stern, you can’t help but mirror Jake when his lips curl up just a little.

When Jake introduces you to his family, you learn that he’s been talking about you – ‘once or twice’, according to him, and ‘the entire fucking time’, according to his brother. Your eyes shoot to Jake, who just scratches his neck sheepishly, but the honesty in his look makes it hard for you to really shrug it off. 

He stays close to you throughout the entire evening. Wherever you’re walking, his hand hovers over the small of your back just enough to prove he’s there without really touching you – and during dinner he sits next to you, perfectly distanced for your legs to not brush against each other’s but so you can still feel the warmth of his body. And although his family includes you into the conversation just perfectly, he occasionally nudges your shoulder and looks at you with a questioning look to make sure you feel okay.

When you bid goodbye to his parents and brother later that night, you’re so busy thinking about how oddly comfortable you feel, that you don’t notice how Jake struggles to hide the oh so evident adoration in his eyes. The need to keep you close. But he swears that even if you decide you never want to see him again after this night, the soft smile on your face is enough for him, as long as he was the one who painted it there.

He insists on walking you up to your apartment, hand itching to reach for yours, but he quickly shoves it in the pocket of his dress pants. Once you stand in front of your door, you hesitate to look for your key. Instead, you turn around to face him.

“Thank you for inviting me,” you say quietly, offering him a tiny smile that he immediately reciprocates. 

“Thank you for coming with me,” he replies so gently your knees almost buckle just at that.

“Well, I told you I really wanted dinner,” you try to joke, but your voice sounds far more charged. Jake smiles nonetheless.

For a while, you just stand there, looking at him without feeling like you’re drowning. You can almost see it on his face how he wants to take a step closer, but refuses to give in to it. And despite everything, you’re the one to do that instead. Jake’s breath flattens as he looks down to you, wanting nothing more than to close the distance between you, but he doesn’t move – doesn’t back away either when you slowly bring your hands up to his jacket and pull him down until your lips almost touch.

He gulps as he reaches for your waist with shaky hands to pull you in more, trying to ignore the way his heart skips a beat once he feels your body against his. And when you slowly angle your head up to close whatever distance was left between you, the goosebumps that erupt on his body almost make him shudder. His fingers dig into your waist softly, almost like he’s trying to remind himself that you’re real, while his lips gently move against yours in a way that makes you feel like he never left. 

Nearly overwhelmed by the feeling, you allow yourself to melt into his touch until you slowly, almost reluctantly, pull away for air. Jake’s breath brushes your lips as he gently rests his forehead against yours, eyes still closed.

“Fuck, I’m so in love with you,” he mutters, not even registering the words until he said them. 

When he feels you tensing just slightly, he quickly takes a step back. “Sorry, I–... You don’t have to say it back, I just– sorry I shouldn’t have said that,” he stumbles over his own words, only stopping his ramble when you take a step forward again and tenderly place one hand on his chest. Then, you curl your fingers around the fabric of his shirt just enough to pull him in again. 

You kiss him so softly it proves not only that you feel the same, but also that you’re not yet ready to really tell him again. That you want to let him in, but still make sure he keeps one foot out the door. And for now, that’s enough for Jake. 

His touch is gentle when his hands cup your face, thumbs carefully sweeping over your cheeks as he pulls away the second time.

“You mean a lot to me, Y/n,” he confesses, intentionally this time, steadily, although his voice shakes a bit. “I’m sorry I ever made you think otherwise.”

Your heart squeezes not only at his words, but the way they feel more genuine than anything he’s ever told you before. And you can’t help the soft smile when you look right into his eyes again and find nothing but endearment and honesty.

“You did prove that to me today,” you mumble, smiling a little brighter at the evident relief on his face.

“Will you let me prove it again?” He asks tentatively, the glimmer of hope in his voice making you chuckle softly.

“I’ll see.”

© dazzlingjaeyun, 2025. please do not copy.

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[softaestluv]

Grease & Grime Won’t Break Your Bones

You never thought you were attracted to grease and grime, sweat and exhaustion, definitely needed a shower and scrub, but no one has worn it like he is.

Mechanic! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x fem!reader

This chapter does contain explicit smut, 18+ content!

Tags: Rough sex, Unprotected sex, Creampie, Paying for services with sex, Vaginal fingering, Oral sex, Office sex, dirty, greasy, grimy, sweaty, mechanic

Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4 (final part!)| Ao3 | masterlist

A kiss, brush of lips, tongues and teeth.

Wandering hands, firm and steady on your hips— possessive, greedy.

Heavy eyes and shallow lungfuls, trembling fingers and a drowning pulse.

Scorching fever, yearning, aching for something more.

Every morning before work, languid kisses pressed between the oil and cloth fabric of Simon’s truck seats. Awkward angles and smashed positions. A clean Simon, all mouth wash and redwood soap, taste of morning tea on his tongue. Sweeter and longer kisses, gentle hands and a smoothing tongue, soft voice and honeyed croons.

Swoops butterflies low in your core, tightening your chest, hiding smiles between his lips.

Every evening when he picks you up from work, frantic kisses pressed against your front door and his broad chest. Indecent, shaming your neighbors with such a desperate act. Your mechanic Simon, dirty, filthy; sweaty and stained, salty on your tongue. Rough and brutal kisses, pinching hands and clashing teeth, deep timbre and gritted demands.

Burns warmth in your core, nudging your thighs together for any stimulation, quiet gasps and mewls swallowed between his lips.

Never more, never any less.

The first time he dropped you off at work, you were hesitant, swallowing over a thick lump in your throat because you wanted more from the night before. You didn’t know how to ask, or if you even should.

His fingers were reassuring when he held your chin, a murmured, ‘have a good day f’me, okay?’

Then he had stamped a kiss against your mouth. It was supposed to be chaste, you knew that, but you didn’t want it to end just yet, didn’t quite get your fill. You probably shouldn’t have made out in the parking lot of your job or perched yourself in his lap either, but you did. Scratched at the insistent craving in your lungs before running into your work building late.

When he had walked you to your front door after picking you up, you wanted to invite him in, you did invite him in. He declined, shaking his head with a soft chuckle, and a brush of his knuckle against your cheek— just droppin’ you off sweet’art.

And like a man contradicting his words, he pressed you flat against the wood of your door, drowned you in his saliva, dragging his mouth, fangs and all, against yours feverishly each time. Barely managing to pull away to bid you farewell.

It went on for a week, mindlessly feeding your fire with make out sessions in his truck and your porch, like two desperate teenagers trying to quench their thirst.

A week was all it took for Simon to fix your truck, had your engine running like new, but a gnawing itch dug at the back of your skull as you stood in his office. You couldn’t find it in yourself to be excited, not with the imminent lack of pre-work kisses and murmurs, any post-work bites and promises in your future.

As if your truck being fixed was the end of it.

A knot formed in the pit of your stomach as you aimlessly nodded along, pinching your lips between your teeth as Simon explained the work he did on your truck. You didn’t really care, your shitty old pick up was the last thing on your mind, even more so when he kept talking with his hands, thick fingers spread wide with each gesture, dipping into even thicker wrists. Solid forearms, veins curled over each curve, right up to each bicep.

Covered in stains— “Y’alright, bird?”

Your mouth fell open, darting your eyes back to his, “Yeah, yeah I-,” you fluttered your lashes, taking a deep breath, “So, what happens now?”

You mean between you and him, not your stupid truck, and you’re sure he knows that, but all he does is huff a laugh, closing the thin distance between the two of you. Bullies you right up against his desk without a care, hands landing on either side of your hips, consequently boxing you in.

“Well,” He pauses, bending his head to the crook of your neck, brushing the bridge of his nose up the delicate skin, drawing rapid goosebumps, “You still owe me f’my services.”

“A twirl?” You breathe, unsure.

“Go on, then.”

It’s hard to spin eloquently caged against his broad chest and the desk, but he doesn’t seem to mind when the plush of your body rubs against the front of his coveralls. Stopping you when your ass faces him just like he always does with a sturdy hand on your hip, except this time you’re pressed right up against his slowly thickening cock.

Your poor cunt, greedy and desperate clenches around nothing over his bulge. You’re sure he can feel it because he exhales a fucking deep chuckle, blurs your eyes with embarrassment.

And then those same hands are nudging you forward, your palms falling flat against the wood with a gasp as he lays his chest over your back. He’s warm against your cool skin, working in the sweltering garage all day while you sat in his conditioned office. The contrast stings your flesh, makes you painfully aware how hard he had been working to fix your truck. The callouses and scars on his hands evident enough, and the thought suddenly makes every touch even more searing. Taking care of your shitty inconveniences without a second thought.

His fingers skim the seam of your pencil skirt, trailing just a little lower to trace against your knee, rakes chills down your legs, “Had t’work a little harder this time.”

You inhale a sharp breath between your front teeth, “Yeah?”

“Mmh, gonna have to do more than just a little spin, love.” He hums, slowly hitching the fabric of your skirt to your hips.

“Yeah?” You repeat, your default answer when his hands are on you.

Simon laughs again, vibrates your back, “Yeah, baby.”

He hooks his fingers in your ruby red panties and tugs them down your thighs. A sticky string of your arousal clings to the fabric, beads in two when the material pools at your feet.

“Let’s see,” He purrs, “Did two oil changes free of charge.”

His hand smooths against the swell of your ass, thumb resting just under the curve, kneading the flesh gently before leaning back. Drags his eyes steady over your ass, and spreads your pussy open with a stamp of his thumb. You squeak, a bit humiliated at your compromising position; it makes an unbearable warmth bloom down your chest, but you like it.

Can’t do anything but like it when he’s ripping the stitches of your vulnerable flesh bit by bit with the reverence in his irises, the hunger seeping into his almond-shaped eyes as he stares at your pussy.

His thumb sweeps through the seams of your pussy and brushes right up against your sensitive clit. He’s firm on the puffy mound, petting confident strokes against the bead, makes you stutter over your breaths with each new shape like he fucking knew how you liked it already. Your legs spread wider at that, head nodding forward against your chest as you succumb, surrender to the sensation.

This is what you had been waiting for. This. His stained fingers on your clit, drooling over his thick digits.

You had been so well-behaved, let him trace your figure with teasing hands, make you late to work every morning, unfocused and wet in the chair in your office, leave you a breathless mess against your front door, so you like to think you deserve this. Deserve to lay against his desk and let him do whatever he wants to you.

“Fixed your air con.” A finger presses into your poor empty cunt.

Your fingernails dig into the wood.

“Got you a new set of tires.” A second finger joins the other.

A moan scrapes against the back of your throat, pushed straight out from the stretch, knees bumping against the desk as you slump slightly.

The first several drags are slow, using the time to coat his fingers in your slick, agonizing to the insatiable ache you need absolutely smothered. Your puffy walls clamp onto his fingers, using your pussy to ask him to press harder, deeper, further, just like you know his deft fingers can.

He gives you exactly what you want, but he makes an embarrassing show of it. Curls his fingers right where he needs to make your pussy squelch loudly, pulls them out just so he can see your slick cling to his skin, connecting the two of you with a dribbled string. Smears it on your pussy, swiping your clit with each movement over and over again.

Then, he follows the string straight to the source, licks around the digits buried in your sopping folds. You’re already wet, a sticky mess, and it only gets worse when soft lips encase your clit. Your knees out right buckle under you, body weight slumped against the desk when his teeth brush against the bead, coaxing your clit out of the hood by nipping, sucking, toying with it while he plunges his fingers deep.

Yeah, yeah, this is what you deserve.

You’re so close off that, gooey, tacky delicious honey washing over you, panting and shaking under him, toes curled uncomfortably in your heels. Your moans echo off the thin walls, and you struggle to remember if Johnny was still in the shop before Simon bent you over his desk within the brink of an orgasm.

The thought leaves your mind as soon as the strokes turn languid, nothing but really hooking his fingers in your walls as a placeholder while he unbuckles his coveralls. You whine, protesting even though the sound of clanking metal promises a better outcome, something bigger, thicker, because you were so fucking close.

He shushes you, tutting his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “None of tha’, takin’ what you owe me.”

His words make you moan, bobbing your head, yeah, yes, you’ll let him take as much as he wants if he keeps your pussy stuffed. You fidget heel to heel in anticipation, looking over your shoulder to watch. It’s a sight, all beefy muscle, tan lines and freckles, damp chest hair and pubes. Every move is determined, fueled with a purpose, shown in the way his arms flex, his brows furrowed.

You practically fall flat against the desk when you see him free his cock, fat and reddened, leaking with precum. The shaft is thick, a slight curve to it, barely fits in the palm of his massive hand. But all you can focus on is the girth, smacks hard against his fucking belly button.

“And now your bloody engine.”

His cockhead pressed to your entrance.

“Tell me, sweet’art, how’d you plan on payin’ all that?”

“With this,” You whine, arching your back, so your pussy rubs right up against his tip.

He hums, hand on your back pressing your hips flat against the desk, so your cheek is flush with it, “You mean this pretty little cunt, huh?”

You nod pathetically, scratching your skin against the wood because you don’t think you quite have it in you to use your words, confess that you’re willing to use your pussy. And he doesn’t push for you to, takes it as a good enough answer.

The stretch stings, makes tears well in your eyes, but it’s hurts so good. You squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on the burn, really drown yourself in the feeling of being so full. It’s a slow start, shaping your spongy walls to take his full length, moist lips mapping shapes against your neck in encouragement to take it all.

You think you’re ready for it, clenching around him, bucking your hips and pleading with quiet words for more— please Simon, I can take it.

Then, he’s just fucking brutal, unforgiving.

Your teeth knock together with the first determined thrust, your eyes snapping open in shock because you were not ready for that. It tears the breath straight out of you, hurts your lungs from the force. Rips a cry of his name from your core, your chest, your throat because you’re sure you’ve never been fucked like this.

Each thrust is harsher than the last, hip bones painfully slammed into the desk with each smack of his cock. The sound of his balls slapping against your flesh, loud and obscene, echoes how aggressive he’s really fucking you.

The gooey honey from his fingers and tongue turns to white, hot, searing pleasure. Borderline painful, as he forces you to take it with no where to run, so you just lay there and take it like a good paying costumer. Accept the onslaught until his hand bands around your throat, curls around the small muscle, and arches your back as much as you physically can so his mouth can press hot against your ear.

“D’ya think I’d jus’ be done with you too?”

You nod, squeak a strained ‘yes’ because you had thought that. Anxiety pinched your chest before his cock split you in two, before he made you his.

“Can’t get rid o’me that easy, sweet’art,” Simon grits through each word, “Work in grease and grime; you’re stuck with me now, baby.”

The words remind you of how dirty he is, how dirty you are for liking that fact. Even more so when his other hand tugs your shirt and bra low, digging indents into your breasts, and you can see how filthy his hand is from work— the same hand that was buried in your pussy moments ago.

Oil, dirt, sweat, grease and grime smeared on your skin, all over your dainty skirt and white blouse. Marking you as his in more ways than the dark hickeys he leaves on your neck and bruised fingertips on your hips.

It numbs your thoughts to nothing but the way you know his cock is just as filthy. Fucking you into a slippery, sticky mess with each rut of his hips. And then he hoists your foot onto the desk, hits a gummy spot that has you arching, quivering in his grasps. Blinding you and consuming you whole.

Your body decides that’s all you can take, squeezing so tightly around Simon as your orgasm becomes ferocious and unbearable. You seize up, Simon dropping his forehead against your shoulder as he tries to fuck you good and well through it, cussing under his breath. Everything’s fuzzy, blurry, and hazy; you’re dizzy, every part of your body melted into the sensory receptors of your body.

You don’t even realize you’re doing it, what words you’re saying, but you’re babbling for him to finish in you, cum inside you, taint your delicate flesh with every thing he possibly can.

It’s a few more shallow thrusts before his fingers are digging harsh into your hips, sharp teeth pinching against your shoulder. Warms your already scorching cunt with his spend, bucking his hips deeper with each new spurt.

Even after you milked him for all he’s worth, he rocks his cock into you again and again. Slower, softer, more careful from the way he was just bruising your cervix seconds ago. Relishes in the way your folds flutter overstimulated around him, middle and index finger tracing around where the two of you meet, where your pussy stretches so pretty for him, like he doesn’t want to slip out just yet.

Your fingers tangle into his on your hip, “Don’t think I paid my full debt yet. If you take me home, I can really show you how grateful I am.”

You’ve never seen him speed faster to your house, ripping the keys from your grasps when he deems you took long enough to open your door. It makes you laugh, finding it quite hilarious how eager he is to fuck you all night, a trucks engine worth of orgasms.

That night you let him fuck your mouth, slobbering and choking over his fat cock as he carves the shape into the back of your throat. Sucking the salty taste clean from him.

When morning comes he fucks you again, even though your pussy is sore and swollen, your muscles contracting painfully with each movement from overuse. The way he coaxes your orgasm out of you is worth it all, the way he kisses you goodbye soft and sweet after a shower at the door is even more so.

His promises to return later that night with his thumb rubbing tender strokes behind your ear are even better. Except this time you don’t have a theoretical debt to pay or a shitty pick-up, just a simple guarantee.

masterlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

[submattsmxmmy]

roughdom!stepbro!chris x bratty!stepsis!reader

🖤 content warning: smut, stepsibling kink, daddy kink, mentions of porn, posessiveness, praise/degradation, biting, kinda risky, unprotected rough sex

🖤 summary: your stepbrother, chris, gets jealous when he sees you flirting with another man - and not just any man, but one who's nothing like him.

hiiii it's me, @ariestrxsh. if you don't fw the stepcest shit, then idk what to tell you. lmao. don't read this shit. sorry mom, sorry god, and sorry chris sturniolo, if you ever see this deranged, god-forsaken piece of writing.

dividers by @/strangergraphics

holdyourbreath

chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 |

The sun was beginning to descend below the horizon line as Chris turned down his street, indie music playing softly through his speakers.

He didn't think much of the old, beige sedan sitting in the driveway when he got home, except for being slightly annoyed that it was in his spot. He figured you had a girlfriend staying the night who didn't know he always parked there or something.

He let out an agitated sigh as he pulled up beside the curb and cut the engine. He made his way up the driveway with a basketball under his arm and his t-shirt clinging to his sweat-covered chest.

He turned the knob and stepped inside. He cracked a subtle smirk at the sound of your laugh, a noise that once would have made him roll his eyes. He hated that you were secretly growing on him - or maybe he liked it. He wasn't completely sure yet.

The smile on his face faded quickly when he heard a second voice - a man's voice. He quickly made his way into the kitchen, envy already brewing inside of him.

He burst through the door to find you sitting across from a dark-haired boy, batting your lashes and twirling your hair around your finger as you thoughtlessly giggled at every word he said. You jumped as if you were doing something wrong when your eyes flew up and noticed Chris.

You took note of his flushed, pink cheeks, his tired, blue eyes, and his sweaty brown hair sticking to his forehead. You adored the way he looked when he'd just finished up playing basketball or working out, but you didn't let your glance linger for long.

"Hi, Chris," you casually mumbled before turning your attention back to the boy sitting across from you. "Hey. What's up? I'm Josh," the man said, getting up from his chair and extending a hand for Chris to shake.

"You parked in my spot," Chris shot back, peering down at Josh's hand with a look of contempt and silently rejecting his polite gesture.

"Sorry. You'll have to excuse my stepbrother. No one ever taught him manners or how to use the bathroom without getting piss on the toilet seat," you remarked in a snide tone as Chris pushed past him.

"So, uh, what do you think?" Josh asked, redirecting you back to what you two were talking about before Chris interrupted. "I love all your ideas," you giggled, brushing a strand of hair out of your face and licking your lips as you looked at Josh.

The boy across from you may have been oblivious to your flirtatious demeanor, but Chris clocked it right away. "God, could ya be any more fuckin' desperate?" Chris mumbled under his breath as he swung open the door of the fridge.

"What was that?" You wondered, stopping your conversation and turning your attention to your stepbrother who wasn't taking the hint that you wanted to be left alone with Josh, or so you thought.

He actually was getting the hint. He was just blatantly ignoring it.

"I said, what're ya guys workin' on?" Chris asked, but it wasn't so much that he was genuinely curious as much as he was trying to figure out how much longer he was going to have to endure the jealousy of watching you pathetically throw yourself at another man.

"We're working on building our argument for our debate class. We were all paired off, given a controversial topic, and we have to present our arguments next week to the opposing side," you responded, fidgeting with your pencil.

"What's the controversial topic?" Chris asked, a smirk playing in the corner of his mouth. He loved contentious subjects and arguing. "The subject is pornography and whether it's pro or anti-feminist," you replied.

"Oh, yeah?" Chris asked, the topic piquing his interest. "What's your argument, kid?" Chris asked, cracking open a can of Pepsi and leaning against the counter. He was eager to hear your take on the subject.

"Our argument is that it's anti-feminist. It prioritizes male pleasure, gives unhealthy and unrealistic expectations about sex, and it's just overall degrading and exploitative," you casually stated, shrugging your shoulders. Chris scoffed. "Isn't that kinda sexist of you to say?" He shot back, sipping from his Pepsi can.

"What are you talking about?" You huffed back, crossing your arms and glaring in his direction. "Well, isn't it kind of infantalizing to assume that any woman who is in the porn industry is only doin' it because she's bein' exploited? Why can't a woman just become a porn star because she wants to?" Chris asked, sounding rather genuine.

You were at a loss for words, unsure of how to combat Chris' argument. "And what about the girls who like bein' degraded? What about the girls who like watchin' shit like that?" He added.

"What's your point, Chris?" You scoffed. "It's anti-feminist for you to assume that porn only exists for male pleasure when women probably get off to it just as much," Chris stated a valid point before taking a sip of his soda.

"Whatever, Chris. You wouldn't know feminism if it sat on your face," you rolled your eyes, dismissing his comments. "What? You tellin' me you've never gotten off to that shit? Maybe even the rough stuff?" Chris snarked, deviously grinning at you, his eyes scanning you up and down as if he were calculating the exact categories you were into.

Your stare grew wide, and your cheeks grew hot. You couldn't believe Chris was putting you in this position in front of your classmate you were secretly crushing on.

Josh sat quietly, wide-eyed and mouth agape as he listened to the two of you bicker back and forth, astonished that step siblings felt so comfortable talking to each other about hardcore porn.

"Chris! I-," you started to say, but your breath hitched in your throat. "I'm not saying- Look, Chris. We were given a topic and told which side we had to argue for. That's the key to being good at debate, is being able to argue both sides regardless of how you personally feel about the subject. My thoughts on it are completely irrelevant."

"Right, but don't you have to really believe what you're saying to be good at arguing your side? You know my room's right next to yours, right?" Chris shot back, insinuating he knew something. His lips curled into a sadistic smile, knowing he was humiliating you. You huffed and rolled your eyes.

"Chris, can I talk to you in private?" You narrowed your gaze at him. "Yeah, sure. Whatever," he scoffed and rolled his gorgeous, blue eyes.

You excused yourself, and you and Chris headed upstairs. You led him into your bedroom, and you shut the door behind the two of you before you whipped around and glared at him.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" You sternly questioned him. "What the fuck do ya think you're doin'? That guy?" Chris blurted out, surprised that you'd be into such a docile man.

"What? He's a nice guy," you defended Josh. "You don't want a nice guy," Chris chuckled, giving you a dark smirk. "You don't know what I want," you replied. "Sure, I do. I think I know whatcha want better than you do," he cooed, reaching up and softly running his thumb across your bottom lip.

"Chris. I really like him. Please don't embarrass me in front of him," you whispered, giving Chris a somber look. "You'd get bored of him. Bet he could never fuck you as good as I do," Chris purred, stepping closer to you and studying your expression.

"Are you.. jealous?" You wondered, a satisfied grin spreading across your lips. "No," Chris sneered. "Of course I'm not jealous. I just know what ya need better than anyone else." Chris firmly grabbed your jaw and pinned you between the door and his body.

"Chris -" you started to retort, but he cut you off by pressing his lips into yours. You softly moaned into his mouth as his free hand flew to his waistband, pulling his cock free from his shorts.

You immediately felt all your willpower to stop him leave your body, and you relaxed into his kiss. You felt his drooling tip brush against the inside of your thigh as he hiked up your skirt and roughly pulled your panties to the side.

You felt the cool air rush over your exposed heat while Chris ran the head of his cock along your sensitive clit. You shuddered at the sensation. As he slipped it into your entrance, he bit down on the soft flesh of your bottom lip, leaving it swollen and bruised as he slowly pulled away.

"Awh, she's so happy to see me," Chris cooed, smirking up at you as he sunk his length all the way in, feeling the way you stretched around him.

"She thought she was gonna have to settle for that loser downstairs, huh? Don't worry, baby. Daddy's home now," Chris grunted, jerking his hips forward and starting to pump in and out of you at a rough pace as you hooked one leg around his waist.

You threw your head back, and a soft thump sounded as you made contact with the door behind you. A loud moan escaped your lips at the way Chris spoke to you coupled with the way he brutally pounded into you.

He thought about covering your mouth, but a sly smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he imagined the boy downstairs, possibly hearing the two of you. "Can't stay quiet, huh? Is my dick really that good or do ya just really want Josh to know how good I'm fuckin' ya?" Chris chuckled into your ear.

Your eyes rolled back, and a subtle smile crept into your expression. You were too fucked out to even answer him.

"Be a good girl and take it," Chris groaned, leaning in and latching onto your neck. The faint, sweet smell of his natural musk filled your senses, heightening every touch. He began suckling on the soft skin above your collar bone, listening to the pretty sounds that fell from your tender lips.

His fingertips dug into your sides, leaving red prints on your flesh through the fabric of your clothing. You couldn't get enough of the way he manhandled you, the way he touched, licked, and bit at you like it was all that you were good for, marking you up with his perfect teeth while he pounded away.

"You're gonna leave a bruise," you weakly told him, but you said it as more of a lustful observation than a warning or a request for him to let up. You secretly liked the idea of him claiming you as with a hickey in such a visible place, knowing you'd have to hide it from Josh when you got back downstairs.

"That's not the only thing I'm gonna leave bruised," Chris teased you, talking into the crook of your neck. You could already feel the knot forming in the pit of your stomach, a testament to the effect Chris had on you.

Your hands were draped around the back of his neck, clawing at his t-shirt as your legs grew weak. "Daaaddy," your quiet voice trembled like you were talking while driving over a cattleguard due to how mercilessly Chris was fucking you.

"What was that?" Chris inquired through his breathlessness, slowing down his thrusts. "No, no. Please don't stop," you begged through your panting. "Then tell me what you said," Chris murmured, his intense blue eyes locked on yours.

"Nothing," you whispered, feeling your face grow hot from letting that word slip out. You knew you'd never hear the end of it.

"Mhmm. Sure," Chris smirked and narrowed his gaze at you before he went back to his fast, hard movements, bottoming out with every stroke. It didnt take long before you picked up right where you left off, your stomach doing twists and turns as Chris rearranged your guts with his unrelenting cock.

He was going at it so hard that the door was jiggling against the frame and making a sound as if someone was trying to repeatedly open it. Your body started shaking uncontrollably at the whole situation and how Chris didn't care that you had company sitting at the kitchen table. He was going to take you however and whenever he wanted.

"Be a good girl and cum all over daddy's cock," Chris cooed, feeling you begin to rhythmically clench around him. You were fighting for your life, biting back the sensual sounds that desperately wanted to make themselves known as your orgasm tore through you.

The feeling of you finishing onto him caused a ripple effect. His length twitched inside of you, filling you up with his white, sticky cum as he moaned into your ear. He followed it up with a faint chuckle, his breath tickling your neck as he found amusement in how easily you always gave into him.

He pulled himself out of you, leaving his seed leaking onto the inside of your thigh as he did so. "Such a fuckin' slut," Chris teased.

"Okay, don't keep your prude boyfriend waiting too much longer or else he might start suspecting something," Chris winked at you, keeping his voice low. You took a few deep breaths. You tugged down the hem of your skirt, smoothing out the fabric to conceal the mess Chris had made between your legs.

"Chris. Can you please just give me and Josh some privacy while we work on our project?" You asked, considering that was the whole reason you'd asked to talk to him in the first place.

"I'll keep my mouth shut, but I'm not leaving you alone with some other guy. Not a fuckin' chance," Chris answered, his voice thick with jealousy as he bore into your stare with his own.

You spun around, cleared your throat, and popped open the door. Chris delivered a harsh smack on your ass as you stepped out into the hallway. You let out a small squeal and swatted his hand away with your own, but you otherwise ignored his gesture.

The two of you descended the stairs. Chris made his way back over to the fridge to poke around for something to eat. You draped a thick strand of your hair over the red spot on your neck and sucked in your swollen lip as you sat back down across from your classmate.

"Sorry about that. My stepbrother won't be bothering us anymore," you calmly said. "How'd you get him to do that?" Josh asked, furrowing his brow at how quiet Chris was now compared to how loud-mouthed and obnoxious he was being ten minutes ago.

"I have my ways," you replied through a subtle smirk.

part four here 🖤

[wcters]

SPIN OUT

pairing: lando norris x fem!driver!reader

word count: 1.2k+

summary: your boyfriend is there as you crash out in a race

warnings/contents: pda, some swearing, injury mentions, protective lando, i guessed on some stuff

author’s note: i do not know how certain things work in f1 so if i messed that up i am sorry 😚😔

Your pre-race playlist filled your ears as you leaned the side of your body against the wall of the track barrier. Even though you’d done this so many times before, it doesn’t lessen the nerves in your body. It wasn’t even your first time on this track, yet it had you picking the skin off you fingers as you zoned out.

You were pulled out as someone came up behind you and wrapped their arms around your waist, grabbing your hands and holding them in theirs. You knew who it was right when you saw their hands. You looked behind you to see your boyfriend. You freed your hand from one of Lando’s and took out an earbud. “Stop picking.” Is the first thing you heard out of him.

“Sorry,” you replied as you took the hand still holding his and brining it up to your mouth and kissed his knuckles, “just nervous.” He smiled softly at you and turned you around to pull you into his chest. “I know, but you’re going to do great.” “So I guess you see the future now, yeah?” You joked. He shrugged his shoulders, “one of my many talents.” “Sure.”

Lando had come to see you race because it was the one race that didn’t take place at the same time as his did. The Bahrain Grand Prix had just taken place about three days before. He had taken a day to himself before he came and joined you in Jeddah. It was challenging with both of your schedules but you made it work, you always did. You both knew the risks and the troubles of two F1 drivers dating, and you both were prepared.

He poked your cheek. “Hey, are you sure you’re okay?” He asked you. “Yeah. Just have a feeling something will go wrong today.” You said lowly as you looked at the cars on the track. “You’ll be fine, y/n. You’ve had this before and nothing happened.” You nodded into his chest as you breathed in and out. Right as you pulled away your race engineer came up to you and told you it was time. Lando kissed you and wished you good luck as you handed him your phone and earbuds and put your mask and helmet on.

Time passed quickly ━━ probably because of the adrenaline ━━ and before you knew it you were in your car watching the lights. Your hands felt sweaty under your gloves as you didn’t dare to blink. You didn’t want to miss it. As the lights went out, your car came to life and you sped ahead. That feeling of something going wrong was still there but you tried to shake it off and focus on the race.

Lando was in the garage with your engineer and mechanics, eyes peeled on the screen. He noticed how shaken up you were and he was worried. Like he said to you, you’d felt this before but this time he could tell something about it was different. His hands were shaking as he kept his eyes on you and talked to your engineer to try to calm himself down.

Your voice interrupted his senses as he watched you enter your 24th lap. “Somethings up with the tires, I’m getting no grip.” His eyes flicked to the man beside him. “Noted. See if you can hold on a little longer.” Your engineer’s voice filled your ears. “Got it.” Lando was left alone after that as your engineer got up to talk to the mechanics.

When the big screen showed your car, Lando got worried. He saw how little traction your tires had and how you were slipping on your turns. He could hear the commentators voice as well commenting on that as you finish the 27th turn and get ready to start your 25th lap.

As he watched you speed up the track, he didn’t even notice until after it happened. As you tried to turn on the first turn, you tires skidded across the track and you couldn’t complete the second turn, causing your car to crash into the barrier. It didn’t look too bad, but all Lando could hear was silence and all he could think about is if you were okay.

“Y/n? Are you okay?” Your engineers voice cut into the silence of the radio. He got even more worried when you didn’t answer. “Y/n? Baby?” Lando asked into the headset. More silence. He turned around to see if anyone knew what was happening until he finally heard your voice.

“Doing great.” You grunted. “Nothings broken ━━ I don’t think ━━ but my side does hurt. I think I might’ve bruised it when I hit the barrier.” Lando sighed it relief. He was right, it wasn’t too bad. Nothing was broken and you thought it was just a bruise.

“The safety car’s been deployed and it heading your way. Don’t go running anywhere.” You engineer instructed you. “Not going anywhere,” you joked with a light laugh before a hiss came out. With only some trouble you eventually made it out of the car and sat against the barrier to wait for the safety car. You could tell that Lando was worried by the sound of his voice . . . and because you know him. You and him were on the same wavelength, if you could describe it in any way. You felt things the same, and because of that you knew how the other was feeling. You felt the same when he crashed in the Las Vegas GP. It was almost the same too, you spinning out and hitting the barrier. It was entirely coincidental.

You sighed in relief when you saw the safety car ━━ you were ready to get out of there. Your side hurt like a bitch, way more than it did before, and your legs were starting to get tingly. The adrenaline must be wearing out. Lando never turned his gaze away from the screen as they put you in the safety car. He knew you were in good hands, but it ultimately didn’t matter to him. Anything could go wrong.

Lando was right beside you when you got out of the safety car and taken to the doctors on site before you were taken to the hospital. As you were in getting checked out the the doctors, Lando was rambling. “They should’ve taken you off the tires when you told them. They should’ve taken it more seriously. If they had then ━━“ You interrupted him by putting your hand over the one that was holding yours. “It’s fine. If I had felt more nervous I would’ve boxed anyway. Plus, Will would’ve done the same and you would be acting like me. It’s not their fault.”

He sighed, and you knew he knew that you were right. “I know, I just worry.” You kissed his hand, “I know you do. And I do too when the same things happen to you. But I’m fine. They’ll take me to the hospital where they’ll double check I have no injuries. If it makes you feel better I’ll even let you check.” You joked. He laughed and shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

The doctors eventually told you that you were good to go to the hospital. Nothing looked too bad, but it was standard procedure. You sat up with a groan and Lando immediately made a face. You shot him a look. “C’mon, I’m fine.” He didn’t agree. You rolled your eyes. “Let’s go, you’re coming with me to the ambulance. Maybe they’ll let you turn on the sirens.”

[darlingdaisyfarm]

It’s a hot summer day and you’re not prepared for what you find when you step outside the Shack.

suggestive, fem reader

The Mystery Shack feels like it’s punishing you for even existing today. . . every room drenched in a warmth so oppressive it makes your skin stick to itself. The fans are useless in this oven.

You’re irritable, sweaty, and worst of all, alone. The usual bickering, the faint sound of tools or Stan’s TV rambling on in the background, none of it’s here. The Shack feels wrong without them.  

“Stan? Ford?”

You’d checked everywhere, no Ford hunched over in his lab, no Stan napping on his recliner. You’re about to give up, maybe lay down and suffer quietly, when you catch that— clang, clang, the unmistakable sound of metal on metal, and muffled voices.

Curious, you step outside, and the second you do the sun hits like a slap. Bright, blinding, merciless. You shield your eyes with one hand, squinting through the glare, and. . . oh. Here they are.

Stan and Ford. Both of them. Shirtless. Bent over the Stanmobile. Sweaty, dirty, all covered in oil. 

Stan’s at the front, hunched over the engine, his belly jiggles slightly as he leans in, his broad shoulders gleaming in the sunlight, muscles shifting and flexing as he tightens something with a wrench. Sweat rolls down his hairy chest. 

Ford stands off to the side, frowning at a toolbox, his scarred six-fingered hands carefully sorting through its contents. His frame is a bit leaner, but just as distracting. Scars crisscross his torso, telling stories you’d kill to hear. There’s a smear of oil across his chest, and when he finally looks up, letting out a tired sigh from heat, the sweat trailing down his neck to his collarbone you forget how to fucking breathe.

And now you’re just standing there. Staring. No, ogling.

Stan’s the first to notice, of course. He’s always the first to notice.  

“Well, well, look who’s decided to grace us with their presence,” he calls as he straightens up, wiping his hands on a grease-stained rag. “ya just gonna stand there and watch, sweetheart? or ya wanna lend a hand?”

You choke, physically choke, because he’s grinning now and fuck, that look should be illegal.

Ford glances over, his brow furrowed in mild concern when he notices you. “Are you all right? You shouldn’t be standing out here in this heat, it’s dangerous without proper hydration.”

Stan rolls his eyes, tossing the rag over his shoulder. “Oh, give it a rest, Sixer. She’s fine. Though, if you are feelin’ faint, sweetheart, I’d be happy to catch ya. Or hold ya. Or. . . well, I can think of a few other ways to keep you steady.”

Your stomach flips, legs feel like jelly. Stan’s eyes are raking over you, not subtle in the slightest, and. . . Ford gaze lingers, too.

“Prolonged exposure to the sun can lead to heatstroke and—”

“Would you quit it with the lecture, genius?” 

You don’t answer. You can’t, you just let them both argue. It’s actually good they do, at least they won’t notice how pathetic you look right now as you drink them in, every bead of sweat, every flex and shift of muscle. All you can think about is what it’d feel like to touch them, to let your fingers trace the scars on Ford’s chest, to feel the heat radiating from Stan’s skin.

You imagine Stan leaning against the car, beckoning you closer with that cocky grin. “C’mere, sweetheart, why don’t you put those pretty little hands to good use?”  

Ford would step behind you, letting his hands slide over your shoulders, down your arms, breathing in your ear. “Relax, darling, we’ll just make you feel good.” as he plants tender kisses on your neck.

Stan’s fingers trailing down the curve of your waist as you lock your eyes with him, while Ford pays attention to your skin, kissing every inch of it. “you’re just dyin’ to feel us, huh? that pretty pussy of yours must be drippin.”

Then Ford’s hand on your chin, tilting your head to meet his gaze, the silent act of possession, jealousy. “Look at me,” which would sound like a fucking command. “Don’t look away. I need you to see everything we're going to do to you.”  

Your thighs press together, but it’s no use. You’re fucked.

“Earth to dollface!” Stan’s voice pulls you back, and you realise he’s stepped closer, his grin widening as he catches the glazed look in your eyes. “what’s goin’ on in that pretty little head of yours, huh? thinkin’ ‘bout somethin’ naughty?”

“Stanley, enough.”

“Nah, you can’t tell me you don’t see it. She’s practically beggin’ us to bend her over right here.” 

Your mouth opens to protest, but nothing comes out because Stan is right, always fucking right, god, Ford, why cant you understand.

Ford finally steps in, landing his hand on Stan’s shoulder as he pulls him back slightly. “Stop that, it’s ignorant,” he says to his brother, but when he looks at you, his expression and tone changes into something warmer, caring. “You should sit down. Let us get you some water.”

“Oh, don’t act so high and mighty, poindexter, when yourself been starin’ at her like she’s dessert. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

You want to die. Or melt into the ground. Or god maybe let them both actually ruin you, because. . . the way they’re looking at you right now? 

[norrisjpg]

── ☆ tea talks & torn paper

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series: my kind of woman, LN⁴

content: swearing, max & pietra being adorable, soft lando, relationship advice, torn pages, unspoken feelings and a little bit of tension

pairing: lando norris x fem!oc

rora's thoughts: hi everyone, ever so sorry i went quiet on you all! i was having a bit of an unmotivated era and literally gave up on life itself! but, i've had a mental reset and i'm ready to get back at writing again. so, i really hope you enjoy this one, and welcome to the world of my kind of woman!

════════════════════════

LILY’S FRIDAY AFTERNOON wasn’t supposed to look like this. 

her small suitcase had been packed, outfits meticulously chosen, and nervous system prepared for a full-on media blitz at the book launch she’d been anticipating for weeks. but, when the publishing company had abruptly postponed the event due to some sort of logistical complication, lily had found herself with an unclaimed weekend and a non-refundable train ticket to oxford.

“so, you’re sure you don’t want to reschedule this book launch thing?” the brit piped up from the couch. 

“it’s not reschedulable, you knob.” lily rolled her eyes as she placed her once-packed shoes back on the rack. “the whole thing was canned.”

“what a shame,” pietra teased, walking over to the couch and flopping down next to her boyfriend. “i was really looking forward to my saturday night voice notes about how some sweaty guy grabbed your ass.”

“thankyou p.” the younger fewtrell gave her a deadpan look.

“so welcome.” the girl grinned.

“the offer to come with me and p is still there,” max said breezily. “if you want it, of course. it’ll be fun, he has like ten spare rooms, and you haven’t seen him in ages.”

“you’re not giving me much time to think about this.” she frowned, zipping the suitcase back up.

“because i know you, el.” her brother replied. “you’ll just be in your flat all weekend, reading something sappy and avoiding socialisation – or god forbid, you spend it with harry.”

“hey, leave harry out of this – and maybe i like being a recluse.”

“oh, we’re going golfing too, so pack some golf-friendly clothes.” he pointed out, trying to think of any other things she should know. “and lando has a hot-tub, and a sauna, and a gym… actually just pack for everything.”

“does he even know i’m coming?” she asked, still contemplating whether she should just bale on her not-certain plans already.

“he’s lando, he’d probably forget even if i did tell him.” max shrugged casually, earning a hand to the shoulder from pietra.

“lily, it’ll be fine. lando likes you, you like lando. it’s not like he’s going to make you sleep on the driveway – so you’re not uninvited, just a… nice surprise.”

“okay, i’ll come, when are we leaving?” lily sighed, wheeling her case toward her bedroom. 

max checked his watch, “in thirty.” 

• • • •

THE BACKSEATS of max’s audi were surprisingly spacious, allowing lily to stretch her legs out across the seats, and lean on the pillow she’d brought with her. the spine of her latest read was pressed against her knee, a good girl’s guide to murder printed neatly in black and red on a white background. she’d been meaning to read it for years now, but she’d never quite gotten around to opening the front page – so this was a good excuse, an hours drive to get stuck in.

invested in the teenager’s journey, she had neglected to notice that max had indicated down a tree-lined driveway, and that lando’s surrey pad had come into view – sleek, modern lines softened by ivy-covered walls and warm yellow lights pouring from the interior. 

lando and lily had known each other since they were fifteen, meeting at one of max’s karting races. he’d been awkward and geeky, gushing over engine types and tyre wear, but always sweet and polite with her, if a little nervous sometimes. but the last time she’d seen him was almost a year ago. he’d filled out (obviously, formula 1 drivers aren’t exactly stick-like), and he was charming, making her laugh with well-polished wit and the same immature humour she’d grown to love in their childhood. he’d been effortlessly kind, gentle, sweet in an undemanding way that didn’t make her feel like she had to perform. 

“i still feel weird showing up unannounced.” lily mumbled as she closed her book and carefully placed it into her bag. 

“as my wonderful girlfriend said, just a delightful surprise.” max quoted pietra, shutting the driver’s side door. 

she grumbled something in response, walking around toward the boot of the audi, intending on hauling her suitcase out of the vehicle – but it was short-lived, because the subject of her worries stepped out of the front door with a wide grin on his face.

“hey lovebirds.” lando chimed, skipping down the front steps like the child he was – and not quite noticing the other girl stood behind the car. 

the driver gave the pair a quick hug, “how was your drive?”

“lily wouldn’t stop stressing out about the fact that you didn’t know she was coming.” max blurted, making his sister poke her head out from the rear of the audi.

“hi lando.” she waved with a small, sheepish smile. 

if he wasn’t already smiling, he was practically beaming now. lando’s features softened and lit up at the same time, and he laughed softly, quickly heading toward her. 

“hi lala.” the mclaren driver said quietly, casually embracing the girl as if he’d been waiting for this day – his hoodie smelled like cedarwood and lemon, and it assaulted her senses like a homely candle. “how’ve you been?”

“i’ve been good, thankyou.” she smiled. “you?”

“never better,” lando nodded, gaze flitting over her features as he spoke. “let me get your stuff.”

“it’s okay–” she was cut off by lando easily picking her bag up. “thankyou. you’re sure you don’t mind me crashing here for the weekend?”

“are you kidding?” the brit laughed, “you’ve just improved the guestlist.”

pietra looked at max, raising her eyebrows in that same way she always did, earning an eye roll from her boyfriend. the couple (code for max) grabbed their bags, and then the two of them headed into the house. 

“come on, you can pick your room.” lando nodded, reaching up and closing the boot, before gesturing for her to follow him into the large building.

inside, the house was as chaotic as she’d remembered, but in a more, subtle, i’m an adult now, way. the shoe-shelf by the door was dishevelled to say the least – all of his most-used shoes were on there, just randomised and not in pairs at all. her shoes actually looked out of place, paired neatly and placed next to the strangely organised rack. there were a few pillows on the bottom of the staircase, with an untouched basket of clean washing next to the bannister.

pietra was flopped on the couch like it was her own, with max complaining about having no space and trying to find something to watch on the ridiculously large tv.

“so why’d you end up coming?” lando asked as he carried lily’s suitcase up the stairs. “not that i’m unhappy you’re here.”

“the book launch i was going to got cancelled.” she explained with a shrug of her shoulders. “i wasn’t really looking forward to it anyway. they sent me an early release, didn’t bother to read it.”

“brutal.” the driver laughed, glancing back at her briefly.

“honestly?” lily continued. “i wasn’t in the mood to be charming to strangers.”

“and you are now?” lando queried as they entered the spare room next to his. 

“you’re not a stranger, and define charming.” she laughed.

“exactly what you’re doing now.” he replied coolly, his gaze trained on her for a little too long.

“lando, why do you have four tubs of peanut butter and no bread?” max yelled up the stairs. 

“they substituted my nutella and i forgot about bread.” lando groaned, turning to shout.

“still the same.” she chuckled.

“i’m evolving, slowly.”

“i noticed,” she teased. “you used to live on toast and protein bars.”

“bagels and protein shakes now, i’ve upgraded. very adult.”

“impressive.”

their eyes locked again, and for a second, the faint noise of max and pietra chatting downstairs faded to silence. it was the kind of moment lily had always brushed past before – innocent enough to ignore, but heavy enough to remember. she looked away first, thanking him for carrying her bags and letting her stay.

“you’re always welcome here, lala.”

• • • •

BY TEN O’CLOCK, max was flat out on the sofa after a debate about which premier league team had the best looking players, and pietra had rolled her eyes at her boyfriend so many times she was sure they were going to get stuck there. pietra retired to the other guest bedroom, and lando bidded the younger fewtrell goodnight, before she herself slipped away to her room, the soft click of the door punctuating the quietness of the house.

she wasn’t tired.

restless was a better way to describe her demeanour, the kind of restlessness that came from a long day of travel, too many not quite finished thoughts, and the underlying buzz of something unspoken. maybe it was lando’s nostalgic warmth, maybe it was the glance she caught between max and pietra when lando greeted her, as if they knew something lily didn’t.

she wouldn’t call what happened sleep, moreso closing her eyes for a couple hours and pretending too. so, at five o’clock in the morning, the pull of alertness won, dragging her out of bed and quietly downstairs to the kitchen. 

she padded down the stairs in her hoodie and shorts, expecting silence – but the kitchen light was on, but dimmed.

pietra sat at the counter, sipping from a ceramic mug, her body angled toward the sliding glass doors. outside, the early morning sky stretched wide and pale, clouds tinged with gold and papaya.

“oh, morning.” lily grumbled, not sure if she was pleasantly surprised by the lack of solitude or not. “how come you’re up?”

“not really that tired.” pietra shrugged, sighing softly as she sipped more of her coffee. “how are you and harry doing?”

“yeah, we’re okay, i guess.” lily said, sounding slightly unamused. “we’re just casual, you know?”

“you deserve something that isn’t casual.” she responded. “and look i know it might be a bit random to you, but have you considered lando?”

she laughed, quiet and a little shook. “lando? no way, he’s max’s best mate.”

“but he’s so sweet to you, not like he is with anyone else.”

“he’s nice to everyone.” she brushed it off, like she always did.

“you’re allowed to like someone who’s good for you, you know? no matter who they are.”

she was about to reply, consider pietra’s suggestion, when the pad of heavier footsteps interrupted her train of thought. “oh, good morning.” lando yawned.

“morning lan.” lily smiled, the nickname slipping off of her tongue. 

“morning lando.” pietra replied, glancing at the man. 

he was in the navy quadrant hoodie, looking too soft to be real, hood pulled up and curls sticking out everywhere. on his legs were a light grey pair of shorts, with some matching navy socks on his feet. he looked pliant, adorable even. 

the three of them sat in comfortable silence, lando knowingly sliding a hot cup of tea, with two sugars and a splash of milk, over to lily wordlessly, earning an appreciative smile from her. he hopped up onto the counter next to her, watching the sunrise with the two girls. lily watched a bird land on the balcony fence, wings sharp against the morning blush – admiring the way it could freely come and go whenever it wanted.

“you remembered,” lily smiled after swallowing a mouthful of the warm beverage. “my tea, that is.”

“i have a good memory.” the driver smiled, gently nudging her shoulder with his own. “two sugars with an obscenely small amount of milk.”

she laughed, quiet and real, glancing at him and noticing the faint traces of sleep on his face, in the forms of shallow lines and dishevelled eyelashes. his curls looked ridiculously soft, and when he ruffled them after taking his hood down, she briefly appreciated the beauty of his new hair. 

the way he leaned a little closer to her when she smiled didn’t go unnoticed, instead reluctantly swept away from her mind like the rest of the thoughts he brought with him.

• • • •

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, lily was sat on a deck chair on the patio, nearing the end of the first book in the trilogy. she was so deep into the plotline that she didn’t notice lando creeping up behind her until it was too late. 

when his hands squeezed her shoulders abruptly, she slammed the book shut and pulled on one of the pages near the end – tearing the paper almost clean out. she quietly noticed, he didn’t.

“lando!” she groaned, gently thumping him on the head with the paperback. 

“you ready for my cooking, miss fewtrell?” he asked, hands still on her shoulders, softly holding and rubbing his thumbs over them now. 

“call the fire brigade now.”

“hey! that was one time.” he laughed, resting his chin on top of her head and looking down at her book. “what’cha reading?”

“something you’re clearly too illiterate to read the title of.” she deadpanned, putting the book under her chair and going to get up.

he laughed, genuine and real, for the first time in a while. “so rude – i’ll make you sleep on the drive.”

“who would keep your ego in check then?” lily shook her head, furrowing her eyebrows with a teasing laugh.

a couple hours later, the group were full and max was pretty sure he had chronic indigestion from trying to see how many chips he could eat in thirty seconds. 

lando was out on the deck, making sure he hadn’t left anything out there, when he spotted the white and red book underneath a patio chair. en-route back to the house, the driver flicked through a few pages, his gaze immediately landing on the ripped page near the back – and he quickly realised that he was at fault for it. he didn’t say anything when he handed the book back to her, not yet.

• • • •

MONDAY MORNING came around too quickly, and lando left before the other three did, having to head out early to japan early for some media stuff. he’d hugged her, longer than he did the other two, even whispered a sweet ‘see you soon, lala’ in her ear as he’d pulled away.

she wasn’t actually sure when he’d done it, she’d been with him practically the entire weekend. but when she’d returned to the room she was staying in, with the intention of packing up her stuff – there was a neatly wrapped and strangely-shaped package on the foot of the double bed, clad in brown paper with a small white bow on the top left corner. 

‘sorry about the book. and sorry i didn’t scare max instead. had some help from p too - L’

lily stood there for a few minutes after unwrapping the entire holly jackson series, heart swelling, and the scent of the perfume she’d been wanting but could get curling around her like a spritzed embrace.

outside the window, the wind brushed the trees.

and somewhere deep in her soul, something had begun to change.

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taglist: @verogonewild @tvdtw4ever @shawnscurlz @f1fantasys @hescrush @stonesylove @irisesinthegarden @unfuckwitabella @mayax2o07 @curlylando

i do not give permission for my works to be re-written, re-published, or published on any other platform.

© norrisjpg 2025

[giuseppe-yuki]

who is that?

max verstappen x ragdoll cat shapeshifter!reader

w.c.: 1.9k

warnings: suggestive content, curse words, jealous!max

part of my shapeshifting!reader series

summary: who is that cat that max is playing with in the rb garage that is not you?

picture credits from pinterest :)

sitting on an elevated ball cat bed that was custom designed with max’s emblem on the side, it wasn’t hard to see that you were a little spoiled. hell, you even had your own minifridge stocked with fresh fish, veggies, fruit, and meat that max specifically ordered for you. at first, you had advocated against having your little corner of the red bull garage, not wanting to take up too much space, but max had convinced not only you but also christian to build the little cat corner, because who could ever say no to a three-time world champion? 

now, you were sitting daintily on the soft cushion of the bed, watching max finish the last of his fp1 laps. to no one’s surprise, he had the quickest time, being faster than charles by a third of a second. 

feeling a bit hungry, you let out a few mewls, sending a few of the engineers scurrying your way. ha, you thought. i have them wrapped around my finger. 

“you hungry, little kitty?” one of the engineer asks, petting your head. 

you blink your signature blue ragdoll cat eyes at her.

immediately, she jumps up, and strolls to your mini fridge. gingerly, she takes out some pre-prepared raw chicken out of the refrigerator, along with a couple of strawberries. after cutting up both items into small enough pieces with scissors stored on the side of the fridge, she sets the food in a small bowl in front of your cat bed. 

you jump off your elevated bed and walk a few laps around the engineer’s legs, rubbing your fur against her legs in a show of appreciation. the other engineers all coo in adoration, tilting their heads and smiling at you. you approach the bowl on the ground and gobble down the chicken and strawberries, quick. 

deciding you want pets now, you hop into another engineer’s lap and purr, which evokes him to start scratching your chin. but before he could give you any more pets, max pulls into the garage along with checo, signaling to you that fp1 was over. the engineer sets you back on the ground to start assessing the rb20 with everyone else. 

to your left, hannah schimtz strolls in from the pitlane, one hand clutching her headpiece and another holding a clipboard. you pad over to her through the chaos of the garage and jump onto her leg. she chuckles before setting down her things on a counter and picking you up. she gives you a few pats on the head, earning her a meow of happiness from you. gianpiero lambiase appears out of nowhere next to hannah, but you don’t mind as he starts stroking your fur. you nuzzle into hannah’s team kit in gratitude. 

when you lift your head and look across the room, you see your boyfriend has already gotten out of his car and standing next to checo. checo is animatedly talking with his hands, occasionally gesturing towards his car, but max is not looking at him. he stares directly at you in hannah’s arms, cool blue eyes staring you down. its filled with a familiar fondness, but it is also tinted with an emotion you don’t see often- jealousy. 

he turns and walks towards you, leaving checo looking at his retreating figure with a confused look on his face. (poor checo, you think.) 

“i’m going to hold my cat now,” he says pointedly to hannah, emphasizing the “my”. he snatches you out of hannah’s arms and holds you gently to his chest. you think you can hear his heartbeat through his sweaty fireproofs. 

turning on his heel, he yanks the driver radio earbuds out of his ear, one-handedly throws it on the counter behind his car, grabs you tight, and bolts out of the garage towards his driver room. 

“don’t you think that was a little much back there, maxie?” you question, lifting your head off his chest and peering at him. 

“umm, no, not really,” your boyfriend says. he squeezes you closer to him on the bed in his driver’s room, tangling your legs together.

you thread your fingers into max’s, using your other hand to fiddle with his fan-made mv1 bead bracelets and trace the patterns on his silver cartier bracelet. “if i may,” you start, lips close to the shell of his ear, “i would say…you were a little jealous back there- snatching me out of hannah’s arms. i just wanted a few pets, that’s all.” 

he pouts, scrunching his nose. he pulls himself away from you and adjusts himself on the bed, laying on his side and propping one hand on the side of his head. you can see the dark spots on his pillow where his head was, leftover droplets of water from getting out of the shower. he adjusts the simple black shirt that he pulled from his drawers a few minutes ago, and blinks at you innocently. 

“no i wasn’t,” he defends himself. “i just simply wanted to hold my pretty girlfriend after racing hard on the track after fp1.” 

you roll your eyes. “sure baby,” you giggle. he was such a lousy liar. it was kind of cute seeing him jealous though. you lean closer to him, laser focused on his soft lips. “just know that you’re the only person that can do this-” 

before you can put your glossy lips on his, max’s phone starts to buzz. 

he curses, pulling out his phone. “who the fuck is calling me?” 

the caller id lights up, showing the words ‘christian horner’ in blaring white letters. 

he scrambles off the bed, and turns to you. “i’m sorry, i have to take this,” he says apologetically. “i will be back, though.” he gives you a wink before walking out of the room.

lying on the bed by yourself, fix your hair a bit before pausing. “no way christian fucking horner just cockblocked me!” you say aloud, giggling to yourself.

two hours before fp2 starts, you find yourself in the paddock bathroom. you smooth down your hair, reapply your makeup, and start smothering lipgloss on your lips when you hear a voice behind you. 

“hey there, you’re max’s girlfriend, right?” a girl in a pretty patterned tube top and jeans smiles at you, tilting her head in question. 

“oh, yes, that’s me!” you respond, smiling back at her. before she can respond, you reach your hand out, and pluck a white feather off the back of her top. “you had a feather stuck on the back of your top by the way,” you explain to her, tossing it in the trash can next to the sinks. 

“haha thanks, i have no idea how that got there!” she says, scratching her head. she then reaches out her hand. “i’m oscar’s girlfriend by the way. nice to meet you!”

you strike up a conversation while she touches up her own makeup, even exchanging numbers. 

she was in the middle of explaining a funny story how she apparently “stole water” from the red bull motorhome when she pauses and points to a spot near your shoulder. 

“there’s like a pretty big bruise on your shoulderblade!” she says concerningly. “is everything alright?” 

you look at yourself in the mirror, and sure enough is a bruise, small enough to not be seen from far away, but too big to cover up unnoticeably. god, you were gonna kill max on sight. 

you struggle to come up with an appropriate excuse to tell oscar’s girlfriend. “i- um was kind of clumsy and bumped into a shelf in max’s driver’s room, and like- a giant vase art piece thingy fell on me!” 

she gasps in shock, “omg, what? i hope you’re okay now!”

you nod your head quickly. “yeah, i’m totally fine,” you say. “the vase didn’t even hurt that much.” 

after covering the hickey bruise with at least a half a gallon of concealer, you hurry over to the red bull garage. max must be a little worried, considering you were gone a little longer than expected because you were talking to oscar’s girlfriend. to your surprise, max is sitting on one of the data analyst’s chair, dangling a toy fish on a string over the head of a ragdoll cat. the cat bats at it, meowing.

“what the actual fuck are you doing? and who is that?” you burst out, marching over to max. this better be a prank, you think to yourself.

to your surprise, there is not a hint of held-back laughter on max’s face- only shock. “wait what?” he says, stunned. “if you’re here..then who is…?” he trails off. the cat sits on the ground between you both, blinking its blue eyes innocently. 

GP walks up to you and max, not noticing both of your shocked faces. he bends down and picks up the cat, cooing. “i know one of the engineers fed her earlier, but you don’t mind if i feed this one a bit of fish do you?” he doesn’t wait for an answer before stalking off to the fridge with the cat. 

you turn to max, eyes blazing. 

“i swear! i thought that was you!” he whispers to you frantically.

by the time fp2 was over, you were already back in max’s driver room. the door busts open, and in runs a sweaty max. he starts rambling (or should i say maxplaining?) the second the door is open- “omg, baby where is the cat? after fp2, i talked to gp and he said that you left with ten minutes left in fp2 with the cat? please please please tell me you did not kill the cat, i swear i did not know that it was not you! it was a random stray cat that somehow found its way into the paddock! i won’t even touch another cat ever again please?” 

he turns the corner of his driver’s room to find you in your cat form snuggling on the bed with a sleeping ragdoll cat. you turn to blink your glittering blue eyes at him while keeping a paw protectively around the other cat. 

your boyfriend sits down on the couch, relief oozing out of him. he gives both of you some head scratches. “i really thought you took the cat and killed it or something,” he exclaims. he then heads to the mini cooler next to his rack of race suits and pops open a can of red bull. when he turns back around, you are now sat next to the cat, running your hands over its soft fur.

“you really think i would do that, maxie?” you say, raising an eyebrow. 

he goes back into panic mode, trying to defend himself. “no, no, no, i just meant-”

you cut him off, laughing. “relax, baby, i’m just messing with you. besides, i think we have a new member in our family now! what should we name him?” 

max sighs with relief, and comes to sit next to you on the bed. he says the first name that pops into his mind. “how about we name him jimmy?” 

you raise your eyebrow for the second time. “jimmy?” you say incredulously. “you want to name the cat jimmy?”

“okay, okay,” he says, holding his hands up. “how about…sassy? that cat was really sassy with me when i found it in the garage! that’s why i thought it was you!” 

“what is that supposed to mean?” you say bewilderedly. 

before max can answer, the cat yawns loudly in your lap and nuzzles close to you.

“you know,” you remark, changing the subject,  “i’m honestly really glad you found this little kitty.” you lean over and give max a peck on the lips, tasting a hint of red bull. 

an idea hits you. “hey, why don’t we name him redbull?”

taglist: @ilivbullyingjeongin @ale-522 @formula1-motogpfan @aceyalonso @my0hmary @mbappebby @madkohi @ralshatos

[pastryfication]

Can you please, if you'd be so kind, do one with Oscar x driver!reader, and him proposing on media day, when they're talking in front of people? And Lando has to hype him up before. 🤭

hi!! thank you for your request!!

i can’t imagine oscar proposing in front of so many people—i think he’d be more the type to do a private, intimate proposal—so i’ve changed the request a bit. i hope you still like it!

just say yes | oscar piastri

pairing: oscar piastri x driver!reader

content warnings: mentions of hungary 2024… also, this is messy! i’m not even sure myself what is going on.

the race hadn’t worked in your favour. starting p8 and moving down to p11 wasn’t good enough. just out of the points, in a race with so much potential, wasn’t good enough.

in the final lap, you wanted nothing more than to exit the car, throw away your helmet and hide yourself away in the hotel. but then, your race engineer turned on the radio and delivered the message you had waited to hear for so, so, so long. oscar had won the race. oscar passed the finish line in first place.

now, after such news, your eagerness to finish the race wasn’t build on the need to sulk, but instead, an eagerness to celebrate your boyfriend.

as soon as you were out of the car, you were running towards were you knew he would be. the smell of burnt tires and gasoline faded to the background and you threw yourself against him, race suite and helmet still on, and enveloped him in a hug.

you were so happy you wanted to cry. he deserves this more than anyone else and to see him achieve it was a dream come true for you. as he decented the podium, you were in the crowd and clapped louder than anyone else.

oscar had found your face in the crowd as he stood on the top step. he smiled brightly when your eyes met, and when lando initially ignored him and he felt the world slowly crashing down on his happiness, your silhouette was what he sought again.

you were there. you were always there. even when you had a shitty race yourself, even when he could see how sad you were about the position you ended up in, you still came to celebrate him. and you poured your entire heart into the celebration, pushing yourself into the crowd of papaya to be closer to his beaming face.

too caught up the the giddiness you felt, you truly hadn’t noticed anything wrong until oscar pulled you aside just before your media duties. he wasn’t smiling quite as bright as he was supposed to, considering he just had his maiden win. he explained, voice a bit strained, that he had been allowed to pass lando. he told you how the win didn’t feel completely like his own, like he didn’t quite deserve it, and you listened with a frown on your face.

this was his win. he deserved it. he earned it fair and square. and you told him exactly that. you told him while holding him close in another hug, your mouth up close to his ear so only he could hear the sweet words you whispered.

as you leaned your head on his shoulder and comfortingly rubbed his back, oscar mind began to cloud with thoughts of the ring in his trouser pocket. barely a hundred meters away, tucked safely away in his jeans in his drivers room, lay the diamond ring he so delicately had picked out with your sister.

he wanted it then, he wished so desperately to have magical powers so he could make it spawn in his hand, but he didn’t, so instead, he took your hand in his and dragged you along.

“where are we going?” you asked, but it was for deaf ears. he had a mission and he was going to accomplish it. he was going to propose right then and there. he was going to spend the rest of his life with you.

୨୧

the reporter had to fight hard to hide the smirk when he spotted the diamond on your finger. it stood in stark contrast to the dull race suit hanging from your waist, sparkling prettily against the sweaty fireproof shirt clinging desperately to your damp skin, compliment the op1 cap on your head perfectly.

“what is it i spot on your finger?” he asked, microphone pushed up against you eagerly in await of your response.

“well, what does it look like?” you answered, showing it to him with a joyful smile adorning your face.

“i guess your boyfriend wasn’t satisfied with just a win.” the reporter laughed.

“fiancé.” you corrected. “and my fiancé is quite satisfied with his amazing win. but you can never get too many things to celebrate.”

[smallestapplin]

A while ago you said Alucard and Dracula purr when they’re happy, and now that headcanons lives rent free in my head (so does the squirting one 😫)

I wanted to ask you if you think that applies during sex? Does Adrian purr when he is balls deep🤔? and if so do the vibrations elevate the whole experience 🧐

*deep breath* I’m so glad you asked.

So for bats purring is a something they do during the mating seasons, it’s a communicative thing for them, and since vampires and their dhampir offspring have vampire bat features and can transform into them, you monstrous beloved would have some more unseen features.

Alucard’s purr is usually very soft and light, you’d usually feel it rather than hear it unless his head was by your ear.

During sex however it’s louder, rougher sounding, perhaps even a little broken.

He purrs for many reasons, when he’s going down on you fully lost in the scent and taste of your sex his purr rumbles out, showing how content he is right between your legs. The vibrations of it are like your own personal vibrator, making you cum that much faster, and making you grow more sensitive as Alucard loses himself between your plush thighs.

When he’s finally inside you, his purrs grow broken, often being cut by his own moans and rushed out praises, it’s still there but you might have a harder time hearing or feeling it until he buries his face into your neck to lavish your skin in his in his kisses. It’s still there but it’s cracking under his voice and his own pitiful moans.

It also comes into play after the fact, when you are both spent and sweaty, your poor hole stuffed full of his cum but he feels so close with you, wishing to stay like this for several moments more before taking a bath. How he’ll kiss you gently, his purr louder this time, like a engine going as he nuzzles his face into your neck and cheek, only being interrupted by him whispering such sweet flowery words into your ear.

In a way it’ll make you feel closer to him, to know he’s comfortable enough with you to stop holding back and stop hiding parts of himself, allowing you to deepen your bond to your sweet husband.

[mrsfancyferrari]

My Darling

Summary: Out of all the things George says over the years, there's one word that still makes you blush.

Song: Earned It · The Weeknd

Author’s note: THANK YOU FOR THE 1K FOLLOWERS!! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 6.3k

MASTERLIST - F1

The roar of the engine vibrates through your chest, a familiar feeling that settles you even amidst the pre-race jitters. The Abu Dhabi Grand Prix. The final race of the season. Another year you’ve spent on the edge of your seat, watching George chase his dream.

You adjust your headset, the noise-cancelling mufflers doing little to completely silence the cacophony of the paddock. He's starting P3 today. A good position. A position where anything can happen.

You've known George Russell since you were awkward teenagers, navigating the minefield of secondary school. He was the lanky, perpetually energetic kid obsessed with karting, and you were the quiet one, buried in books and content to observe from the sidelines.

He dragged you into his world, fuelled by passion and the unwavering belief that he was destined for greatness. He was right, of course.

Now, standing in the Mercedes garage, surrounded by a whirlwind of mechanics and engineers, you feel a surge of pride, so potent it almost makes you dizzy. He’s come so far.

Your focus snaps back as George's voice crackles through your headset. "…and then, darling, I told Toto that the balance felt a little off in turn 7. We made some adjustments, and it's feeling much better now."

Darling.

That single word, so casually dropped, still manages to send a jolt of electricity through you. It always has. It's a habit of his, a comfortable term of endearment he seems to bestow on everyone from his mother to the team's catering staff. But when he says it to you, it feels different. Warmer. More intimate.

You swallow hard, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. "Good to hear. Just focus on the start, George. You've got this." You manage to say, hoping your voice doesn't betray your inner turmoil.

"Always do, darling. Always do." He chuckles, and the sound sends another shiver down your spine. "See you after the race."

The line goes dead, and you let out a shaky breath. You hate this. Hated the way one simple word could throw you off balance.

You grab your clipboard, feigning interest in the tyre strategy, desperately trying to regain your composure.

The race unfolds in a blur of adrenaline and anxiety. You watch, heart hammering against your ribs, as George battles for position, expertly navigating the tight corners and high-speed straights.

Every overtake, every defensive move, sends a wave of relief or panic washing over you. He finishes second. A great result.

Later, after the post-race interviews and the podium celebrations, you find him in the cool-down room, towelling off his sweaty hair. He looks exhausted but exhilarated, his eyes shining with hard-earned triumph.

"You were amazing out there," you say, offering him a water bottle.

He takes a long swig, the muscles in his throat working. "Thanks. Felt good. Could have been better, but I'll take it." He grins, and the weariness seems to melt away. "So, darling, what did you think of that move on Leclerc in turn 6?"

There it is again. That word.

You feel your cheeks flush. "It was… impressive. Very aggressive."

He laughs. "Had to be! He wasn't going to give me the position otherwise. Besides," he adds, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "I knew you were watching. Had to put on a show."

Your heart skips a beat. "Oh, really?" You try to sound nonchalant, but your voice wavers slightly.

"Of course! Always got to impress my biggest fan." He playfully nudges your shoulder. "So, fancy grabbing some dinner? Celebratory Nando’s?"

Nando’s it is. You and George have had a tradition to go to Nando’s after every single race since he started in F1.

The restaurant is buzzing with energy, filled with fans buzzing about the race. You and George manage to find a relatively quiet booth in a corner, and settle in.

"So," George says, after you've both ordered your food, "what did you really think about the race?"

You tell him honestly, praising his overtaking skills, gently pointing out a couple of areas where he could have been smoother. He listens intently, nodding occasionally, absorbing your feedback. He values your opinion, always has.

Even after all his success, he still trusts your judgement.

"You know," he says, leaning back in his seat, "I really appreciate you being here, at all the races, darling. It means a lot."

The word hangs in the air between you, charged with unspoken meaning. You look down at your hands, fiddling with the edge of the napkin.

"I wouldn't miss it," you say softly. "Seeing you achieve your dreams… it's incredible."

He reaches across the table and takes your hand, his touch warm and comforting. "You've been there since the beginning. Through all the karting races, the Formula 4 championships, everything. You've always believed in me, even when I doubted myself."

You meet his gaze, your heart swelling with emotions you've kept buried for far too long. "I always will, George."

A comfortable silence settles between you, broken only by the clatter of plates and the murmur of conversations around you. Then, George speaks again, his voice thoughtful.

"You know, I don't think I tell you enough how much I appreciate you, darling. You're not just a friend, you're… you're family."

Family. The word echoes in your mind, a bittersweet melody. You cherish your friendship with George, but you long for something more. Something deeper.

"I feel the same way," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

The food arrives, momentarily interrupting the conversation. You both dig in, the familiar taste of peri-peri chicken a welcome distraction. But the unspoken feelings still linger in the air, a tangible presence between you.

At the end of the meal, George drives you home. As he turns to you before you get out of the car, he says, “I had a great time, darling. We should do it again.”

As the years pass, George's career continues to soar. He wins races, challenges for championships, becomes a household name. Your life, too, evolves.

You pursue your own dreams, excel in your chosen field, building a successful career. But through it all, your friendship with George remains a constant, a source of unwavering support and affection.

And still, he calls you "darling."

He doesn’t realize the effect he has on you. How your heart skips a beat when he says it, how your palms get clammy, how you have to consciously fight the urge to blurt out something ridiculously embarrassing. He uses it with everyone, you tell yourself.

It's just a friendly term of endearment. But still, you can't help but feel a little different when he says it to you. Special, even.

One evening, years after that Abu Dhabi race, you're at George's house, helping him pack for the summer break. He's sprawled on the bed, surrounded by a mountain of clothes, looking utterly overwhelmed.

"I have no idea what to take," he groans, running a hand through his hair. "It's supposed to be relaxing, but I always end up overpacking."

You laugh, shaking your head. "Leave it to me. I'm a master packer."

You start sorting through the clothes, folding shirts and neatly arranging them in his suitcase. George watches you, a soft smile playing on his lips.

"You know," he says, after a few minutes of comfortable silence, "you're the only person who can make packing look effortless."

"Years of practice," you reply, without looking up.

"Speaking of years," he continues, his voice taking on a more serious tone, "we've known each other for a really long time, haven't we, darling?"

There it is again. That word. But tonight, it feels different. Heavier. More deliberate.

You finally meet his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest. "We have," you say softly.

He held your gaze for a long moment, his expression unreadable. You could see the gears turning in his head, something shifting behind those hazel eyes. You braced yourself, wondering if he was finally going to say something, anything, to acknowledge the undercurrent that buzzed between you.

But then, he blinked, and the moment was gone. He chuckled, a light, disarming sound. "It's crazy, isn't it? All those years of school, all the races we've been to, all the… well, everything. Time flies when you're having fun, I guess."

Relief and disappointment warred within you. He wasn’t going to confess anything. He wasn't going to say anything at all. He was just going to keep calling you “darling,” completely unaware of the effect it had on you.

You forced a smile, trying to match his lighthearted tone. "It does. And we've definitely had a lot of… everything."

He nodded, leaning back against the headboard. "Remember that time in Monaco, when you accidentally dumped a bucket of ice water on Toto?"

You groaned. "Don't remind me. I thought I was going to be banned from Formula 1 for life."

He laughed, a genuine, booming sound that filled the room. "You were lucky he has a sense of humor. Anyway, back to the packing. What do you think? Three pairs of swim trunks or four?"

The tension had dissipated, replaced by the comfortable familiarity that had defined your friendship for so long. You sighed inwardly. The moment had passed, and with it, any hope of clarity.

You turned back to the suitcase, picking up a pair of bright blue swim trunks. "Three is plenty, darling. Unless you're planning on entering a speed-swimming competition."

He grinned, completely oblivious. “You never know!”

The rest of the evening passed in a comfortable blur of folded clothes, shared memories, and lighthearted banter. You told him about your upcoming photography exhibition, he regaled you with stories of his disastrous attempt at learning to surf, and the word "darling" continued to slip from his lips with casual ease, each utterance a tiny pinprick of longing.

Later, as you were leaving, George walked you to the door. He paused, his hand resting on your arm. "Thanks for doing this," he said, his eyes meeting yours. "I really appreciate it. You always know how to make things easier."

"Anytime," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. "Just promise me you won't spend the entire vacation glued to your phone."

He chuckled. "I'll try my best, darling."

He hugged you goodbye, a brief, friendly embrace that left you wanting more. As you walked down the driveway, you could feel his gaze on your back.

You resisted the urge to turn around, knowing that seeing him standing there, bathed in the warm glow of the porch light, would only make your heart ache more.

You knew, with a certainty that settled heavy in your stomach, that George wasn't going to say anything. He was comfortable with the way things were, with your comfortable friendship, with the casual affection he expressed so freely.

And you, you were destined to remain on the periphery of his life, forever blushing at a word he didn't even realize held so much power.

As you drove away, you whispered to yourself, “Goodbye, darling.” It tasted of longing and unrequited hope. You knew that the word would continue to haunt you, a constant reminder of a love that could never be. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

Maybe the quiet ache of longing was better than the risk of shattering the fragile balance of your friendship. . . .

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

The Ibizan sun beat down on George, but he barely registered it. He lay sprawled on a white sun lounger, the epitome of relaxation, yet a million miles away in his head.

His family buzzed around him; his father tinkering with the pool filter, his sister Cara splashing in the shimmering water with her children tossing a frisbee. Normally, he would be right in the thick of it, teasing his nieces, engaging in some competitive sports.

But not today. Today, he was lost in the past.

He clutched his phone, the screen replaying a grainy video. It was eight years old, a relic from a simpler time. A time before roaring engines, screaming fans, and the relentless pressure of Formula 1. A time when his biggest concern was acing his Physics exam and impressing a certain girl with sparkling eyes and a mischievous grin.

That girl was Y/N.

The video, a chaotic mess of shaky camera work and teenage exuberance, documented a day in their 'exciting' secondary school life. Y/N, the mastermind behind the whole thing, had insisted on capturing their mundane reality for posterity.

He remembered protesting at the time, embarrassed by the prospect of immortalising their awkwardness. Now, he was grateful.

On the screen, a younger version of himself, all gangly limbs and nervous energy, fumbled with his tie as he walked alongside Y/N. Her laughter, bright and infectious, echoed from the phone's speakers, cutting through the gentle lapping of the pool water. She was narrating, her voice brimming with youthful enthusiasm.

"Good morning, world! It's Y/N, and this is 'A Day in the Life of Two Utterly Average Teenagers'. Prepare for thrills, spills, and questionable fashion choices!"

The video cut to a shaky shot of the school gates, then to a montage of their lessons. George cringed as he watched himself struggle to solve a quadratic equation, Y/N whispering the answer beside him with a playful smirk. There was a clip of them sharing chips at lunchtime, fighting over the last one. Another of them huddled over textbooks in the library, Y/N’s hand resting lightly on his arm as she explained a complex concept. He could almost feel the warmth of her touch, the faint scent of her lavender perfume that always lingered in the air around her.

The video was utterly pointless, utterly ridiculous, and utterly captivating. It was a window into a time when life was uncomplicated, when happiness resided in shared glances and whispered jokes. It was a reminder of the deep connection he shared with Y/N, a connection that had only deepened with time.

He was supposed to be sharing this holiday with her. They had planned it for months, a much-needed escape from the relentless F1 calendar. But then, a last-minute work commitment had forced her to cancel. An important project, she had explained apologetically, her voice laced with disappointment. He had understood, of course, but it didn't make her absence any easier to bear.

He was so engrossed in the video, reliving those cherished memories, that he didn’t notice someone sitting beside him until they spoke.

"Where's Y/N? I haven't seen her in a while," his mother, Alison, asked, her voice laced with concern.

George jumped, startled, nearly dropping his phone. He looked up at his mother, her eyes filled with gentle curiosity. “Oh, hi Mum. She… she couldn’t make it. Work stuff.”

Alison's brow furrowed. "That's a shame. I was looking forward to seeing her. She's practically family at this point."

George smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes. "She is, Mum. She really is."

He paused the video, the image of a laughing Y/N frozen on the screen. "I miss her, you know?" he confessed, the vulnerability surprising even himself. "I miss just… being around her. Being normal."

Alison reached out and squeezed his hand. "I know, darling. It's hard when life pulls you in different directions. But you two have something special. Don't let anything break that."

He nodded, his throat tight. "I won't." He knew she was right. Their connection was strong, forged in the crucible of shared experiences and unwavering support. It had weathered long distances, demanding careers, and the constant pressures of his public life. He wouldn't let it falter now.

"Show me the video," Alison said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Let's see what you two were like back in the day."

George hesitated for a moment, then handed her the phone. As they watched the video together, he found himself explaining the context, reliving the stories behind each clip. His mother laughed at their teenage antics, her face softening with fondness. He realised, with a surge of gratitude, that his family understood his relationship with you. They saw something special in it, something he had been too afraid to acknowledge.

After the video ended, Alison handed the phone back to him. "She's a good one, George. Don't take her for granted."

"I won't, Mum. I promise," he'd replied, a little too quickly.

Then came the bombshell. “Try and ask her out soon,” she added, her eyes twinkling.

“What!” he said, his voice cracking slightly. He hadn’t expected that. He thought his mum would be more cautious, tell him to take things slow. This was the opposite of that.

“Oh, come on! Everyone can see it, George. Except maybe you, in your state of blissful denial.” His sister, Cara, perched beside him on the sun lounger, her eyes knowing. "She's practically perfect for you, you know. Smart, funny, loves dogs… what's not to like?"

The rest of the holiday passed in a blur of sun, sea, and a constant internal debate. You were always on his mind.

He found himself reaching for his phone to text you, only to stop himself, unsure of what to say. He didn't want to jeopardize their friendship with clumsy advances. Rejection scared him, especially from you.

He glanced at the group of sunbathers by the pool, families laughing and couples holding hands. It made him feel a pang of loneliness, a longing for something more than just friendship with you.

Finally, on the last day of the holiday, he decided he couldn't put it off any longer. He needed to talk to you. At least, send a message. He typed and deleted several texts, each one sounding more ridiculous than the last.

“Hey Y/N, just thinking of you. Hope you’re having a good week!” - Too generic.

“Missing you! Greece is great, but it would be better with you.” - Way too forward.

“Fancy grabbing a coffee when I get back?” - Too casual.

He groaned and threw his phone onto the sun lounger. He was overthinking it. Terribly.

Later that evening, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, George found himself alone on the beach. The gentle lapping of the waves was the only sound that broke the silence. He picked up a smooth, white stone and skimmed it across the water.

"Overthinking it, are we?"

George jumped, startled, and turned to see his sister, Cara, walking towards him, a knowing smile on her face.

"How did you…?" he began.

"Oh, please. I know you better than you know yourself," she said, sitting down beside him on the sand. "Look, George, I know you're scared. You don't want to ruin the friendship you have with Y/N. But sometimes, you have to take risks. Life's too short to wonder 'what if?'"

He sighed. "It's just… what if she doesn't feel the same way? What if I make things awkward? What if…?"

"What if she does?" Cara interrupted. "What if she's been waiting for you to make a move? You won't know unless you try. And honestly, the way she looks at you? It's pretty obvious to everyone but you."

Cara’s words hung in the air, a stark challenge to his own self-doubt. He knew she was right. He couldn't let fear dictate his actions. He had to be brave.

When George returned home, he went straight to his apartment and after some thought, he texted you.

He replayed their text exchange in his head, his palms sweating.

George: Hey darling, how are you doing? Hope work isn't too crazy.

Y/N: Hey George! Glad you're back from your holidays. I'm good, swamped with work as always, but surviving. How was Ibiza?

George: It was nice, but glad to be home. Actually, I was wondering if you were free sometime this week? I’d love to hear all about what you’ve been working on.

Y/N: I might be. What did you have in mind?

George: There’s this new italian place I've been wanting to try.

Y/N: Dinner? You’re asking me on date, George?

That text had sent his heart into overdrive.

George: Only if you want it to be.

The agonizing minutes of waiting, the wave of relief when she finally responded.

Y/N: I’d like that very much.

He knew he had to confess. He couldn’t just dance around the issue any longer, teasing himself and her. He had to lay it all on the line after dinner.

Now, as he waited for the time to pick her up, he felt a nervous energy he hadn't experienced since his first F1 race. He checked his reflection one last time, smoothing down his hair.

He was wearing a crisp, dark blue shirt, tailored to fit perfectly, and dark jeans.

Smart casual, he hoped. . . .

The hum of the hair dryer vibrates in your hand, a dull counterpoint to the frantic drum solo your heart is currently playing. George asked you to dinner. Just dinner. A friendly dinner. To discuss work and his upcoming holiday.

You repeat the mantra in your head like a lifeline, trying to quell the butterflies that have taken up residence in your stomach.

The dryer clicks off, and you stare at your reflection in the mirror. A strand of hair stubbornly refuses to cooperate, twisting into a rogue curl despite your best efforts.

You sigh. This is ridiculous. It's just dinner. With George. Your best friend. Right?

Your gaze drifts towards the two dresses laid out on your bed, each a stark contrast to the other, each holding a different promise. The first, a little black dress, is a classic. Short, sleek, and undeniably alluring.

It hugs your curves in all the right places, the low-cut neckline hinting at just enough skin to be intriguing without being overtly provocative. You imagine yourself in it, feeling confident and sophisticated, ready to take on the world.

Or at least, ready to face George.

Then there's the blue dress. Long, flowing, and ethereal. The color is a vibrant cerulean, mirroring the summer sky, and the fabric shimmers with a subtle, almost otherworldly glow.

It's elegant and understated, the kind of dress that makes you feel like you could float away on a gentle breeze. It hides more than it reveals, whispering of secrets and untold stories.

You pace between the two dresses, your mind a battlefield of conflicting desires. The black dress screams confidence, but is it trying too hard?

Would George think you're trying to send a message that isn't there? The blue dress, on the other hand, feels more like you. Honest. Authentic. But is it too… casual?

After what feels like an eternity, you make your decision. The blue dress. It feels right. It feels like you. And tonight, you need to be yourself.

You slip into the dress, the cool fabric cascading down your body like liquid silk. You smooth it over your hips, feeling a sense of calm settle over you. A light touch of mascara, a swipe of your favorite lip gloss, and you're ready.

The doorbell rings, and your heart leaps into your throat. You take a deep breath, trying to regain your composure, and walk towards the door.

When you open it, George is standing there, looking impossibly handsome in a tailored crisp, dark blue shirt and dark jeans. His blue eyes widen slightly as he takes you in, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face.

"Wow darling," he says softly, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine. "You look… amazing."

You blush, feeling your cheeks flush with heat. "Thanks," you manage to stammer, your voice betraying your nervousness. "You look pretty good yourself."

He grins, that familiar, boyish grin that still makes your heart skip a beat after all these years. "Shall we?" he asks, extending his arm.

You slip your arm through his, and together, you step out into the warm evening air.

He leads you to his car, a sleek, dark Mercedes that screams money and success. He opens the passenger door for you with a flourish. "After you darling," he says, a playful glint in his eyes.

As you slide into the buttery leather seat, the scent of his cologne – a subtle blend of spice and citrus – fills your senses. You buckle your seatbelt, acutely aware of his presence beside you.

“So,” he says, pulling away from the curb. “Italian tonight? Heard they make a mean carbonara.”

“Italian’s perfect,” you reply, relieved that the awkwardness seems to be dissipating. “I’m starving.”

The drive is comfortable, punctuated by easy conversation. You catch up on his whirlwind month – the adrenaline-fueled races, the sun-drenched beaches of his holiday. He listens intently as you recount your own, significantly less glamorous, experiences at work.

“It’s nice to just… talk,” he says, his voice softer than usual. He glances at you briefly, a fleeting smile playing on his lips. “It feels like it’s been forever.”

“It has,” you agree, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “A month is a lifetime in George Russell time.”

He chuckles. “Tell me about it. Sometimes I feel like I’m living five different lives at once.”

The restaurant is tucked away on a quiet street, a charming establishment with twinkling fairy lights and the comforting aroma of garlic and herbs. George leads you to a table tucked in a cozy corner, away from the main bustle of the dining room.

“Table for two, Signore Russell?” the waiter asks, his eyes lighting up with recognition.

“That’s right,” George replies, flashing him a charming smile. “And this lovely lady is… Y/N.”

You smile at the waiter, feeling a surge of affection for George. He always remembers to introduce you, no matter how famous he gets.

As you settle into your seats, you have the familiar sensation of being utterly at ease in George's presence. You've known each other since you were both gangly teenagers with braces and questionable fashion choices.

You've seen him at his best and his worst – celebrating victories, nursing broken hearts, struggling through exam stress. He's seen you through equally tumultuous times.

The conversation flows effortlessly as you peruse the menu. You reminisce about old times – the disastrous school play where George forgot his lines, the time you accidentally set his hair on fire during a chemistry experiment, the countless late-night study sessions fuelled by copious amounts of sugary snacks.

“Remember Mr. Henderson’s history class?” you ask, laughing. “He used to fall asleep mid-sentence.”

George shakes his head, grinning. “And we’d draw moustaches on his notes. Good times, darling, good times.”

That word again. Darling. It still has the same effect on you.

As the waiter takes your order, George leans forward, his expression becoming more serious. “So, how are you, really?” he asks, his blue eyes searching yours. “How’s everything going?”

You hesitate for a moment, unsure how much to reveal. “I’m… okay,” you say cautiously. “Work’s been hectic, but nothing I can’t handle.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “And personally?”

You sigh. “Honestly, it’s been a little lonely. I miss having you around.”

His gaze softens. “I miss you too,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “More than you know.”

As your meals arrived, the waiter offered a bottle of Chianti. George raised an eyebrow at you in question, and you nodded, deciding to throw caution to the wind. The wine was rich and smooth, loosening your tongue and easing the tension that still lingered beneath the surface.

"Remember that time we tried to sneak into that over-18s club?" you asked, swirling the wine in your glass.

George laughed. "And got caught immediately! Your fake ID was so bad, it said you were born in 1888."

"Hey, it was worth a shot," you retorted, grinning. "Besides, we ended up having more fun at that dodgy karaoke bar. Your rendition of 'Bohemian Rhapsody' was truly unforgettable."

The laughter flowed freely, punctuated by shared memories and inside jokes. You talked about everything and nothing, the years melting away as you rediscovered the easy camaraderie that had always defined your friendship.

"It's just… it's hard, isn't it?” you said, the smile fading slightly. “Watching you achieve all your dreams, knowing that you're living the life you always wanted. I'm happy for you, I truly am, but it also makes me question my own choices."

George reached across the table and took your hand, his touch sending a familiar shiver down your spine. "Don't," he said softly. "Don't ever think that your life is any less important or fulfilling than mine. We all have different paths to follow, different things that make us happy."

He paused, his gaze intense. "And, to be honest, sometimes I envy you. You have a sense of normalcy, a stability that I often crave. The racing world is… insane. It's all-consuming. Sometimes I wish I could just escape it all and live a normal life, like you."

You laughed, incredulous. "You? Want to be normal? I find that hard to believe."

"Believe it," he said, squeezing your hand. "And you know what else? All this success, all the trophies and champagne… they mean nothing if I can't share them with the people I care about."

The rest of the meal passed in a comfortable haze of wine, conversation, and shared history. As the waiter cleared the table, George suggested a walk. You readily agreed.

As you stepped out onto the bustling city street, the cool air sent a shiver down your spine. The night was alive with the hum of traffic and the murmur of conversations spilling from open doorways.

Neon signs cast a colourful glow on the wet pavement, reflecting in the puddles like scattered jewels.

"Do we know where we're going, or are we just wandering?" you asked, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

George simply grinned, that familiar, charming grin that had always made your stomach flutter a little. "Don't worry, trust me."

Trust George? You always had. You'd known him since the awkward days of secondary school, a lifetime ago. He was a constant, a familiar comfort in your life. You started walking, falling into step beside him.

The conversation flowed easily, as it always did between you. He talked about the upcoming Formula 1 season, the pressure, the anticipation, the relentless training. He spoke of the new car, the tweaks, the improvements they were hoping for. His passion was infectious, even to someone like you, who only understood the basics of motorsport.

Then, you found yourself venting about your own work. Another day, another unreasonable client, another project that felt soul-crushingly pointless. "Honestly, George," you sighed, "I think I'm going to lose my mind if I have to write another article about the top ten cat breeds for apartment living. My creative soul is dying a slow and painful death."

He chuckled, squeezing your hand gently. "You know, you could always quit. You're talented, you could do anything you want. Write that novel you've been talking about for years. Open that quirky little bookstore you always dreamed of. Life's too short to be writing about Persian fluffballs."

You laughed, shaking your head. "Easy for you to say, Mr. Multi-Millionaire Racing Driver. Someone has to pay the bills."

"Hey," he protested playfully, "I'd happily support you. Think of it as an investment in the arts."

"Very generous," you teased. "Maybe I should just marry you for your money."

He stopped walking, turning to face you, his expression suddenly serious. "Don't say that, even as a joke." He paused, then added softly, "I wouldn't want you to marry me for the wrong reasons."

The intensity in his gaze made your heart skip a beat. You quickly looked away, a sudden wave of nervousness washing over you. "I was just kidding, obviously."

He nodded, seemingly satisfied, and resumed walking. The comfortable rhythm of your conversation was slightly disrupted, replaced by a strange, unspoken tension. You both walked in silence for a little bit.

After some time, you noticed that the sounds of the city were fading, replaced by the gentle roar of the ocean. The air smelled of salt and seaweed.

"Where are we going?" you asked, curiosity piqued.

He just smiled mysteriously. "Almost there."

Finally, he stopped. You were standing on a deserted stretch of beach, the waves crashing softly against the shore. In the distance, you could see the faint glow of the city lights reflecting on the water. And then you saw them.

Balloons. Dozens of them, bobbing gently in the night breeze. They were inflated with helium, their strings tied to small weights that kept them from floating away. And emblazoned across the balloons, in large, cheerful letters, were the words: "WILL YOU BE MY GIRLFRIEND?"

Your breath caught in your throat. You must have stumbled upon someone else's surprise, you thought. It was a sweet gesture, incredibly romantic. You started to turn to George, ready to apologize for intruding on someone's special moment.

"George, I think someone is asking some…" The words died in your throat as you saw what he was holding. A bouquet of your favorite flowers, lilies and roses, their delicate petals illuminated by the faint moonlight.

Your hand flew to your mouth, stifling a gasp. What? This couldn't be…

George looked incredibly nervous, his usually confident demeanor replaced by a vulnerability you'd rarely seen. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clutching the flowers tightly.

He took a deep breath and began to speak, his voice slightly shaky. "Darling," he said, and the sound of that single word sent a shiver down your spine. Out of all the things George had said to you over the years, there was something about "darling" that was uniquely special. It felt warm, intimate, and utterly disarming.

"Darling, from the moment I was paired with you in year nine to do that disastrous science experiment," he continued, a small smile playing on his lips, "I knew you were going to be a special person in my life. I just didn't know how special until a few months ago. Will you be my special person and be my girlfriend?"

Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision. You couldn't believe this was happening. You and George? After all these years? It felt like something out of a movie, too perfect to be real.

"Yes, George," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

Relief washed over his face, and the biggest grin you'd ever seen spread across his features. He carefully placed the bouquet on the sand, then stepped towards you, his eyes shining with happiness.

He reached out, cupping your face in his hands. "Really? Yes?"

You nodded, unable to speak. The tears were flowing freely now, but they were tears of joy, of disbelief, of pure, unadulterated happiness.

He lowered his head and gently kissed you. It was a soft, sweet kiss, filled with tenderness and affection. It was a kiss you had dreamed about countless times, a kiss you never thought would actually happen.

When he pulled away, he was grinning from ear to ear. "I can't believe it," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "You actually said yes."

"Of course, I said yes," you replied, laughing through your tears. "What took you so long?"

He chuckled, pulling you into a tight embrace. "I was terrified," he admitted. "I didn't want to ruin our friendship. You're one of the most important people in my life, and I couldn't bear the thought of losing you."

You hugged him tighter, burying your face in his shoulder. "You could never lose me, George. I've been secretly in love with you since that disastrous science experiment in year nine."

He laughed, squeezing you even closer. "So, all this time…"

"All this time," you confirmed, pulling back to look at him. "Now, about those balloons…"

The rest of the night was a blur of laughter, whispered confessions, and stolen kisses under the moonlight. You walked along the beach, hand in hand, talking about the future, about your hopes and dreams, about all the possibilities that lay ahead.

Later, as you sat wrapped in his arms, watching the sunrise paint the sky in hues of pink and orange, you finally found the courage to tease him.

"You had me scared for a second there," you laughed softly, nuzzling into his chest.

"Why?" George asked worriedly, his arms tightening around you.

"Your speech sounded like a proposal," you said, your voice light and teasing.

George grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Well, you're going to be a fiancée soon enough."

You gasped, playfully shoving him. "George! Don't even joke about that!"

He laughed, pulling you closer. "I'm not joking, darling. I know we've only just started dating, but I know what I want. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

Your heart fluttered. "You're crazy," you whispered, but there was no denying the warmth spreading through you.

"Crazy about you," he corrected, kissing your forehead. "Now, tell me, what kind of ring do you like? Just so I have an idea," he winked at you

You playfully roll your eyes, burying your face in his shoulder. "You're getting ahead of yourself."

"Am I?" George playfully nips at your ear. "Maybe. But a guy can dream, can't he?"

The first rays of sunlight kiss your skin, a soft warmth that mirrors the feeling in your heart. You are finally with George, the man you have loved for so long.

And as you look up at him, at the love shining in his eyes, you know that this is just the beginning of your beautiful life together. . .

[ild-rllrcstr]

The Second Seat part 5 (final)

Lando Norris X You (female driver) / slight angst / 2.7K

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4

Summary You worked your way up to Formula One, contracted with McLaren, defying all odds. You play the team game: humble, strategic, and willing to follow orders, even if it means sacrificing podiums so Lando Norris can be the world champion. Every lap you sacrifice, every time you hold back, the world starts to doubt your talent. Lando sees it all. So he makes a choice: to give you the race, the recognition you deserve, and maybe his heart. You came for the drive, but you stayed for something more.

Warnings swearing, subtle explicit sexual content (18+) A/N Thank you all for reading my first completed series. It was a hell of an emotional journey writing this, and I really hoped you enjoyed it too! It was not only the writing that I enjoyed, but also creating the banners! Sometimes I feel like it takes me longer to pick the pictures than to actually write the stories. I’ll see you soon!!

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Music Messy (by Rosé, from the F1 movie album) As I've mentioned, this part was initially as one with part 4, and this music was accidentally on when I was writing. It fit too perfectly the mood of the part it got me writing way more than I planned to. So if you would like to have a soundtrack, get this song on and read through this part. Hopefully, you'll feel what I felt when I was writing! Enjoy!

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Tension. That’s what it felt like between you and Lando from the moment you arrived in Italy. He wasn’t unkind. But distant. Almost sulky.

On track, you were flying. Top 5 finishes for the free practice and qualifiers.

Off track? He barely met your eyes.

You did not expect it at all when he finally snapped.

You both stood in the garage after the tight race, one where you overtook him cleanly in Lap 38. He was sweaty, pissed, and biting his cheek.

“You didn’t need to squeeze me like that in Turn 8,” he said, not looking at you.

You turned, confused. “I gave you space. Even your engineer said it was clean.”

He threw his gloves on the table. “You’re driving like you’ve got something to prove. You already proved it, Y/N.”

You blinked. “What’s your problem, Lando?”

And then it came.

“My problem?” he snapped. “My problem is that I’ve been watching you shine with everyone but me. You give your best to the track, your smiles to Lewis, your damn fashion to the world, and I’m just the guy you pass on Lap 38. I thought… Never mind.”

Silence. Your jaw parted slightly.

“You’re jealous?” you said quietly.

He laughed, sharp and defensive. “You think I didn’t notice? Lewis is looking at you like you’re his protégé. The fans are calling you their queen. The way you light up every room now, and you barely look at me.”

“I always look at you, Lando.”

That shut him up.

“You think I didn’t see you watching me all year?” You continued, the frustration is eating you alive. “I waited for you to say something, even on the ski trip. I gave you space. I didn’t want to risk this. I’m patient when it comes to my career, but I don’t know with this” 

He was breathing heavily now. So were you.

“I didn’t know if I could be the guy beside you,” he finally said. “Not with how bright you’re becoming.”

You stepped forward. “You don’t need to keep up, Lando. You’re the world champion, you already lead. I’m the one who’s trying to run beside you. Not behind. Not ahead. Besides.”

Both of you breathing fast because you just came out of a race, but also something more. The scent of fuel still lingered in the air, but all you could focus on was him, the messy hair, the sweat rolling down from his forehead, the frown of his eyebrows, the fire in his eyes, confusion twisted into every line of his jaw.

“I never wanted to outshine you. I just wanted to stand next to you. But you…” Your voice cracked. “You’re pulling away, Lando.”

Lando’s throat bobbed, guilty and frustrated. “I didn’t mean to. I just didn’t know what I was doing and what to do.”

The silence between you tightened.

His mouth opened like he wanted to speak, then closed again. He stepped forward, just enough that you could feel the burning warmth from him, and when he finally said something, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t polished.

“I’m known for saying whatever I want whenever I want, but I’m losing all my words when it comes to you. I don’t know how to be near you and not want more.”

Your breath hitched.

“Every time you smiled at Lewis, I hated that it wasn’t me,” he said, eyes cast down. “Every time you passed me clean, I hated how proud it made me. And at the Gala…” He breathed out hard, “Fuck, I couldn’t breathe watching you look like that and knowing it was not me by your side. And I was just scared that I would mess it up,say the wrong words, do the wrong thing, it’s more scary than moving in that fucking car going 200 kilometres per hour.”

You didn’t know what to say. Your heart was in your throat.

“Then stop watching me from the sidelines,” you whispered. “I don’t need perfection. I don’t mind if it’s messy. I don’t mind if it’s scary.”

He looked at you, and this time, there was no mask. Just pure emotions. Raw and unspoken, waiting to spill over.

Suddenly, people started to come. There were still media and debriefing waiting. For a second, you forgot not just the cars but everything in Formula One moves fast. You both turned like nothing had happened. Space between you again.

But as you brushed past him, heading out, you murmured just loud enough for him to hear, almost begging,

“Don’t wait until the next ski trip.”

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A week later, Monaco, everything was so fast, something was wrong with your car, and you found yourself in your car, crashed against the wall at lap 20. Your body felt sore due to the crash force. Your head spun a little. You were helped out by the Marshals. Smoke coming out of your car, they immediately sent you back to the medical room. The safety car was out.

Lando didn’t know what happened until he passed your papaya car smoking on the side of the track, the marshals were trying to remove it, and he didn’t see you. 

“Fuck, where is she, is she okay?” He was squeezing the wheel so hard, it felt like hurting.

“She is with the medicals now, seems without serious injuries.”

“Keep me updated.”

The engineer paused a bit with the radio still on.

“Lando, her engineer said Y/N said you better get that podium today.”

You knew Lando was going to be worried, and you don’t want him to cost his points and also not McLaren’s.

“I’m getting that fucking podium, it is.” Lando tightened his jaw and his grip on the wheel. There was the force and adrenaline that he’d never felt before. 

It’s hard to keep refreshing the record in Monaco, with the difficulties of the track, but Lando did it again. Everyone was dumbfounded by his performance, it was not the competitiveness, it was desperation. 

He was not racing for the podium, he was racing to get to you as soon as possible. He needed to see that you are okay in person.

For the first time, he didn’t care that he got P1, he climbed out of the car, ignoring all the media, the rules, the schedule, he almost screamed at one of the crew members and asked where you were. The crew members were trying to calm him down and reminded him of the media and the rules to follow. 

“Lando, wait, you have to go to weigh-in, and media…”

“At least tell me if she’s okay.” His voice cracked. Raw. Panicked. The kind of panic only a crash could carve into a person who’s seen too many end badly. Witnessing and experiencing so many DNFs, it was the first time he felt like he was on the brink of a breakdown and fear.

“Lando.” Your voice.

He turned like he’d been hit in the chest. You were there, on the other side of the crowd, in your fireproofs still, smiling at him. 

He turned around, seeing you in one piece. He crossed the distance in a flash, hands immediately on your shoulders checking up and down, spinning you around gently, making sure you are okay. 

“Don’t ever fucking do that again I swear.” his voice shivered. 

He then pulled you into a tight hug. You winced a bit, still aching from the crash. 

“Shit, did I hurt you?” He pulled back checking you again. 

“I’m okay, it’s just the soreness and some bruises. I’m fine. But hey, ” You smiled, not forced, “You did it, again.” He was breathing hard, just looking at you like you were the only gravity that was keeping him sane.

“You told me to.” His eyes glued to yours through his helmet.

There was a tug on his shoulder by the manager, reminding him he had the media waiting. You saw the reluctant in his eye, and he squeezed his arm a bit to tell him to go.

“I’ll see you later, I promise.” You smiled and headed back to the paddock with other crew members.

The camera panned across the champagne bottles on the podium. His had two golden words scribbled across the side in messy handwriting.

‘For us.’ A small heart inked just underneath.

His head was not on the podium, he wanted to just run back to the paddock. Everyone sensed that he was absent minded in the media conference. Once it wrapped up, he rushed out of the conference room. Leaving Charles and Oscar being with big smirks on their faces. 

The celebration was waiting for him in the paddock. He ran all the way back, at the sight of him, the team and pans bursted into shouts and screams in excitement, but he was only looking at you.

He passed through all the crew members, media, straight to you. He held out the champagne bottle, the one he'd protected the whole time like it was priceless. The golden dedication shone brightly on the bottle. 

“I really thought the worst, what if I don’t get to see you again, what if I’m late because I was being an idiot.” he confessed, voice low and shaking. 

You stepped closer. The bottle between you.

He touched your face like he wasn’t sure you’d let him. “I’ve been such a fucking idiot.”

“Yeah, you were,” you whispered, “But I’m here, I’ve been patient.”

“You’ve always been. Too patient. And this time thank god you are.”

The way he looked at you, god, it burned. Like every second he'd waited was a mistake, and now he wanted to make up for all of it.

Then his lips were on yours.

Not rushed. Not timid. Just honest. All the longing and chaos of a year poured into one kiss, warm and deep and just messy enough to be real.

The team exploded in screams behind you. The media bewildered, cameras flashed non-stop. Charles whistled. Oscar groaned dramatically.

Lewis smirks, “Took him long enough, mission accomplished.” he said, everyone laughed joining him on the side.

But you barely heard them. Because for the first time, he wasn’t watching from the sidelines. He was right there with you.

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The hotel phone rang. Lando. You picked up the phone, expecting the usual.

“Miss Y/L/N, Mr. Norris has a ride for you here that just arrived.” 

You quickly prepped, went down to the lobby to see what it was about.

“Allez ma grande, toi t’as de la patience, mais lui, clairement pas.” It was Charles.

(Come on, girl, you are patient, but he’s clearly not.) 

“Mais c’est quoi ça?”

(But what is this?)

“T’en demandes trop. Faut qu’on bouge.” 

(You ask too much, we need to go.)

Charles pushed you in his car, which drove all the way to the port. Charles’ yacht was waiting, but there was no one else but Lando there. He was in white button-ups and white linen trousers that floated a bit in the wind. 

“Thanks, man, I owe you one.” Lando and Charles shook hands. “Have fun! Just don’t sink it.” Charles joked and turned to leave.

It was quiet but peaceful, the yacht sailed out to the Mediterranean Sea.

Both of you sat in the front of the yacht, watching the sun set. 

“For Lando Norris, you’re awfully quiet,” you said gently.

“Trying to breathe,” he murmured. “I’ve been holding it all day.”

“I scared you.”

He nodded slowly. “More than I knew possible.”

You took his hand.

“It’s over now. I’m okay. Like I’ve said, I’m here”

He turned, finally facing you. “You walked away from that crash and still smiled at me like I was worth it. After all this time with my stupidity.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he reached out, his hand slipping under your jaw.

“I don’t want to waste another second.” His thumb traced your cheekbone. “Not when I could lose you that fast. Not when I’ve already lost too much time acting like I didn’t feel what I’ve always felt.”

Your breath hitched.

He leaned in, slowly, testing, until his lips brushed yours again. This time softer, deeper, no cameras, no cheers. Just skin and truth and salty wind in the air.

Your fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, the kind that made your spine melt and your heart ache.

When he pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice low.

“I want all of it. Not just the podium. Not just the stolen glances. I want mornings. I want Monaco nights. I want you, the mess, the smile, the stubbornness. All of it. I want you.”

You nodded, whispering, “Then take it. It’s all yours.”

And he did.

He lifted you and stood up, walked all the way back into the cabin with you in his arms. As he sat down on the bed, he pulled you into his lap, hands finding the bare skin beneath your sundress. 

“These fucking dress, it kills me every single time you know that?” 

You smiled. His kisses trailed down your throat, hands warm on your back, touching you like he’d dreamed of it but never dared until now. You gasped his name into the night air, fingers threading through his curls, tugging him back to your mouth.

There was no rush. Just a slow burn, shared breath, soft moans against skin, hands that trembled because it meant something. 

“Can I?” He carefully asked you with lust and affection filled in his eyes. 

The second you nodded, like the lights off at the starting line, he slipped down the straps holding the dress on your shoulder. Clothes fell away quietly, one at a time, onto the deck beneath you as the sea rocked you gently, like the world was finally giving you room to be exactly where you belonged, tangled up in each other.

The air was thick with salt and heat, but it was his touch that lit every nerve under your skin. He kissed you again—slow, deep, like he was making up for every moment he hadn’t. His hands ran over you like a map he was just now allowing himself to explore, reverent and hungry all at once.

“Lando,” you whispered against his ear, your voice trembling as much as your hands on his chest. He swallowed the sound with another kiss, one that left you breathless.

“Say it again,” he murmured, lips brushing the edge of your jaw. “I want to hear it from you this time.”

You cupped his face, steadying both of you. “I’m yours,” you said softly. “Every bit of me.”

That undid him. Every movement was slow. Deliberate. A quiet reverence wrapped around the desire as he learned the slope of your waist, the hitch of your breath under his mouth, the way your body arched to meet him like you’d been waiting for this just as long.

“You feel like fire,” he breathed into your skin.

“And you feel like home,” you whispered back.

When your hips met, there was no hesitation, just a perfect, aching slide into place. The kind of intimacy that wasn’t about heat alone, but something rooted, deep and soul-splitting.

He buried his face in your neck as he moved with you, letting out a broken sound that made your chest clench. “I don’t think I’ve ever needed something this much.” he confessed, his voice cracking mid-sentence.

Your nails dragged gently across his back, grounding him. “Then don’t let go.” you whispered, and he didn’t.

Not for a long, long time.

When it was over, and your bodies were tangled in sheets that smelled like salt and sweat and something sacred, he pulled you into his chest and didn’t say a word for a while.

Just breathed. Held you. Fingers lazily tracing circles on your hip.

Until finally, his voice came low, hoarse:

“I love you.” He paused, there’s only sincerity in his voice, “And next time, I’m not waiting for a crash to remind me what matters.”

You looked up, kissed the side of his neck, and murmured, “Then you better stay close, Norris. Because I’m not slowing down.”

He chuckled, pulling you closer still.

“I never wanted you to.”

Of course, the next morning, when you leave the yacht together, there will be media headlines and a lot of PR meetings waiting, but you both know you will be facing it together, and what mattered was the moment. 

And in the quiet lull of the Monaco night, the world felt just right, for once, not fast, not ruthless, just you and Lando’s.

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[kittenan2]

Worship Me Softly

Pairing: Hoseok x Reader Genre: Friends to Lovers, Brother’s Best Friend, Smut, Fluff, Angst Rating: Explicit (18+) | Minors DNI Word Count: ~4k words Warnings: Explicit sexual content, oral sex (f and m receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, praise kink, body worship, mild exhibitionism, unprotected sex (practice safe sex!), intense emotions, public humiliation, alcohol consumption, swearing, and lots of fluffy chaos.

The frat house pulses with chaotic energy—thumping bass, spilled drinks, and bodies crammed together. You stand by the kitchen counter, clutching a Solo cup of bitter liquid, feeling like an outsider in the tight black dress Mina forced you into. It clings to your curves, but you tug at the hem, wishing you could vanish. Your friends promised an “epic” night, but now they’re gone, leaving you to navigate the sweaty crowd alone.

Your eyes drift to Minho, your crush for months, leaning against the wall with effortless charm—sharp jawline, lazy smirk, surrounded by admirers. Your heart flutters, but approaching him feels like walking into a lion’s den.

Mina stumbles back, cheeks flushed, shoving another drink at you. “Y/N, loosen up! You look like you’re at a funeral.”

“I’m fine,” you mutter, forcing a smile. “Just… not my scene.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re never gonna get Minho’s attention hiding here. Go talk to him!”

Your stomach twists. “I can’t just… walk up to him.”

“Yes, you can!” She spins you toward him, pushing you forward. “You’re hot, you’re sweet, and you’ve been pining forever. Tell him how you feel. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Her enthusiasm and the alcohol dull your nerves just enough. You weave through the crowd, heart pounding, until you’re in front of Minho. His eyes flicker to you, and for a moment, you think maybe this could work.

“Hey, Minho,” you say, voice barely audible over the music. You clear your throat, trying again. “Can I… talk to you for a sec?”

He raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Sure, what’s up?”

The crowd quiets, their eyes on you, and you feel exposed. You take a deep breath, words spilling out. “I… I really like you. I have for a while. I just thought you should know.”

The air shifts. Minho’s smirk turns cruel, and he laughs—a sharp, cutting sound. “You like me? That’s cute.” He leans closer, voice loud enough for everyone. “But I don’t waste time on virgins.”

The words hit like a punch. Laughter erupts around you, his friends howling, strangers snickering. Your face burns, humiliation swallowing you whole. Minho’s eyes glint with amusement, and you realize he’s enjoying this—your pain is his entertainment.

You turn and run, shoving through the crowd, their laughter chasing you. The cold night air hits you as you stumble outside, and the sky opens, rain pouring down in heavy sheets. You don’t care. You keep walking, sobs mixing with the rain, until you’re soaked and shivering in the middle of the street, your heart in pieces.

Headlights pierce the rain, and you barely hear the car engine until it’s beside you. A door slams, and someone shouts your name.

“Y/N? What the hell—are you okay?”

You turn, blinking through the downpour, and see Hoseok running toward you, his jacket already off, his face etched with worry. He’s your brother’s best friend, a constant in your life since childhood—always teasing, always there with a warm smile. But now, there’s no smile, just raw concern in his dark eyes.

“I’m fine,” you choke out, but your voice breaks, and the lie is pathetic.

“You’re not fine,” he says softly, stepping closer. He drapes his jacket over your shoulders, shielding you from the rain, and pulls you into his arms. His warmth is immediate, grounding, and you collapse against his chest, sobbing harder. His arms tighten, one hand stroking your wet hair, his voice a soothing murmur. “Shh, I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re okay now.”

He doesn’t push for answers, just holds you there in the street, letting you cry until your sobs quiet. “Come on,” he says gently, guiding you to his car. “Let’s get you warm.”

The passenger seat is a haven, the heater blasting, and Hoseok slides in beside you, his eyes never leaving your face. “You’re soaked,” he says, his voice soft as he reaches into the backseat for a fluffy blanket. He wraps it around you, tucking it under your chin like you’re something precious, then grabs a towel and starts drying your hair, his touch careful and tender.

“You don’t have to do this,” you mumble, but he shakes his head, smiling softly.

“I want to. Let me take care of you, okay?”

He drives to his apartment, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your knee, a quiet reassurance. When you get inside, he leads you to the couch, wrapping you in another blanket before disappearing to grab one of his hoodies. It’s soft, oversized, and smells like him—warm, like cedar and sunshine.

“Put this on,” he says, handing it to you. “You’ll feel better.”

You change in the bathroom, the hoodie swallowing your frame, and when you return, he’s waiting with a mug of chamomile tea, steam curling from the surface. “Here,” he says, pressing it into your hands. “Drink.”

You curl up on the couch, the warmth of the mug seeping into your palms, and he sits beside you, close enough that his thigh brushes yours. The silence is comfortable, but he’s watching you, waiting, and finally, you tell him everything—Minho’s words, the laughter, the humiliation. Your voice cracks, and Hoseok’s jaw clenches, his hands tightening into fists.

“He had no right to say that to you,” he says, his voice low, controlled, but you can hear the anger simmering. “He’s a fucking asshole.”

You shrug, staring into your tea. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m just… not enough.”

Hoseok’s head snaps up, his eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare say that. You’re more than enough. You’re fucking incredible, Y/N, and he’s too stupid to see it.”

You blink at him, tears welling up, but they’re different now—less about pain and more about the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever seen. You set the mug down, scooting closer, and before you can overthink it, you whisper, “Then teach me. Please.”

He freezes, his breath catching. “Y/N…”

“I mean it,” you say, your voice trembling but determined. “I’m tired of feeling like this—like I’m not good enough. Teach me how to be… wanted.”

His eyes search yours, torn between desire and guilt. “You’re my best friend’s little sister,” he says, almost to himself, like he’s trying to talk himself out of it.

But you lean closer, your hand resting on his chest, feeling his heart race. “Please, Hobi. I trust you.”

He groans, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck, Y/N, you’re killing me.” But then he’s cupping your face, his thumb brushing your cheek, and he nods. “Okay. But we go slow. You tell me to stop, and I stop. Got it?”

You nod, your heart pounding, and he leans in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss so soft it feels like a promise.

Hoseok’s kiss is a revelation—slow, sweet, and so tender it makes your chest ache. His hand cups your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek as he deepens the kiss, his tongue teasing your lips until you open for him. You whimper softly, and he hums, pleased, his warmth flooding your senses.

“So soft,” he murmurs against your lips, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “You taste so sweet, baby.”

Your face heats, but you’re too lost in him to care. He kisses you again, slower, his free hand sliding to your waist, resting lightly, like he’s savoring every touch. “Relax,” he whispers, his lips brushing your jaw, then your neck, leaving a trail of warmth. “Just let me take care of you.”

His touches are gentle, reverent, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip over the hoodie, then slipping just under the hem to graze your skin. You shiver, your breath hitching, and he pulls back, his eyes searching yours. “Okay?” he asks, his voice low, and you nod, clutching his shirt tighter.

He smiles, kissing you again, and his hand slides higher, brushing the underside of your breast through your bra. You gasp, arching into him, and he pauses, watching your face. “Still okay?”

“Yes,” you breathe, and he groans softly, his thumb brushing your nipple through the fabric, sending sparks through you. “That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. “You’re doing so good, baby.”

He keeps his touches light, teasing, until you’re trembling, your body aching for more. Then he pulls back, resting his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard. “I want to see you,” he says softly, his hands tugging at the hoodie. “Can I?”

You nod, nervous but trusting, and he helps you pull it off, leaving you in your bra and leggings. His eyes darken, but his touch remains gentle, his fingers tracing your collarbone, then down your arms. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, his voice almost a whisper, and you feel it in your bones—he means it.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, and guides you to lie back on the couch, his body hovering over yours. His lips trail down your neck, your chest, kissing the swell of your breasts above your bra. “Can I take this off?” he asks, his fingers at the clasp, and you nod, your heart racing.

He unhooks it with care, sliding the straps down your arms, and when you’re bare beneath him, he just stares for a moment, his eyes soft. “Fuck, Y/N,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss your skin, his lips warm and reverent. He takes one nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling, and you moan, your hands gripping his hair.

“Hoseok,” you whimper, and he groans, the vibration sending shivers through you. He moves to the other side, his hands cupping your breasts, worshipping every inch of you. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, and you believe him.

His hands slide to your leggings, pausing at the waistband. “Still okay?” he asks, and you nod, lifting your hips to help him slide them off, along with your underwear. You’re completely exposed now, but there’s no fear—only trust, only want.

He kneels between your thighs, his eyes locked on yours, and his fingers brush your inner thighs, teasing the edge of your core. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, and you nod, too overwhelmed to speak.

His fingers slide through your folds, slow and deliberate, and you moan, your hips bucking. He’s gentle but precise, circling your clit with just the right pressure, his eyes never leaving your face. “Look at me, baby,” he says, and you force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. “That’s it. Such a good girl.”

He slides a finger inside you, slow and careful, and you gasp, the stretch new but not painful. He adds another, curling them just right, and you’re trembling, your hands gripping the couch. “Hoseok,” you whimper, and he groans, his forehead resting against yours.

“You’re so tight,” he mutters, his voice strained. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

He keeps going, his fingers working you expertly, his thumb brushing your clit until the pleasure builds to a peak. “You’re doing so well,” he praises, his voice a constant stream of adoration. “You’re perfect.”

When you come, it’s sudden and intense, your body shaking as you cry out his name. He holds you through it, his lips on your temple, whispering, “Good girl. You’re so beautiful like this.”

But he’s not done. He kisses his way down your body, his lips lingering on your stomach, your thighs, until he’s settled between them. “Can I taste you?” he asks, his voice rough, and you nod, your body buzzing with need.

His tongue flicks against your clit, and you moan, your hands gripping his hair. He’s relentless, licking and sucking, his hands holding your thighs apart as he worships you. “You taste so fucking like heaven,” he groans, and the vibration sends you spiraling. He makes you come again, your body trembling under him, and when he pulls back, his lips glistening, he looks at you like you’re his entire world.

He climbs back up, kissing you deeply, and you taste yourself on his lips. “You’re everything,” he murmurs, and you feel it—the shift from worship to need, the line between you blurring.

“I want you,” you whisper, your hands tugging at his shirt. “Please, Hobi.”

He groans, kissing you hard, and pulls back to strip off his clothes. His body is lean, muscled, and when he’s naked, you can’t help but stare—he’s gorgeous, hard and ready for you. He grabs a condom from his wallet, rolling it on, and settles between your thighs, his eyes locked on yours.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he says, his voice strained, and you nod, gripping his shoulders. He pushes in slowly, just the tip, and you gasp, the stretch intense but bearable. “Okay?” he asks, and you nod, urging him on.

He goes deeper, inch by inch, pausing when he’s fully inside to let you adjust. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groans, his forehead against yours. “You feel so good.”

You’re trembling, but you move your hips, testing it. “Move,” you whisper, and he does, starting slow, each thrust careful and deliberate. It feels good—better than you ever imagined—and when you moan his name, he loses control, his thrusts growing harder, faster.

“Such a good girl,” he groans, his hands gripping your hips. “Taking me so well.”

The pleasure builds, and when he angles his hips just right, hitting that spot inside you, you cry out, your nails digging into his back. “Hoseok, I’m—”

“Come for me, baby,” he growls, and you do, your orgasm crashing over you, your vision white-hot. He follows, his thrusts erratic, and when he comes, he buries his face in your neck, groaning your name.

You’re both panting, sweaty and spent, and Hoseok collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms. “You okay?” he asks, his voice soft, and you nod, snuggling closer.

“More than okay,” you whisper, and he smiles, kissing your forehead.

He gets up, grabbing a warm washcloth from the bathroom, and cleans you gently, his touch reverent. Then he helps you into the bath he’s run, the water soothing your sore muscles. He sits on the edge, washing your back, his lips brushing your shoulder.

When you’re done, he wraps you in a towel, handing you another of his oversized shirts. “You look better in this than I do,” he grins, and you laugh, pulling it on.

In the kitchen, he makes you a plate of snacks—crackers, cheese, fruit—and you sit on the counter, eating while he stands between your legs, stealing bites and kissing you between them. Later, you’re curled up in his bed, his arms around you, his lips brushing your hair. “No one gets to make you feel small,” he murmurs. “You’re mine now.”

You smile, your heart full, and fall asleep to his heartbeat.

It’s been three days since that night, and you can’t stop thinking about Hoseok—his touch, his voice, the way he made you feel like you were the only thing that mattered. You’re at your apartment, trying to read, but your mind keeps drifting to his hands on your skin, his lips whispering praise. The ache between your thighs is unbearable, and you know you need him again.

You text him, fingers trembling: Can I come over?

His reply is instant: Get here now, baby.

You’re at his door in twenty minutes, heart racing. He opens it, wearing a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, hair messy, and the sight of him makes your mouth dry. “Hey,” he says, his smile soft but his eyes dark with want.

“Hey,” you whisper, and then you’re kissing him, desperate and hungry, your hands tugging at his shirt. He groans, pulling you inside, and kicks the door shut.

“Missed me?” he teases, his lips brushing your ear, and you nod, breathless.

“So much.”

He lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist, and carries you to his bedroom, laying you down gently. “I’ve been thinking about you too,” he murmurs, stripping off his shirt. “Couldn’t stop.”

He kisses you, slow and deep, his hands sliding under your shirt, pushing it up and off. His lips trail down your neck, your chest, worshipping every inch of you. “You’re so fucking perfect,” he says, his voice rough, and you shiver, arching into him.

He takes his time, kissing your breasts, your stomach, your thighs, until you’re trembling with need. “Hoseok, please,” you whimper, and he groans, pulling off your jeans and underwear in one motion.

He settles between your thighs, his tongue flicking against your clit, and you moan, your hands gripping his hair. He’s relentless, licking and sucking, his fingers sliding inside you, curling just right. The pleasure builds fast, and you come hard, your body shaking as you cry out his name. “Fuck, you taste so good,” he groans, but he doesn’t stop, his tongue working you through the aftershocks until you’re trembling again.

“Hoseok,” you gasp, oversensitive but craving more, and he smirks, kissing his way back up your body. His fingers replace his tongue, circling your clit with expert precision, and you’re spiraling again, your second orgasm hitting before you can catch your breath. You’re shaking, moaning his name, and he’s whispering praise, his voice a low growl. “That’s it, baby. You’re so beautiful when you come for me.”

He’s not done. He slides two fingers inside you, pumping slowly, his thumb brushing your clit, and you’re so sensitive it’s almost too much, but you don’t want him to stop. “One more,” he murmurs, kissing your neck. “Give me one more, baby.” His fingers curl, hitting that spot, and you’re gone, your third orgasm crashing over you, your vision blurring as you scream his name.

You’re panting, trembling, but he’s still touching you, his lips on your skin, his fingers teasing you gently. “You okay?” he asks, his voice soft, and you nod, pulling him closer.

“I want you,” you whisper, your voice hoarse. “Please, Hobi.”

He groans, kicking off his sweatpants, and grabs a condom, rolling it on. He settles over you, his eyes locked on yours. “Sure?” he asks, and you nod, pulling him closer.

“Please, Hobi.”

He pushes in slowly, and you gasp, the stretch familiar but intense. “God, Y/N,” he groans, pausing when he’s fully inside. “You’re everything.”

He moves, slow at first, each thrust deep and deliberate, and you’re moaning, your nails digging into his back. The sensitivity from your orgasms makes every movement electric, and when he angles his hips just right, hitting that spot inside you, you’re trembling again. “Hoseok, I’m—”

“Come for me, baby,” he growls, his thrusts harder, faster, and you do, your fourth orgasm hitting like a tidal wave, your body shaking uncontrollably. He’s relentless, fucking you through it, and you’re gasping, your body so sensitive you’re not sure you can take more.

But he keeps going, his hands gripping your hips, his lips on your neck. “One more,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “You can do it, baby.” His fingers find your clit, circling gently, and you’re crying out, your fifth orgasm building impossibly fast. It’s overwhelming, your body trembling as you come again, your vision white-hot, your voice hoarse from moaning his name.

He follows, his thrusts erratic, and collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms. “Fuck, Y/N,” he pants, kissing your forehead. “You’re unreal.”

You’re both panting, and he holds you close, his voice soft. “You’re mine, you know that?”

You smile, snuggling closer. “Yeah. And you’re mine.”

You wake to Hoseok’s fingers tracing patterns over your bare back, the morning light streaming through his window, golden and soft. You’re tangled in his sheets, one leg hooked over his, your cheek against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath you.

He’s awake, propped on one elbow, watching you with a sleepy smile. “Hey,” he whispers, his voice rough. “Good morning, pretty girl.”

Your face heats, and you bury it against his skin, mumbling, “Morning…”

He chuckles, kissing the top of your head. “How do you feel?”

“Warm. Sore. Embarrassed?” you admit, and he laughs, the sound warm and bright.

“Embarrassed? After last night?” He tilts your chin up, his eyes sparkling. “Don’t be. Last night was… everything.”

You bite your lip, your heart thudding. “It was.”

There’s a quiet moment, the kind that makes your stomach flutter with possibility. You shift, propping yourself up, and ask, “You don’t regret it, right?”

His eyes widen, and he sits up, pulling you with him. “Never,” he says firmly. “I just don’t want this to be a one-time or two-time thing only.”

Your heart stutters, hope blooming. “Me either.”

His smile is blinding, relief washing over his face. “Good.” He leans in, brushing his lips over yours, slow and sweet. “Let me take you on a proper date,” he murmurs. “Breakfast first. Somewhere nice. And later… we’ll talk about telling your brother.”

You blink, pulling back. “Wait—you actually want to tell him?”

He laughs, nuzzling your cheek. “Eventually. Not today. Let’s enjoy this part first.”

You grin, your heart lighter than it’s been in days. “Okay.”

Weeks later, you and Hoseok are a mess of giggles and stolen kisses, your relationship a secret bubble of joy. You’re at his apartment, sprawled on his couch, fighting over the last slice of pizza like it’s a matter of life and death.

“It’s mine!” you declare, holding the slice above your head, out of his reach.

Hoseok grins, tackling you gently, his hands tickling your sides. “Oh, you think you can win this, baby? Think again!”

You’re laughing so hard you can’t breathe, the pizza forgotten as he pins you to the couch, his face hovering over yours. “Surrender,” he teases, his nose brushing yours.

“Never!” you gasp, but then he’s kissing you, slow and silly, and you melt, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Fine,” you mumble against his lips. “You can have the pizza.”

He pulls back, grinning. “Knew you’d see reason.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, your heart so full it hurts. Later, you’re curled up under a blanket, watching a cheesy rom-com, his arm around you, when your phone buzzes. It’s a text from your brother, Jae.

Jae: You and Hoseok are disgustingly cute. When were you gonna tell me?

You freeze, showing Hoseok the screen. He reads it, then bursts out laughing, pulling you closer. “Guess we are caught already,” he says, his eyes twinkling.

“You’re not freaked out?” you ask, surprised.

“Nah,” he says, kissing your temple. “Jae’ll get over it. Besides, I’m too busy being obsessed with you.”

You blush, hiding your face in his chest, but he tilts your chin up, kissing you softly. “You’re stuck with me now, you know,” he murmurs.

“Good,” you whisper, and as he pulls you closer, you know you’re exactly where you belong—wrapped in his warmth, his chaos, his love.

A/n: I want Hobi too... 😭😭 Thanks for reading. Like, comment, reblog. 💜💜

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

compos mentis 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, chronic health issues, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: After a long court case, your mother stays attached to her lawyer, bringing even more contention into your life.

Characters: Andy Barber

Note:Double does of Andricus.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

“My lawyer will hear about this!” Your mother snarls and you shy away. 

She always has to make a scene. You don’t even understand why she’s doing this. All they did was forget to put a fork in the bag. The poor employee behind the counter looks ready to snap as they wipe their sweaty hands on their apron. 

“My daughter is sick and you can’t remember a fork! It’s so much for her to come back in here!” She snarls. 

“Mom, I could wait in the car--” 

“Be quiet. Oh yes, I want corporate’s number, right now. I will be certain my attorney gives them a call about you...” she squints at the girl’s name tag, “Tina!” 

“Mom, please,” you pout. 

“Oh honey,” she turns and pets your head dramatically, then look at the worker as she cradles your face and adjusts the tube under your nose, “look at her. Look what you’re doing to her.” 

You hold back the flood of tears. You hate when she does this. You just want to be invisible but she always has to make you front and centre. She always has to tell everyone how sick and helpless you are. 

“Mom,” you moan. 

“Ugh, whatever,” she tears away and snaps her fingers, “give me the fork. And I expect a complimentary salad as well.” 

“Ma’am, we can’t do that,” Tina says dully. 

“What do you mean you can’t do that?” 

“Here,” Tina reaches under the counter and pulls out a card, “that’s the number for head office. I’ll grab you a fork.” 

She turns and takes out one of the bamboo forks. Your mother snarls and squeezes the card until it folds. She snatches the fork and throws it back at the worker. 

“Are you kidding? She can’t eat with this! She’ll get splinters.” 

“I want to go, mom,” you whine. 

She shrugs off your touch on her arm, “Mr. Barber, DA, will hear about this!” 

She stomps and spins. You turn slowly to follow as she’s already halfway to the door. You're already forgotten. You roll your tank with you as you curl your shoulders and awkwardly angle it through the door. 

Your mom’s a bluffer. Andy isn’t the DA. Not yet. He’s only the assistant. And he isn’t her lawyer. Not anymore. Once she won the lawsuit against the hospital, he traded in that title for boyfriend. And now she has a ring on her finger which means he’s soon be stepdad. You don’t think you can ever call him that.  

You avoid him as much as you can. Not because you dislike him, because you don’t know him. Aside from him coaching you to take the stand, you didn’t know much about him. You don’t have the energy to know more. Besides, he isn’t there for you. You’re just the unfortunate burden left for your mother to care for. 

You get to the car, heart racing, and shake as you struggle to get the door open. Your mother has the engine rumbling already and you can barely move around as you’re too dizzy to set your feet. You fall into the seat and strain to drag the oxygen tank between your legs. You really should have more space. 

You wiggle your chafed nose. Your mouth and nostrils are always painfully dry. You get your belt on and reach into the belt bag you keep on you at all times. You santize your hands from the mini bottle then take out the vaseline to apply to your dry skin. 

You lurch back as your mother veers out of the lot. You jostle with the movement and struggle to put the cap back on the tin. You tuck it away at last as her bluetooth dials out. 

“Andrew,” your mother greets the Assistant DA before he can speak. He sighs. You’ve heard him tell her over and over not to call him that. “You won’t believe what just happened. The way they gawk at us when we’re just trying to live like normal people!” 

She squawks on in one of her rants and you can only sit there and listen along with the man at the other end of the call. In the background, you make out the shuffle of paper and typing of keys. You shift as your mother cranks the real and you hear something rustle. You look back and groan. 

“Mom, the food spilled,” you utter. 

“Andrew!” She ignores you as she grips the steering wheel tighter, “are you even listening?” 

“Yeah, I heard. The food spilled. Why don’t you come by the office? I’m just finishing up. I’ll just take you ladies out.” He offers. 

You really don’t want that. You don’t like to go out. You only went to the wrap shop because your mom insisted after your last appointment. You’re always exhausted after all the tests. 

“Oh, gosh, that would be lovely,” she trills, “how about it, honey?” She doesn’t wait for your answer. “I’ll head over there right now. I hope you don’t mind, I won’t have time to change. We had a long day with the doctor.” 

“That’s fine. I just need to send these notes over and I’ll be all done,” he explains. “How about you, sweetheart? Feeling up to some linguine?” 

You don’t realise he’s talking to you until he says your name clearly. You gulp, “yes, sir.” 

“Oh, silly,” your mom reaches over to swat you, “she still calls you that.” 

He chuckles from the other end, “big changes. We’re all adjusting. Anyway, see you shortly. I got someone at my door.” 

“Bye, sweetie,” she sings and the line dies. 

She huffs and rolls her eyes. Her smile falls away. “I bet it’s that damned legal aid. Have you seen the way she dresses? Oh, how she flutters her eyes at my fiance?” 

You just grumble and nod. As usual, she isn’t looking for two-sided conversation. She tells, she doesn’t talk. 

“This will be nice. A family dinner. All of us. Honey, you really do need to loosen up with him. The wedding will be here before we know it.” 

You shrug, “I know. I’m not... I’m trying.” 

“I know, I know. The case was so much and then to think, it brought us all together. But this is the best we can hope for. The settlement is great but taking care of you, it’s so much. It’ll be nice to have help,” she chatters on. 

You zone out her usual gripes. She has a way of complaining about you without really saying it outright. You know you’ve made her life harder. Always sick, always helpless. You asked her to hire you a nurse with the settlement but she convinced you to put the money in a trust. It will be worth much more in ten years, honey... 

She pulls around the building with its staunch white pillars. The sight of them casts a wave of deja vu over you. You thought once all was said and done in court, you’d never have to come there again. It’s humiliating enough to be gawked at in public but to be put in front of an audience like that... 

You’re just sensitive. That’s what your mom says. She’s right. You wouldn’t know. You’ve never had to be on your own. She’s always been the one doing everything. 

She parks and gets out and you carefully lift your tank out of the car, not wanting to touch the cold shell. You stand and lean on it, rolling it ahead of you. You follow her inside as she hardly misses a beat. You can hardly keep up. 

She steps onto the elevator and tuts at you to hurry up. You get on and she hits the buttons impatiently. You get off on a floor, letting her lead you as you keep your head down. Her clicking heels keep you in line. 

“Danica,” Andy greets your mom by name, “just in time.” 

“Mm, there you are,” her response is curt.  

You look up at Andy as he leans on the desk of his aide. She’s a pretty blond woman named Gwen with shiny nails. She smiles as he stands on his own weight. 

“How are you?” Andy offers a one-armed hug. 

“Good,” she wraps him up and plants a kiss on his cheek as he dodges her lips. “How are you, sweetie?” 

“Tired, long day,” he replies stiffly. He looks at you, “hey, you look beat.” 

“A little,” you mutter. 

“You sure you’re up to it? We can just order in,” he offers. 

“I’m okay,” you say as your mother looks at you sharply. Better to just do what she wants. 

“I don’t mind,” he insists. 

“Oh, but sweetie, you said we’d go out. Don’t you want to have a nice dinner with your fiancee?” She smirks at Gwen. 

You want to turn into dust. This is torturous. You’re light-headed and uncomfortable. Andy keeps his arm around your mom, “see ya, Gwen. You get going. I don’t want people thinking I’m a tryant.” 

He struts towards you and puts his hand on your arm to turn you around. You walk beside him and his touch falls to your lower back. You want to pull away but you can’t. The wheels on your tank squeak with each step. 

You’re happy to detach from Andy as the elevator doors open. You wait and your mom steps on first by Andy doesn’t. He waves you in ahead of him and grunts. He doesn’t rsay anything to your mom but you can sense tension. 

“How about I drive? You can come with me in the morning and get your car,” Andy suggests, “save some mileage.” 

“Oh, that would be so nice. I’d love some chardonnay with dinner,” she bubbles. 

He steps between you and taps the button. His sleeve brushes you as you hunch lower. Your head is really bugging you. You just want to sleep. Or maybe you’re just hungry. 

“Looks like it hurt,” Andy points to your bandaged hand. You peek at it and shake your head. 

“IV. Just bruised,” you answer. 

“Ah, no fun,” he remarks. “Well, now you don’t have to worry about the hospital bills, huh? Got you all tucked away.” 

“It’s so wonderful,” your mom latches onto his arm. “You take such good care of us, baby.” 

“Mm, doing my best. Can’t be easy with a sick kid.” 

“No, no, not easy. But oh, you helped so much. I mean, how dare that hospital just dismiss us like that. They could’ve killed her. Malpractice if I ever saw it, and you would know, being a lawyer and all,” she says tritely. 

You stay silent. You don’t like talking about it. It’s over, so why do you have to keep reliving it? She seemed to bask in the attention it got her while you hated every minute of it. 

As you stare at the bottom of the doors, you feel a tickle on your hand. You wince but don’t pull away. You think, at first, it’s a stray hair. You glance over and find Andy rubbing his finger against your hand. You grip the handle of your tank tighter and swallow. What is he doing? 

He stands with his head straight, his shoulders high, as if he’s doing nothing at all. Maybe he doesn’t realise. You don’t move. You’re frozen in indecision. You don’t want to pull away in case you embarrass him. 

Surely, it’s unintentional. You’re just some sick woman still living with her mother. You’re frail and helpless and you can’t even breathe on your own. 

No, it’s just a mistake. A mix-up. He’s probably lost in thought, the way he gets. When he sits and stares at you but sees nothing at all. 

The elevator opens and he rescinds his touch. He waves you through first, and you shuffle ahead of him. Your mom follows and he brings up the rear. You need to sit down soon. 

You go outside into the cool evening air and make your way to his car. Your mother stomps ahead in her heels but he stays at a pace with you. You can never keep up. As you reach his SUV, you hesitate. You forget how much bigger his car is. So high up. 

“Can I help?” He offers as he follows you to the back door. He opens it for you as you spin your tank around. 

“I’m... okay,” you lift the tank first and he quickly scoops his hand under the wheels to help. You grab onto the door to haul yourself up. His hand brushes your hip as you do and you swing into the seat. “Thanks.” 

“Not at all, sweetheart,” he lays his hand on your knee and gives a quick squeeze. “You sure you don’t need anything?” 

You shake your head and close your eyes. You’re completely worn out. You need to save what little you have left for dinner. 

“Alright,” he lets go and shuts the door.  

He gets in the front as your mother hums, “let’s go. I’m starving.” 

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Toto's obsession p.13

Hey guyss, I hope you enjoy this part and if you've missed part 12 or if you want to read it from the beginning here's my masterlist :)

The hum of activity was already high at the paddock, teams moving in and out of garages, media crews adjusting lights, engineers checking data. You sat outside the hospitality unit, cradling a warm cup of coffee between your hands, watching the bustle with a small, content smile. The sun was still low, casting a soft golden hue over everything, and you were simply waiting for Toto to finish his early morning meeting with the engineers.

It was a rare, quiet moment. Your phone buzzed softly on the table with a reminder about an afternoon briefing, but you ignored it for now. You were content just breathing in the moment — the calm before the storm.

“Hey!” A familiar voice called out behind you, startling you slightly.

You turned, coffee in hand, to see George walking toward you. He wore his usual team gear, sunglasses perched on his head, and his hand interlocked with Carmen’s as she strolled beside him. You smiled, happy to see them — until your gaze shifted past them and froze.

Lucas.

Your breath caught in your throat.

There he was, again, standing just behind George and Carmen, wearing a pass around his neck, looking both out of place and oddly confident. You blinked once, then again, thinking maybe your eyes were deceiving you.

“Lucas?” you asked, your voice lifting slightly in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

George chuckled, casual and breezy. “Yeah, about that… I invited him. We were catching up again the other day, and I thought it’d be fun to show him our world a little. You know, give him a proper feel of what we do.”

You were still staring at Lucas, stunned but trying to remain polite. “Right… and now you’re here.”

Lucas smiled, shrugging lightly. “Didn’t expect to get the golden ticket, but I guess I have connections now.”

You laughed awkwardly, your mind trying to catch up with the situation. George gave you a pointed look, as if encouraging you to play along.

“I was actually wondering,” George continued, scratching the back of his neck, “if you could show him around a bit? I’ve got a strategy meeting and Carmen’s tagging along to hospitality — he’d be bored otherwise.”

You hesitated, glancing over your shoulder toward the building where Toto was. A small part of you worried he wouldn’t love the idea, but he’d be in meetings all morning anyway, and besides… Lucas was harmless. Right?

“Yeah, sure,” you finally said, trying to sound upbeat. “I can give you the newbie tour.”

“Appreciate it,” Lucas grinned, falling into step beside you as George and Carmen wandered off toward the Mercedes motorhome. “I feel like I’m in a movie already.”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “Don’t get too excited yet. It’s mostly sweaty garages and loud radios.”

Still, as the two of you began your walk, weaving through team setups and waving at familiar faces, you had to admit — it was fun. Lucas was wide-eyed and enthusiastic about everything, asking questions like a kid in a candy store. You showed him the pit wall setups, the media zones, even the garage from a safe distance.

At one point, he leaned closer and whispered, “Is it weird being around all this all the time?”

You smiled. “Not anymore. At first it felt surreal — especially the first races. But after a while, it becomes your world.”

He nodded slowly, like he was genuinely listening. “I remember when you used to talk about big dreams. I guess this is what you meant.”

You chuckled, leading him toward the hospitality lounge. “Honestly, I had no idea this would be my life. It just… happened.”

“And Toto?” he asked, his tone suddenly quieter.

You paused. “What about him?”

“Do you ever stop and wonder how you got from... us, to him?”

You turned to face him, unsure how to answer that without sounding cruel or overly sentimental. “I think… people change. Life leads us where we’re supposed to go, you know?”

Lucas nodded slowly, but his eyes lingered on you a bit too long. You quickly looked away, hoping he didn’t see the flicker of doubt that sometimes crossed your mind in moments like this — the question of what if.

But this wasn’t the time for that. You were engaged. You loved Toto. This was your present — and your future.

“I’m glad you’re happy,” Lucas said eventually, breaking the silence. “Even if I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.”

You smiled again, warmer this time. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

Just as you rounded the corner back toward the main Mercedes building, you spotted Toto exiting through the glass doors, looking sharp and focused as always. His eyes scanned the paddock — and landed right on you.

His expression froze for half a second when he saw Lucas walking beside you.

You quickly raised a hand in greeting. “Hey, you’re out early.”

Toto walked over, placing a hand gently on the small of your back. “Meeting finished quicker than expected,” he said, eyeing Lucas briefly before leaning in to kiss your temple. “I see we have a guest.”

“Lucas,” you said quickly, “George invited him, and I’ve just been giving him the tour.”

Toto’s lips curved into a polite smile, though his hand subtly tightened around your waist. “Welcome,” he said evenly. “I hope you’re enjoying the behind-the-scenes.”

Lucas nodded. “It’s been… eye-opening.”

You could feel the tension rising between them, though neither said anything out of place. You knew that tone in Toto’s voice — carefully measured, watching, assessing.

“Alright,” you said quickly, trying to defuse whatever unspoken energy was sparking between them, “maybe it’s time for coffee break part two.”

Lucas smiled, seemingly unaware. “Only if I’m invited.”

Toto glanced down at you. “Only if she wants to spend more time with you.”

You laughed lightly. “It’s fine. Come on, Lucas.”

As you walked off, you could feel Toto’s eyes lingering on you and Lucas — watching every step. He didn’t say anything, but you could almost hear the thoughts forming behind his silence.

And what you didn’t see — as Lucas smiled politely and followed you — was the subtle way he looked back at Toto.

Like a challenge. One that had only just begun.

Next part 14

[tomssexdoll]

"I just need love for one night"

PAIRINGS: Tom 2010 x Female reader

CONTENT: SMUT

SYPNOSIS: Tom is known as a player, a famous guitarist for his band Tokio Hotel. He is known for fucking girls and just dumping them afterwards, but this time it was different, he felt drawn to y/n, she wasn't like any other woman he hooked up with, she was confident, not throwing herself onto him.

A/N: if you want to be tagged or i accidently missed your tag comment on my pinned masterlist <3

WARNINGS: dom!tom, sub!reader, p in v (missionary), eating out, fingering, light mentions of alcohol

Tom Kaulitz, the lead guitarist of his band Tokio Hotel, a player, womaniser, at least that's how he made himself out to be. I was out at a bar, having some drinks with my friends when he waltzed in, wearing his signature black bandana, his black braids resting on his shoulder, his dark blue jeans and white shirt, topped off with a baggy black jacket.

He walked like he owned the place, eyeing women up and down, a cocky smile on his face as looked around. He was hot, I had to admit. I didn't know much about him, other than he was in a famous band. I mean, his face was plastered all over the city, promoting their album and upcoming tour.

Him and his band mates sat down next to me, all ordering their drinks. Once he took notice of me he decided to make his move, leaning closer to me, "what's your name sweetheart?" he said, flashing me a charming smile, his eyes locking onto mine.

"Y/N," I said bluntly, his gaze lingered over my body as I spoke, "mmh..such a lovely name for a lovely girl.." he chuckled, a hint of a german accent lacing his words, moving his hand gently up my thigh.

"Don't touch!" I slapped his hand off, a surprised look washing over his face before his cocky smile returned, "mmh..feisty are we? I like that," he chuckled, a low and sultry sound.

His hand slowly inched back towards my thigh, the challenge in my eyes only fuelled his desire to conquer me. "Let me get you a drink princess, anything you want, hm?" he leaned in even closer, his breath hot against my ear, the scent of his cologne enveloping me.

"Just a vodka redbull," I smirked, not passing on the opportunity for a free drink. By now my friends were gone, they ditched me to go dance and flirt with guys. Tom signalled the bartender, ordering the drink I requested and a shot of whiskey for himself. His eyes never left mine as he leaned back into his stool.

Once the bartender has prepared my drink, Tom handed it over with a smirk, his fingers brushing against mine, "here we go, sweet thing," he watched as I took small sips, humming in approval.

His pupils dilated as he kept watching me, the way my lips wrapped around the straw, desire building up rapidly in him. "I want to see those lips wrapped around something else besides that straw.." he said, his voice husky and low.

"Yeah I'm sure you do.." I flirted back, I had to admit, his dirty talk and flirting had an effect of me, but he didn't have to know that. I didn't want to just leap into his arms like most girls, I wanted him to earn it.

After an hour of more flirting and drinking, I stood up, "let's get out of here," I smirked, grabbing his hand and leading him out of the bar. Once outside, he quickly opened the door of his sleek, black sports car with a flourish, helping me inside, "after you sweetheart," I sat in the passenger seat, getting comfortable as he started the car, the engine roaring as he sped off.

As we drove I noticed he was acting really restless, his forehead sweaty and his hands fidgety on the wheel, "are you okay?" I chuckled, noticing the way he kept glancing back and forth at my cleavage, a smirk forming on my face "it's nothing.." he huffed out, his jaw clenched as he tried to fight back his urges, "if you say so.." I said, looking out the window.

I wasn't going to be like most girls and jump at the opportunity to fuck him, I wanted him to get riled up, to crave me, give into his desires without me having to do anything.

Tom let out a low growl, unable to resist any longer. He quickly pulled the car over, the tired screeching as the car came to a halt on the side of the road, "fuck it.." he grumbled, reaching out and grabbing my face roughly, smashing his lips into mine.

My eyes widened and I immediately kissed him back, our lips moving in a passionate rhythm. He couldn't get enough of me, his tongue exploring every inch of my mouth, his fingers tangling in my hair, pulling on it roughly as he deepened the kiss. He couldn't wait until he got home, he needed me now.

"Get in the back seat baby..." he mumbled against my lips, pulling away from the kiss to look into my eyes, his eyes dark with lust. Without waiting for a response he unbuckled both of our seatbelts, I climbed into the backseat first, he followed shortly after, pulling me on top of his lap.

I gently grinded on his crotch, pulling him back into another passionate kiss as I reached down, unbuttoning my skirt and sliding my tight top off. "Fuck..you're so hot.." he grunted against my lips, helping me remove my clothes, his hands lingering on every inch of my exposed skin.

He could feel his cock hardening beneath me, straining against the zipper of his pants. He quickly laid me down onto the cool leather seats, taking off my skirt completely. He then reached down into his pocket, pulling out a condom and taking it between his teeth. He fidgeted with his belt, quickly undoing his jeans and sliding them down, the only barrier between us being his boxers and my stockings.

"Fuck..." he gasped, tracing his fingers up and down my legs, easing closer to my burning heat. He couldn't wait any longer, pushing his boxers down and freeing his thick, throbbing cock. His large calloused hands gripped my hips, groaning in relief as he rubbed the head of his dick against my wet panties, coating it in my juices.

"Fuck, I need to be inside you now.." he groaned, tearing the plastic wrapping of the condom, placing the rubber on his tip and slowly sliding it down, letting it engulf his entire cock.

As he finished, he reached down, ripping a hole in my stockings to make his way to my needy cunt, not caring about the damage. He spread my legs wide, pushing my panties to the side and thrusting his cock inside of me in one brutal stroke, not even giving me a moment to adjust to his size.

"Fuck!" I whined, he grabbed my wrists, pinning them above my head as he began to thrust into me roughly, his hips pounding against mine as he gives into his desires. The sound of my skin slapping against his filling the car, the air hot and thick with longing.

I moaned loudly, looking up at him as his cock slammed into me brutally, his face contorting in pleasure as his length repeatedly fucked my tight hole, feeling it clench around him.

He leaned down, capturing my mouth in a brutal kiss as he continued to fuck me relentlessly. His tongue dominated mine, his teeth nipping at my bottom lip as he swallowed my moans. His thrusts became even more punishing, his balls slapping against my ass with each powerful stroke.

"Oh my god! Fuckk!" I cried out, throwing my head back as I felt his tip teasing my g spot. "You like that, don't you, you little slut.." he moaned against my lips, his voice rumbling against my chest as he continued to work his pulsing cock inside me. "I knew you were made for this cock, from the moment I laid my eyes on you.." he smirked, trailing kisses down my cheek to my neck, sucking harshly.

"Fuck..you're so tight, so fucking perfect.." he snarled, his voice muffled against my neck, he left dark purple hickeys all over my neck and shoulder. He leaned back to admire his handiwork, grinning with a dominating, possessive smirk.

He couldn't get enough of my pussy, basically drunk off of it, he hoisted my legs up onto his shoulders, the new angle allowing him to drive his cock even further into my sopping hole. "Yess! Fuck it's so good, oh my god!" I whimpered, arching my back to meet his thrusts.

"Cum for me baby, cmon!" he said, raising his voice, his eyes rolling back in his head as he felt my pussy clench around his cock, milking him for all he's worth.

With one final, brutal thrust, he sent the both of us into orgasm, burying himself to the hilt inside me and erupting, his massive load of thick cum flooding my pussy. I let out a string of soft whines and moans as I came on his cock, my juicy slowly dripping down his cock.

"I need you again..fuck I can't get enough of you.." he mumbled, his chest heaving as he calmed down from his orgasm. It was funny, Tom Kaulitz, known player wanted me so badly? Allegedly he'd just fuck girls and leave, but this time, it was different.

It's like he was addicted to me, he couldn't get enough of my touch, my pussy, my skin, everything, "you're so fucking beautiful..so perfect, need to make you mine.." he groaned, slowly moving his head in between my thighs.

He kissed and licked my inner thighs, his tongue tracing patterns on my sensitive skin until he reached my dripping wet cunt. He parted my lips with his fingers and buried his face between them, devouring my pussy like a starved man.

"Oh my god...fuck..mmh..so good.." he grumbled, his chest heaving as his tongue lashing against my swollen clit, sucking on it greedily as his hands grabbed onto my thighs tightly, his fingers digged into my skin possessively, a sign of his unyielding desire for me.

I moaned loudly, grinding my pussy against his face, my hand travelling down to his braids, gentling tugging on them, "fuckk! Keep going!" I whined. Tom growled against my flesh, spreading my thighs even wider as he buried his face deeper into my folds. His tongue thrusted in and out of me, mimicking the motion of his hips as he devoured me whole.

He was thrilled at the taste of my arousal and the feeling of my body shaking beneath him. He sucked on my clit harshly as his fingers creeped up, plunging into me, hooking upwards to hit that sensitive spot inside.

"Fuck!" I yelped, he chuckled softly at my reaction, he continued to work his fingers in and out of me, fucking me relentlessly. "You're so wet for me, aren't you?" he smirked, adding a third finger into my tight hole, stretching me further, "y-yes! All for you!" I whimpered, throwing my head back.

His mouth never left my clit, sucking and licking it furiously, "i'm gonna keep going until you cum all over my face, understand?" he growled, I nodded eagerly, my eyes screwed shut as I focused on my orgasm.

He increased the pace of his fingers, pounding into my pussy with reckless abandon as he sucked my clit with savage intensity. The combination of his hand and mouth was too much for me to handle and I could feel my orgasm building to a crescendo, my chest heaving intensely, "fuck, you're going to cum, aren't you?" he chuckled, noticing how much his actions were affecting me.

I couldn't form any words, just nodding my head and moaning loudly, answering all of toms questions. The sound of my moans spurred him on, doubling the intensity of his fingers as he started to feel me clench around them, feeling my body tense up "cum for me, cmon baby!" he raised his voice, egging me on.

It all became too much and my orgasm crashed down, I moaned loudly and came all over his fingers, my legs shaking as I rode out my high. I panted, trying to regain my breath after such an intense orgasm. He smirked, slowly sliding his fingers out of me, bringing them to his mouth and licking them clean, "mmh...delicious," he murmured, his voice low and satisfied.

He helped me put my clothes back on, kissing me gently and carrying me back to the passenger seat. Before taking off back to my house, he asked for my number, but it was almost like he was too embarrassed to ask, I giggled at his shyness and grabbed his phone, typing in my number.

As he dropped me off home, he couldn't stop thinking about me, his thoughts clouded by me. He found himself longing for me, craving me like a drug, needing me around him, not just for sex but just to be around me like he had never before. He had never felt like this with any other girl, forming no emotional attachment to them, but this was different, he needed me again.

He smiled at his phone, my number staring back at him.

tags: @ballhair @bills-wife-1 @bkaulitzlover

tags: @ella1289 @tomscumdoll @billsdolliest

tags: @tomkslut @billsdolliest @miyukafujii

tags: @pa1n-0f-l0ve @tomsfuckdoll