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landopoet · 18 days ago

Text

to you, always.

pairing brother's best friend lando x fewtrell!reader

synopsis in which you call lando. and he comes.

warnings 14.8k words of angst, secrecy and brother max.

author’s note heyhey, sorry that i've been gone for a while, life gets a bit hectic and busy at times but i've finally gotten around to finishing this wonderful fic! and i have more fics coming your way soon. hope you enjoy <3

You’re not sure why you’re at this party to begin with.

Actually, screw that, you knew exactly why— your older brother, Max, made it abundantly clear that he didn’t want you hanging around this specific crowd of people, and you had something to prove. You wanted to show him that you’re no longer the little sister he could push around, you wanted to finally be seen as grown, despite being younger than him.

It was cold outside Mason’s house. Your heels were off, your makeup’s smudged, the girl you came with ran off with some random guy neither of you knew, and you were left stranded in the cold night, somewhere with shitty connection. You tried to call an Uber, but the app won’t work without WiFi and you couldn’t be bothered to go back inside the party to ask for the password.

Instead, you choose to flick through your contacts, maybe your drunk mind could find someone to drive you home. Mom? No, she’s most likely asleep. Max is an obvious no. You scroll past the random aunts, uncles, cousins, who all live scattered across the world. Then, something sets off in your mind and you find yourself reading Lando’s contact like it was the morning news.

You shut your phone off, sitting down on the curb. Lando. He told you once that he wasn’t your babysitter— like you were too loud, too much, always wanting to tag along with whatever he and your brother were doing. Still, your fingers put in your password and you click his contact again, this time not overthinking calling him.

Maybe it’s because you know he doesn’t care, maybe it’s because you know he’ll come.

The phone rings a few times before he picks up, raspy and tired. “Hello?”

“Lando,” you say, cautiously.

You give him time to yell at you, to hang up, but he just stays in the silence, waiting for you to speak. “Hello? What’s wrong?”

You sigh. “I’m at Mason’s,” Lando scoffs on the other end. “Can you come get me?”

Silence. You imagine him sitting on the edge of his bed, jaw tense, chest bare, those goddamn Jack & Jones boxers adorning his hips. Then, there’s movement. “It’s past one in the morning,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, I can still read the time, thanks.” You roll your eyes annoyed. “I knew it’d be stupid to call you, you’re nothing but an arrogant—”

Lando cuts you off, a sharp order coming from his end of the call. “Text me the address.”

“Fuck, I can’t remember,” you drag a hand across your face, ignoring how the cold of the curb slowly seeps in past your short dress and branches out through your skin. “It’s the house in Cherry Hill, the one with the stupid flamingo statue in the front yard.”

“I know it,” he nods, though you can’t see it. “Wait there, don’t go back inside.”

Lando hung up the phone call and pushed a hand through his curls, agitated that he didn’t even hesitate to come get you. He should’ve told you to call someone else, let you sit in the mess you made, but he also knew Mason and parties like that. And how everyone’s eyes naturally gravitated towards you, like you owned every room you walked into.

He knew what that type of confidence could do, he had seen it happen to you before. And he knows Max would have his head on the front of the Fewtrell residence if he knew Lando refused to help you when you were in need. Or maybe it was just because that irritating warmth in his chest made him crumble every time he was near you.

It takes half an hour until Lando’s headlights beam on your face. The car slows right next to you. It’s matte black with a booming engine, the one your brother kept hyping up like it was God’s gift to car lovers. Lando leans over the center console to shove the door open.

The door clicks behind you and seals you in. The cabin is dim, except for the soft glow of the dashboard that casts blue shadows over Lando’s face. His jaw is clenched with every chew of gum he takes as he backs out of Mason’s driveway with one hand on the back of your seat. You can feel the tension in the small space between you two and you feel it even more when Lando finally grazes his eyes over you.

“You’re barefoot.”

His voice is flat, emotionless.

You look down at your legs, the only thing adding any sort of warmth to them were your thin stockings. “Heels hurt.”

Lando noticed the way you curled up in the seat, trying your best to keep yourself warm. He rolls his eyes, reaches behind you to the backseat and drops a hoodie in your lap. “Put it on,” he mutters.

You should say something, maybe a snarky remark, but instead you slip it over your head. It smells like him— a mix of lavender detergent, gasoline and Lando’s cologne. It’s big enough that the sleeves fall past the palms of your hands and you curl your fingers in them. “Thanks.”

The car falls quiet for a long while, Lando’s fingers so tightly curled around the steering wheel that it looks like it’s about to snap under the force. You can tell he wants to say something, to yell at you about waking him up, that you’re just some stupid girl who doesn’t know when to stop.

Instead, he sighs and asks, “what the hell were you thinking?”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see. “Oh, here we go.”

“I’m serious,” his voice is sharp, irritated. “There’s a reason Max didn’t want you at that party.”

“I can handle myself, Lando. It’s just a party.”

Lando lets out a humorless laugh. “Sitting on the curb, alone, with no ride home. You call that handling yourself?”

You don’t answer him anymore, instead continuing to look out the passenger seat window at the streetlights and houses blurring past. You’re not sure what it is, but something feels different about him— he’s not bantering as much, it’s almost like he’s actually worried.

A few minutes pass before Lando briefly glances at you. “What happened?”

Your eyes glance at his green ones, blinking once before you turn your gaze back outside. You’ve just driven out of the neighbourhoods, so the stars became more evident due to the lack of houses and streetlights.

“Did someone touch you?” He presses, voice edged with frustration. He continues to chew his gum, his jaw tensing with every bite.

“Not really.”

Lando exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly like he’s debating whether to push. He doesn’t. Instead, he mutters, “you’re an idiot.”

You furrow your eyebrows and turn to him. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he shrugs. “Going to some fucker’s party just to prove something to Max. You think he’ll see you as grown just because you disobeyed him?”

You ball your hands into fists. “That’s not what I–”

“Oh, cut the bullshit, yes it is.” He cuts you off, agitated, annoyed, tired. “I’ve known you for years and you’ve been trying to prove yourself to Max since you were, like, twelve.”

You turn your whole body back towards the door, choosing to ignore Lando’s lecture. It’s almost two in the morning, the sky is at its darkest and you’re feeling too tired to argue with him. Still, he continues.

“News flash, acting reckless doesn’t make people respect you. It makes them worried.”

You stare at him, a tiny smirk on your face. “Are you saying… You were worried?”

Lando’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, you totally did.” You let that tiny smirk turn into a full one, still looking at him. “This is huge. Lando Norris—”

He turns to face the driver's door window, biting back a small smile. “Don’t.”

“—worried about me?”

He exhales through his nose again, running a hand through his curls, eyes still stuck on the road. “I knew I should’ve left you on the curb.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.” Lando’s eyes look at yours for a second. He can’t handle looking at you for longer, afraid his facade would fade under the weight of your gaze.

“Why’d you come? If I’m such an inconvenience.”

His car comes to a silent stop in front of your house. His engine is still running, just so the heat would still circulate and warm your feet. “Because you called.”

There’s no mocking tone to his voice, no bite. Just the raw truth, like a confession.

You glance at his lips, then back up at his eyes. “I thought you hated me.”

“I never hated you.” He says it like it was obvious.

“You act like it.”

His eyebrows furrow. “I don’t hate you.”

You’re not sure what happened, why you suddenly felt so brave. You bite your bottom lip, leaning over the center console, softly grasping his chin so he looks at you. “Prove it.”

Lando’s breath stutters, just for a second.

“Fuck it,” he mumbles into your mouth, already having pulled you in for a kiss.

It’s not careful, it’s definitely not gentle— it’s like a flood. Like it’s something he’s been holding back for too long, something he can’t fight anymore. He kisses you urgently, lips warm and insistent, until your lips part just enough for his tongue to brush against yours, tentative at first, then deeper— demanding.

His hand comes up to cup your jaw, fingers pushing past your hair, angling your face the way he wants it. His other hand is still on the wheel, white-knuckled and tense, like he needs something to hold onto before he loses himself completely.

Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling around his collar, pulling him closer and closer, but it’s not enough.

Lando groans into your mouth, a low and frustrated sound, and then he’s undoing his seatbelt, undoing yours. The tension snaps, and next thing you know, he’s pulling you over the centre console and into his lap. His hands trail up your thighs, nesting right at the top of your hips as he continues to kiss you.

He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, you’re his best friend’s little sister, but god has he been waiting for this. Every time he looked at you for too long, he felt a burning heat in his chest that he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried. Right now, he’s getting back all the times he wished he could kiss you, but knew he couldn’t. His hands grip you like he’s trying to memorise the feel of your skin under his fingertips.

Your hips softly grind against him as your hands come up to gently cup his jaw and you pull him in closer. Lando kisses you with hunger, chasing your lips as you pull away to catch your breath. You lean back against the steering wheel, careful as to not make a sound. Lando pushes himself up to kiss you again, but he fails to notice his foot on the gas and revs the engine as soon as his lips crash into yours again.

Both of you freeze, eyes wide like deer caught in headlights. The streetlight casts a soft, golden glow on Lando as you study his face. And then both of you break out into laughter.

“You think he heard that?” Lando asks when both of you finally calm down and you rest against his chest.

You shake your head. “No, he’s a heavy sleeper. But I should probably go.”

Lando nods and helps you climb over the center console, eyes never leaving you. You turn back towards him, placing a gentle kiss to his lips, before reaching for the handle and opening the door. Lando stays parked on the side of the road, just until you’re safely inside your house, and when he sees the door close behind you, his engine revs again as his car pulls away.

You walk downstairs only to be met by the sound of slamming cupboards, you don’t even have to step into the kitchen to know Max is letting out whatever pent up rage he has on the poor wooden furniture.

Max, as if he could feel your presence, turns around. His eyebrows are set low, eyes studying your face like he’s never seen it before. You just awkwardly weave past him to rummage through the fridge.

He leans back against the kitchen island, arms crossed and voice calm when he asks, “so how was the party you weren’t supposed to go to?”

You softly slam your forehead on one of the shelves in the fridge. “Fuck.” You rub the hurt skin as you turn around to face your brother. “It was fine.”

“Mhm,” he looks down at the ground briefly, before he looks back at you again. Max tries so hard to look intimidating every time he does this, but he just looks like a sad dad and it takes everything in you not to laugh. “And how’d you get home?”

“Well, nowadays we have these awesome things called cars, right?” You motion turning a wheel with your hands, sarcastically. “You kinda just sit in them and then turn the wheel to go different directions, it’s pretty cool.”

“I’m serious,” he says, stone-faced and frustrated.

“Why does that matter? I’m home safely, aren’t I?” You turn back to the fridge and take out ingredients for a sandwich.

“It matters because I explicitly told you not to go and because I know you, and because I woke up to Lando’s car outside my window at two in the morning.”

You freeze. Shit.

Max narrowed his eyes. “So? Wanna explain that one?”

“I called him for a ride, that’s all.” You’re not even hungry but you’re making a sandwich anyway, just to give yourself something to do and just so you don’t break underneath the weight of your older brother’s intense gaze.

Max stares at you, jaw clenched. “Why him?”

You shrug, spreading the mayonnaise on a slice of bread. “I obviously couldn’t call you and everyone I trust was asleep. And because he actually came.”

“He’s not—” He cuts himself off and starts pacing like he needs to burn the frustration from his limbs. “He’s not the guy you call for help. He isn’t good for this sort of thing, for you.”

You pause your movement, raising a brow at him. “You think I can’t handle Lando?”

“I know you can,” he pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s not the point. The point’s that he’s not a guy who gives a shit unless it benefits him in some way. He’s cocky, selfish, he was a dickhead to you for, like, as long as I’ve known him.”

You sigh, looking back to your sandwich.

Max narrows his eyes at your hesitation. “Don’t tell me there’s something going on.”

“There’s not,” You say it fast, too fast, and you’re gripping the butterknife so hard that your knuckles turn white.

He tilts his head to the side, eyebrows still drawn together as he connects the dots. “You like him?”

“No.” Lie.

Max shakes his head, running a hand along his jaw as he scoffs like the mere idea of you having feelings for his best friend was some sort of betrayal. “For fucks sake. This is exactly what he does, he gets into your head.”

“People change.” You mumble, not daring to look up at your brother.

Max lets out a humorless chuckle. “Not Lando.”

You don’t say anything, you can’t. Deep down you know he’s right— Lando’s not the type to do relationships. He doesn’t stick to just one girl, you’ve heard him talk to Max about at least four different girls within the same week. You knew it was so wrong, but last night felt so right.

“I swear to God if—” He takes a deep breath and calms his voice, though it’s still laced with aggression when he says, “if he touches you, if he so much as thinks you’re someone to be played with—”

“Max, nothing happened,” the lie slips past your lips so easily that it scares you. “He drove me home. That’s it.”

He gives you one last glance before picking up his car keys from the basket on the kitchen island and walking towards the front door. He opens it, and just before he leaves, he pokes his head out to look at you again. “I’ll be back late, there’s money on my desk for dinner. Make sure to eat and, for fucks sake, take off that fucking hoodie.”

The door slams shut and you pull the sleeves of Lando’s hoodie into your palms, rubbing them together as if it’ll bring you any sort of comfort. Instead it just makes you more worried— an angry Max is a force to be reckoned with and you pray to whoever’s above that Lando can handle it.

Lando can feel Max’s eyes burning into him, despite being under a car.

They’re in the garage, the scent of motor oil and gasoline lingering in the warm air. Max leans back against a workbench, energy drink in hand, while Lando lays on a mechanic creeper and keeps his hands busy or else he’d be fiddling with his fingers and that’s something Max always notices.

He pulls himself from under the car just enough to reach a hand out. “Wrench.”

Max drops it into his hand with added force. “So, you wanna tell me about last night?”

Lando pulls himself fully from under the car, but just as he tries to get up, he bumps his forehead against the undercarriage. “Fuck,” he rubs the hurt skin as he sits up. “What about it?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Lando.” Max’s jaw tightens. “My sister came home at two in the morning and I woke up to your car outside my house.”

Lando exhales, getting up from the ground as he wipes his hands on the fabric hanging from his hips. He always worked shirtless with only a flannel tied around his waist and his work jeans on. “She called me for a ride, I picked her up.”

Max tilts his head, accusatory, before taking a sip of his drink. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Lando shrugs, trying his best to hide what he truly feels. He’s fucking terrified of Max, because he knows one wrong word could mean Max socking Lando right in the jaw, no hesitation.

“She came home in your hoodie,” Max points out.

Lando lays back down on the mechanic creeper after getting what he needed and goes back under the car. “She was cold,” he says, casually.

“You don’t just give people your hoodie.”

Lando peeks his head out with a raised brow and a teasing smirk on his face. “What, you jealous or something?”

“You’re not funny.” Max glares at him, unamused.

The curly-haired man disappeared again, working on the suspension system of his older car. “You used to think I was hilarious.”

“Yeah, well, I used to think you weren’t a fucking problem, too.” Max hisses, again pacing the small space of Lando’s garage. “What are you doing, man?”

“What does it look like?” Lando pokes his head out again, confused, wrench in hand.

“It looks like you’re getting too close to my sister.”

Lando clenches his jaw, pulling himself back up from under the car, this time making sure not to hit his head. “I’m not.”

“I don’t buy it.” Max shrugs simply, anger, frustration and betrayal still radiating off of him.

Lando decides he’s done for the day and picks up his tools from the ground, walking over to his workbench. “She needed a ride home, so I drove her home. That’s all.”

Max studies him for a few seconds, trying to find something, anything, beneath the nonchalance that Lando was trying so hard to upkeep. Lando made sure there was nothing at surface level for Max to find.

Because if Max—if anyone— knew that something shifted in Lando that night, that something’s been shifting for way longer than Lando’s willing to admit, Max wouldn’t be standing here making civil conversation— he’d be throwing punches.

“It better fucking be all.” Max hisses again. “You keep your distance. She’s not some random girl you can mess with whenever you please.”

Lando’s stomach twists, like he didn’t already know you were more than just a girl. Lando couldn’t bring himself to say anything other than, “don’t worry, mate. She’s not my type.”

Max doesn’t say anything for a while, just stares at Lando with a look that makes something inside Lando’s chest feel heavy, and walks away.

You’re peacefully scrolling on your phone, watching the newest internet drama, when you hear two knocks on your door, and then another one a few seconds later. You recognised it to be Lando’s knock, the same one he’d do on Max’s door to let him know it was him and not you at his door, back when Max did everything in his power not to spend time with you.

You get up from your bed, feeling how Lando’s hoodie falls down to your mid-thighs when you stand, and open the door. Your eyes widen when it is, in fact, Lando that’s knocking. You grab him by the collar of his shirt and pull him inside your room, peeking your head out to check if anyone saw him. Thankfully, the coast is clear.

“Are you crazy?” You shut the door behind yourself and turn to look at the curly-haired brunette in your room. “You could’ve got caught.”

Lando steps closer, hands finding their place on your waist while his lips make home at the cusp of your shoulder and neck. “Had to see you,” he mumbles between sloppy kisses to your skin.

Your breath shudders. “Max is downstairs.”

“He’s on a call, ordering food. I have maybe five minutes.”

You push him away, a questioning look on your face. “And you thought the best use of those five minutes was to sneak into my room?”

Lando grins. “Obviously.”

You shake your head, trying to fight the smile as Lando leans in. “You’re insane,” you mumble against his lips.

“I’m starting to think you like that about me.”

His hands trail up your thighs, under the hoodie—his hoodie—and up your bare belly. He’s trying to not rush you, to take time and explore this with you. It’s new, for the both of you, and Lando would hate himself if he ruined it just because he’s so eager to have you.

Your back is pressed against the door and you’re softly mumbling sweet nothings into Lando’s mouth when you hear footsteps nearing up the stairs. Both of you freeze, unsure of what to do. Your eyes quickly scan over your room and you immediately shove Lando towards your closet door when you land your gaze on it. Once he’s all hidden, you quickly jump onto your bed, cover yourself with your blanket and try to act as casual as possible.

There’s a knock at your door and then Max peeks his head inside. “You good?”

“Yeah?” You lift your head, resting it against your palm as you lean on your elbow. “Why?”

Max does a quick once-over of your room. “Thought I heard voices.”

“Oh, it’s probably just my phone,” you pick it up from underneath you and wave it in the air. “Do you remember that one super annoying couple?”

Max leans against your doorframe, curious. “Yeah?” He studied the look on your face as you typed something into your phone. “Wait, no way. Did they break up?”

He’s now stepping into your room, sitting down at the foot of your bed as he patiently waits for you to show him. “Fucking finally,” Max laughs when the video ends. “I gotta tell Lando, we made a bet on how long they’ll last, and he lost.”

“Aw, Lando had faith in those two?” You tilt your head to the side, briefly glancing at the closet as you fail at holding back your giggle. “That’s unusual.”

“I know right? That guy barely has faith in anything.” Max gets back up and starts walking out of your room. “Oh, by the way, have you seen him?”

“Hm?” You glance back up from your phone. “Oh, Lando? Is he over?”

“Yeah, we’re watching the race downstairs.”

“I didn’t know,” you shrug. “Haven’t seen him.”

Max looks at you with narrowed eyes, like he wants to ask something but doesn’t bother. “Alright. We ordered food, come down in 10 if you want some.”

“Cool, thanks.” You shout to him as he closes the door behind himself. You wait another ten seconds before quietly making your way to the closet.

Lando stood in the corner of it, arms folded, scowling. “You owe me for this,” he mutters.

You snort. “Apparently you owe Max, too.”

“Hey, in my defence, the guy talked to me about marrying her and I was rooting for him.” He steps out of the closet, hands immediately on you again.

You giggle, feeling him kiss your neck. “Next time, let’s not make out with my brother ten feet away.

Lando leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Next time, I’m locking the door.”

It’s been a long day at university and you were feeling tired.

What’s worse is that you had to go study for an upcoming test and couldn’t afford to skip another day, so you lazily stepped down the stairs at the front of the facility and heaved a sigh, looking down at your phone. Suddenly, it buzzed with a notification from someone you didn’t expect to hear from.

Lando: Look up.

You lift your eyes, confused, and that’s when you see his sleek, black car, him leaning against the side of it with a soft smile on his face when you see him. He opens his arms and you carefully run across the street to envelop him in a hug. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought I could drive you home.” He pressed his lips to your forehead. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to walk.”

You playfully slap his arm and place your head back on his chest. “Thank you,” you mutter.

The drive to your house is quiet, but not awkward. Lando can tell you’re tired from school and he softly places his hand on your thigh, kneading the skin to try and comfort you in the only way he knew how. You could tell he was trying his best to show his affection to you in ways he wasn’t used to– the other day, he called you late at night and asked how your day went, intently listening to every detail you told him. He memorised your coffee order from that time and bought you coffee, that’s now peacefully sitting on your desk, in your room, as you and Lando make out on your bed.

“When does Max get home?” Lando asks, hastily, between kisses to your exposed chest.

Your fingers are palming the curls at the base of his neck as Lando leaves faint hickeys along your breast. “He said later tonight.”

Lando continues to trail kisses down your torso, pausing at the waistband of your sweatpants. He looks up at you without a word, but as if to ask if it’s okay for him to go further, to not hold back in fear of breaking you. You reach down and untie the drawstring of your pants, watching as Lando’s fingers gently hook underneath the waistband and pull your sweatpants down, fully off of your body.

You feel bare, exposed, but it’s not intimidating like you thought it’d be. Lando was gentle with you, placing soft bites followed by tender kisses to your thighs, inching closer to where you needed him the most. Your hips buckled upwards, urging Lando to do something to help the ache between your legs.

Just as he’s hooking his fingers under the waistband of your pink underwear, you hear the front door open. Lando immediately rises to his feet and bolts across the hall to Max’s room, pretending that he was waiting for him there to begin with. You lift your head confused and hear Max climbing up the stairs. You manage to shut the door before he reaches it and you rest with your back against it.

“You in there?” Max knocks once on your door and you hold your breath.

You quickly pick up whatever clothes you can find on your floor and tug them on before opening your bedroom door, face flushed. “Yeah? What’s up?”

“What’s Lando’s car doing in the driveway?” He crosses his arms over his chest, looking at you with suspicion riddled across his features.

“Oh,” you swallow, harshly. “Uh, I don’t know. He’s in your room if you want to ask him yourself.”

Max gives you a narrow-eyed look, trying to notice anything odd about your appearance. He peeks his head into the crevice of your door and looks around your room, before walking away and you finally let out the breath you were holding, shutting the door behind yourself.

Meanwhile, Lando was sprawled out onto the couch in Max’s room, scrolling through his phone. When Max walked in, Lando sat up. “Hey, you ready to go?”

“Go where?” Max furrows his brows and when Lando mimics a drinking action, Max remembers. “Fuck, the party.”

A few hours later, Lando found himself nursing a glass bottle of non-alcoholic beer on the couch in Lauren’s home.

Lauren was a mutual friend of yours too, so when Max offered you to join him and Lando, you happily agreed. Although, you didn’t account for how hard it’d be not to blab to Lauren about you and Lando’s newly found feelings. She’s telling you something about her current boyfriend, who you failed to find in the crowd, but pretended like you did. In reality, you were looking at Lando. You were admiring the way his black t-shirt hugged his skin tighter around his biceps, the way his curls poked out of his maroon cap and the way the lights from the other rooms cast a perfect shadow on his side-profile.

Meanwhile, he tried his best not to look at you, because Max was right across from him and turning his head would mean Max would follow suit. Instead, Lando watches the other people in the room. He makes the grave mistake of looking at this one girl, Madeline, twice within a few minutes and she took it as a sign to seat herself next to him.

“Hey,” she bites her bottom lip, holding back a smile. “Don’t think we’ve officially met, I’m Madeline.”

“Nice to meet you,” Lando gives her a faux smile and turns back to reading the label on his beer bottle. It seemed to be much more interesting to look at than the girl touching his arm.

Madeline tilts her head with a laugh. “I won’t get to hear your name?”

Lando briefly looks up at Max, who’s standing across the room and urging Lando to smoothly talk his way into Madeline’s pants. He rolls his eyes and looks away, again. “Lando,” he grumbles.

“Lando,” she repeats, seductive. “Nice name.”

Lando gives her a side-eyed look. “…thanks?”

She bites her bottom lip again, trying to lure him in, throwing the bait but Lando isn’t biting. He’s uninterested, because each time he looks at Madeline, his eyes drift to the girl standing in the room behind her— you. You’re talking to Lauren, laughing at something she said as you nurse your red solo cup.

When Madeline leans in, so close to Lando’s ear that her breath fanning against his skin makes it erupt in goosebumps, he feels nauseous. “Wanna go upstairs? There’s a condom in the drawer with your name on it.”

By this point, Max has come close enough to hear the conversation and nudges Lando’s shoulder when he notices the hesitation. Lando looks up at his friend with a confused look. Max’s eyes flicker between Lando and Madeline when he says, “I’ll save your seat for you.”

Madeline smiles at Max’s attempt to help before softly hooking her finger under Lando’s chin and turning him to face her. “So?”

Lando snorts at the thought that just flashed in his mind. “Y’know, Max’s name is also on most condoms, why don’t you take him upstairs instead?”

Lando watches as Madeline grimaces, looking at the two guys before mumbling something incoherent and walking away. The curly-haired man’s eyes immediately fall to you, leaving Max under the impression that Lando’s watching Madeline walk away.

When Lando looks back at Max, he’s met with a scowl. “What?” He shrugs his shoulders and raises his hands, ready to defend himself against Max’s judgement.

Max sits down on the coffee table in front of Lando, quoting something Lando had said months ago. “Oh, I’d tap that.” He puts on an accent that mimics Lando’s one, but in a way that’s clearly mocking his best friend’s words.

Lando pinches the bridge of his nose, not sure how to get himself out of this one. “That was ages ago.”

“Isn’t she, like, the epitome of your type?” Max recalls another thing Lando had said late at night in his garage. Lando had, in fact, said that Madeline was exactly his type, but that was back before he tapped into his feelings for you.

Lando shrugs before he takes another swig of his beer. “Not anymore.”

Max gives him one last look, clearly confused by how Lando could reject Madeline, of all people. “You’re fucking weird, dude,” he says over the neck of his beer bottle and walks away to find something else to drink.

It’s a few minutes before Lando decides that it’s safe to move from his seat, making a beeline to where he last saw you. The kitchen is empty of your presence, only the faint smell of your perfume lingering in the air. He pulls out his phone to text you and just as he clicks on your contact, he hears familiar laughter coming from the next room.

He finds you leaning against the doorframe to the dining room, still talking to the girl from before. Lauren locks eyes with Lando and nudges towards him with her chin while looking at you. “I’ll see you later,” she squeezes your elbow and walks away.

You feel Lando’s touch on your skin before he even gets the chance to talk. It’s darker in this room, less people, higher chances of getting caught— but that’s what makes it more exciting.

You turn around, back to the nearest wall as Lando leans against the doorframe, mimicking you just moments ago. He crosses his arms over his chest, biceps bulging and drawing your attention. “Smooth move earlier,” you mutter with a little teasing glint in your eye.

He huffed a laugh. “She was being persistent.”

“Thought she was your type?” You ask, trying to sound casual but it comes out more desperate than intended. Lando gave you a look, small smile and raised eyebrows, as he took a swig of his drink.

After a moment of him checking you out, he mutters, “not anymore.”

“Yeah?” You looked at him with a raised brow. “What’s your type then?”

Lando steps closer to you, hand immediately cupped against your jaw, fingers between your hair as he pulls you in. “I think we both know.”

His breath fans over your face as he leans in to kiss you, his free hand placing the empty beer bottle on the fireplace next to you. Just as his lips are about to touch yours, someone slams the bathroom door and both of you jump at the sound.

Both of you turn to look at the direction of the sound, only to be met with a guy stumbling out of the room. Lando drops his head as a laugh of relief leaves his lips.

He looks around again, cautious, alert. Then, when his green eyes focus on your face again, his pupils dilate just the smallest bit, but you notice it. Lando nudges his head behind him, “meet me out back in ten?”

You nod, biting your bottom lip and he walks off, disappearing somewhere between the drunk crowd of people.

The ten minutes before you sneak out to see Lando go by slower than anticipated. To pass the time, you decided to tour the house, as if you’ve never been there before— you loiter around the hallways, admiring everything picture and painting on the wall.

“Oh, hey,” Max’s voice startles you just as you start looking for where the door to the backyard is. “Have you seen Lando?”

“No?” You furrow your brows, trying to act as confused and offended as possible. “Why would I have seen him?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Anyway, if you see him, tell him to check his damn phone.”

You watch your brother storm off, heading upstairs and when he’s out of your line of sight, you bolt towards the living room. You squeeze past the numerous people in your way and try your best to find the door to the backyard.

When you finally step out into the night, the cold air hitting your arms as soon as you do, Lando’s leaning against the wall by the door, in the shadow.

“You sure no one followed you?” Lando reaches out his hand and you take it, following him behind the side of the house.

You scoff, “you think I don’t know how to sneak around by now?”

He presses you against the wall, lips immediately on your neck. “Touche.”

The night envelops you two in a blanket of darkness, coolth and risk. Lando kisses down your neck to your shoulder, leaving mild hickeys that’ll go away in a few hours. When his lips find home on yours again, you let your fingers get lost in the curls at the nape of his neck and he pulls you in closer with a gentle hand on your jaw.

There’s a rustling at the door to the backyard but neither of you are bothered enough to pause and check what it is. It’s only when Max’s voice cuts through the night that both of you halt your movements. “Oh, there you are.”

Lando turns to face Max, using his body to shield you from your brother while they talk. “Yeah? Kinda busy here, mate.”

“I was just gonna ask if you could get my sister home later, I’m going out with Mason for a few hours.” Max spins his house keys on his finger before throwing them towards Lando, and the curly-haired man in front of you catches it with no problem. “You can crash on the couch in my room if you want.”

“Alright, see you.” Lando says with an urgency in his voice that Max takes as a sign. Your brother winks at Lando before disappearing back inside the house. “Christ,” Lando rests his head on your shoulder as he takes a few breaths, adrenaline pumping through his veins at what could’ve gone so wrong so quickly.

“Did he see?” You ask, cautiously glaring over the corner of the house to check if Max was truly gone.

Lando pulled away, his face perfectly illuminated from the left side by the glowing porch light and fairy-lights that adorned the fence behind him. “I hope not or else I’m a dead man.”

“If it makes you feel better, you’d be a handsome corpse.”

The walk back to your home is short, the cold night enveloping you in a secure sense of calm.

Lando’s warm hand in yours kept you grounded, meanwhile the stars in the sky built your hope up. Your house comes into view and Lando swings the keys in his hand, whistling a tune only he knew the melody of.

He unlocked the door and as soon as you heard it click shut, his lips were on yours. You barely made it up the stairs and into your bedroom, tumbling over each other and giggling at the mumbled curse words falling from his lips.

Once in your room, Lando doesn’t bother to close the door. He’s too focused on how good his hands feel on your hips, how your soft whimpers vibrate in your throat before escaping through the space in your kiss and how long he’s been waiting for this moment.

It all happens in a blur— one second you’re at your bedroom door, the next you’re laying with your back pressed against your mattress, Lando hovering above you, trailing kisses down your shoulder as he unzips the jacket he gave you and pulls it off your body.

You’re exposed, nervous and unable to speak when Lando suckles on the skin atop your ribs. His lips burn into each crevice of your flesh, hands heating your hips as they envelop the skin, eyelids closed shut with fluttering eyelashes on his cheeks.

Lando kisses you like he’s worshipping you— he’s gentle, cautious, exploring your body like it’s a temple and he’s blessed to be allowed to even look at you.

His tongue runs along the space between your breasts, peppering kisses as he wraps them around your neck, trails them along your jaw until he reaches your lips. Lando kisses you with urgency, with hunger and deep-seated yearning that etched itself into your bones.

You felt how badly he needed you, how large his hunger had grown, how intensely his craving for you radiated off of his tan skin.

He’s sloppily kissing your lips, fingers inching closer to the waistband of your panties when he pulls away. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

“Don’t stop,” you breathe against his lips, barely managing to get a word out before he’s tugging them off of you.

Both of you are so enveloped in each other, so caught up in the moment, that neither of you notice him in the doorway.

“What the actual fuck are you doing?” Max’s voice trembles through the room. Lando pulls away from you, eyes wide and glossy, lips parted in a gasp. The hands you had tangled in his curls were desperately trying to find something to cover your body with. You landed on the jacket Lando pulled off of you earlier.

You’re too focused on not breaking into tears that you don’t notice how close Lando and Max are standing.

“Tell me this isn’t happening. Tell me you weren’t fucking my sister.” Max’s rageful tone lumbers a fire in his chest that’s only growing bigger with each second he watches the scene in front of him— you, pulling the jacket closer to yourself as you try to get decent and Lando standing shirtless in front of Max, lips puffy from kissing you. It makes Max’s blood boil.

Lando runs a hand through his hair, taking a breath like he’s trying to come up with something to say— like there’s anything he could say that would make this better. “Max—“

“No, don’t say my fucking name like you haven’t crossed every boundary I’ve set.” Max pushes Lando’s chest.

You watch the fight unfold— Max’s eyes burning into Lando’s, betrayal, anger and hurt painted all over his face. Lando was standing calmly, alarmed but he kept it at bay.

Lando doesn’t hold back. “I love her.”

The breath in your throat catches and tears prick your eyes as soon as the words leave his lips. Max freezes for a second, long enough for the words to land, hard and heavy. And then—

He swings. Hard.

The punch lands square on Lando’s jaw with a sickening crack. You gasp, standing to your feet almost immediately, but Lando barely stumbles— he wipes the blood from the corner from his mouth and stands upright, rolling his shoulders.

“You think that makes it better?” Max says. “You think loving her gives you the right to sneak around like this? And you couldn’t come to me? Not a single fucking word.”

“You wouldn’t have understood,” Lando’s breath is steady, voice sharp. “You never would’ve let me. I was trying to protect what we have.”

“We?” Max huffs out a humorless laugh. “What about her? You think she needs some arrogant asshole sneaking her around like a fucking coward?”

“I’m not a coward.” Lando exhales through his nose. “And I’d take a hundred more punches from you than hide this for another day.”

Max’s fist twitches, like he’s going to hit Lando again, but he doesn’t. His eyes snap to you. “And you just let him? Him, of all fucking peop—“

“She didn’t let me do anything.” Lando cuts in, his tone harsher now that the blame shifted to you. “She chose me just like I chose her. So if you’re going to hate someone, hate me, but leave her out of this.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

You’re standing, tears falling down your cheeks. Lando’s still bleeding down his chin, but he doesn’t care— all he cares about now is that Max doesn’t lash out on you for no reason.

Max’s eyes flicker between the two of you. They’re filled with fury, betrayal, hurt. But mostly confusion.

Lando reaches his hand out to you as he speaks again, “I didn’t come here to hurt you. But I won’t apologise for loving her.”

His heart is pounding. He didn’t expect to confess to both the Fewtrell siblings in one night.

Max just stares at him, jaw clenched so hard like it might snap. “Get out,” he finally said. Not shouting, not loud, just final.

Lando glances at you for permission, fear flashing across his face as if he was asking if this was it. You nod slowly, squeezing his hand three times— one for each word of i love you. “Just give me a moment, okay?”

He nods, muttering a quiet okay and watches as you lead Max out of your room into the hallway.

And now it’s just the two of you. The Max Storm isn’t over, but it hangs above you like a calm thundercloud now. You knew he couldn’t be as upset with you as he pretended to be.

You saw past his furrowed brows and deep inside, somewhere between his ribcage, was the same boy you grew alongside with, collecting rocks and sticks to make a mud cake.

Max doesn’t say anything for a while. He just stands there, eyes closed, head resting against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Do you remember the treehouse?” You test the waters, standing across from him with your back against the wall. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him.

Max sighs. “What about it?”

“I used to hide out there when you were upset with me.” You admit. “All the heart carvings were me. But the stars on the floor of it were Lando.”

Max’s head snaps up, eyes reading your face. “What?”

“Yeah,” you laugh a little. “He found me there when looking for you and I was crying. I was like, I dunno, thirteen or fourteen. He climbed up without a word, sat down next to me and started carving.”

“Why is this relevant?”

You sigh. “He’s not an arrogant asshole to me when we’re alone.”

“That’s not-“ Max drops his hands, his shoulders sinking. “You’re my sister. I’m supposed to protect you.”

Your bottom lip quivers as you try your best to keep your composure and to not crack under the weight of your brother’s anger. “I didn’t need you to protect me from him. He listens to me, he– he waits. He’s different, Max, and you just refuse to see it.”

Max runs both his hands down his face, turning his eyes towards the hallway— he can’t get himself to look at you. “Do you love him?”

You inhale sharply, the question catching you off guard. And then, softly, as if you’d crumble as soon as you said it: “Yes.”

That’s what breaks him. Not the intimacy, not the secrecy, but the quiet, unshakeable truth in your affirmation of the one thing he was always most scared of.

He nods once, not shaking the intimidating older brother demeanor, even though he knows you see right through it. “You’re serious about him.”

“I am.” You bite the inside of your cheek, anxiety coursing through your veins faster than the adrenaline of being caught by your brother, in bed with his best friend.

“And him?” Max nods his head towards the door, clenching his jaw at the indirect mention of Lando. “He better be serious about you, too, or else I swear to–”

“He is,” you finish before he can even start threatening Lando. “He’s more serious than I imagined. Maybe even more serious than me. You just– You have to give him a chance, Max.”

Your brother just stands there, a shell of himself compared to how excited he was earlier this evening, at Mason’s party. You worry this will affect your relationship, both with Lando and with Max, and you can’t help but break into a quiet cry.

You use the sleeve to wipe away a tear off your jaw. “Do you… Do you hate me?”

Max’s shoulders immediately drop, his voice softer. “I could never hate you.”

You swallow hard, nodding your head. “I’m sorry it happened this way.”

He lets out a sad laugh. “Yeah, didn’t expect to lose my best friend tonight.”

You immediately reach out to touch Max’s arm, about to open your mouth to try and better the situation between them, but before you can even mumble a word, Max is pulling away and walking down the stairs. “I need time. I’ll be at Mason’s.” He says as he steps down the last stair, and you stand at the top of them, listening.

The front door closes shut. There’s no slam, just a quiet close of the red, wooden door. It somehow breaks you more than if he had slammed it shut.

Lando waits patiently on your bed, using his T-shirt as a wipe, trying his best to get the drying blood off of his chin. When the door to your bedroom opens, his eyes immediately flash to you and he can tell it didn’t go well.

Lando closes the distance between you two almost immediately, discarding his bloody shirt to the floor as his arms wrap around you, warm, like home. “Are you okay?” He murmurs against your hair.

You nod with your face still pressed against his chest, fingers curling around him and settling on being lazily draped on his waist. “I will be. Are you?”

His chest rises underneath you, the events of that night hanging heavy in the air around you. “Took a punch to the jaw from my best friend, so… Not exactly my best night. But you’re here with me, that’s all I need.”

You pull away enough to look up at him, enough to notice the purpling bruise on his jaw and the split in his lip. Guilt coils itself deep inside your stomach. “I’m so sorry,” you whisper, tears pricking your eyes again.

“Don’t,” he cups your jaw, thumb softly caressing your skin before he pulls you close again, his cheek resting against the crown of your head. “You don’t have to apologise, not for any of it.”

After a few deep breaths and another two minutes of just standing there, holding each other, you pull away. Lando’s heart breaks at the tear stains on your cheeks, but you ignore his sad expression and mutter, “let me clean you up.”

Lando stands in front of you as you sit on the cupboard, next to the sink, his hands on either side of your spread legs as he stands between them.

You’re dabbing a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic onto the cut on his lip. “Hold still,” you order him and he raises a brow.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You give him a look. “Not the time.”

“Okay,” you dab the cotton against his lip again and he winces in pain, but stays still. “Fuck, it stings.”

“Well, you did get punched.” You point out the obvious, shaking your head with disappointment. “You’re such an idiot.”

The irony of your words doesn’t get lost on Lando— he said the same thing to you months ago, when he drove you home from the party.

“I know,” he shrugs. “Worth it though.”

“Yeah?” You ask, a little bit in disbelief. “Getting punched by my brother is worth it?”

Lando puts his hands on your waist, sending shivers up your spine. “If it meant I get to be with you, I’d let him punch me a million times more.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile as you continue working on cleaning him up. “You’re lucky I haven’t punched you myself.”

“Fair,” he grins and tries his best to hold as still as he can. His fingers dig into your skin as a way to keep himself at bay, and with the weight of his touch, you weren’t sure if he was holding back just because of the pain anymore.

A moment passes— one in which Lando can’t stop looking at your focused face and you try your best not to get too flustered because of it. Your brain has been running a mile a minute since Max caught you and it only now had time to process what actually happened.

“You said you loved me.” You say, cautiously, like you’re scared he’ll tell you he didn’t mean it. That was your biggest worry at that moment— Lando just saying things, not knowing if he meant it.

“Yeah,” he says it so casually, like his words were weightless. “I did.”

You halt your movements, dropping your hands into your lap as you look anywhere but at him. “Did you mean it or was it something you said to calm Max down?”

Lando laughs a little. “If I wanted to calm him down, I wouldn’t have said that.”

You bite your bottom lip with anxiety and nod, “right.”

He narrows his eyes, pushing his palms onto the counter as his head dips a bit to see you better. “I meant it,” he says after a moment. “It might’ve not been the ideal way to tell you, but it’s true.”

You place your head on his shoulder, still not looking up at him. The drawstring of his sweatpants gets pulled into your grasp as you fidget with it, not sure if you should ask this, but you do. “How long have you known?”

“I don’t know,” his voice is soft, as if he was afraid of being heard. “It just kinda snuck up on me one day and hasn’t left me ever since.”

You nod, pulling yourself up to continue working on his lip. “Okay.”

“That’s all you’re gonna say?” Lando tilts his head to the side, much like a small, confused puppy would.

“It’s a lot to process,” you shrug, eyes so focused on his lips that you don’t notice his eyes so glued on your face. “I need a minute.”

“That’s okay.” He smiles, hands finding their place on your hips again. “Take your time, I’m not going anywhere.”

“And you should probably not say that around Max anymore.”

Lando licks his lips with a laugh. “Duly noted. You gonna kiss me or keep playing nurse?”

You raise a brow, finally looking at him— his green eyes are no longer hinting at the sadness of the fight he had with Max and rather a glint of something brighter shines in them, something you’ve noticed only happens when he’s looking at you.

“Let the lip heal first.” You kiss his cheek but Lando won’t settle for that.

He cups your chin, softly yet firmly turning you to look at him. “Fuck the lip, I want to kiss my girl.”

That’s when it comes.

The moment you two had been dreaming of, yet every time it got close, something got in the way. Lando’s hands traveled from your hips to your jacket, unzipping it to reveal your bare body again.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he mumbled against your lips, ignoring the stinging of the cut on his bottom one. No amount of injury would keep him away from you.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, drawing him in closer. The way he kissed you was addicting— with every passing second it felt like his lips became more of a lifeline for you, like if he were to pull away right now, you’d feel a part of you go missing.

Your nails softly traced formless shapes in his scalp, sending shivers down his spine as his lips left hickeys beside the ones he had decorated you with earlier.

His hands settle on your thighs, slowly inching closer and when he triggers a spot on your skin that was particularly sensitive to his touch, your knees try to close but hit his hips instead. He pulled you closer to the edge of the sink, his hold on you so careful like he might break you.

His lips are still on your neck when he mutters, “wrap your legs around me.”

You do as told, wrapping your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck as he picks you up, carrying you across the hall to your bedroom. He lays you on the bed again— the door shut this time— wasting no time as he unties his sweatpants.

You don’t notice him reach over to the drawer of your nightstand, taking out the condom he slipped in from his jacket right when Max came into your room. All hell would’ve broken loose if it had somehow fallen out of the jacket when you wore it.

You feel him pressing against you and another second passes before you’re gasping at him pushing into you, filling you up. “I know,” he coos, lips softly peppering kisses down your jaw. “You can take it.”

Lando stills his hips for a second, not moving as you take time to adjust. The excitement and anticipation grows so big in your belly that it jolts your hips slightly upwards, making Lando groan at the feeling.

“I’ll move a bit, yeah?” He looks into your eyes, pushing away the hair that fell messily onto your forehead.

You nod your head and he pulls out. Immediately, you feel the need for more, for him. When Lando pushes his tip past your folds again, setting a slow rhythm, you whimper softly against his mouth. Lando can’t help but moan quietly, the feeling of your walls around his cock being better than he ever imagined.

Those nights of his hand wrapped around his length, your name spilling from his lips as he came undone on his own chest were nothing like having you— a whimpering mess— underneath him.

He speeds up just the smallest bit, adding more force to his thrusts, and rolls his hips anytime they make contact with yours. The sound of skin-on-skin contact and shy moans fills the room.

Lando’s necklace dangles in your face and, for some odd reason, it turns you on even more. Your hips jut against his and you mutter, “faster.”

The sound of your voice when he’s thrusting into you made Lando come closer to the edge. He speeds up again, fingers digging so deeply into your hips that he was sure would leave a mark.

You gasp at the feeling of him pulling your hips up towards him with every thrust, your eyes squeezed shut as your mouth parted, loud moans bouncing off the walls of the room.

“You look so pretty like this,” he kissed your jaw, softly biting down on the skin to earn more pretty sounds from you.

Every word you try to say gets drowned out by your moans or muted by Lando kissing you, and then you feel the pleasure build up so quickly that you’re unable to tell him when you come undone. Lando felt your walls pulse around him tighter and knew to keep the pace, thrusting into you as deeply as he could.

“Look at me,” he ordered, eyes already looking at your closed ones. When your pupils meet his, you feel him reach down between your bodies and gently rub your clit. “Y’gonna cum on my cock, baby? Hm?”

Tears prick your eyes as Lando speeds up the tiniest amount, drilling into you with all he’s got as his right middle finger draws circles on your aching bud. And then, with a breathy moan, Lando feels you come undone.

He thrusts a little more, reaching for his high with his lips pressed to your shoulder. You feel a warmth inside you before Lando stills.

The next few minutes are of you two just laying in each other's embrace, not moving— aside from your fingers in Lando’s hair and his fingers drawing circles on your hips— and simply soaking in the calm after the storm.

It’s been two days since Max’s knuckles made friends with Lando’s jaw.

Mason found it quite funny— he never really liked Lando to begin with, so hearing that he fucked up in Max’s eyes made him that much more motivated to add fuel to the fire. He sat on the couch in his living room, watching as Max played some video game on the playstation.

Another twenty minutes of uninterrupted gameplay passes before Max’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He’s so focused on the game that he doesn’t even check who’s calling, assumes it’s you, and presses the green button before putting the device up to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Lando’s voice cuts through Max’s focus on the game. He immediately pauses it, rage building in his chest.

Max takes a breath, trying to calm down before answering. “What do you want?”

“I’m thinking of breaking up with her.”

Max feels his heart drop to his heels. He’s what?

On the other end of the call, Lando’s got his head in his hands as his phone lays atop his knee. He’s in his car, the already small space getting even smaller as his shallow exhales fill the air.

He’s parked outside your house where, just five minutes ago, he left you peacefully sleeping.

Over the last two days he had spent with you— all the slow dancing in the kitchen, the breaths bouncing off each other’s faces from being so close in the morning, the moments where his hands traversed your body like it was land unknown to anyone else but him— Lando realised that maybe he could do this forever.

And that scared him.

He’s always been a free man— going wherever he pleases whenever he wants, having no responsibility for anyone else other than himself— but now there’s you.

Lando’s life feels like it’s split into two parts. The part before you seems free, fun, inviting yet gloomy. Like there’s an essential element of it that’s just missing, thus making his existence in that time seem like exactly that— existing.

The part after you, though, that part is what’s so new yet scary to him. Rather than existing through his days, he lives them because of you.

It’s a lot more domestic, this life— waking up in tangled sheets, making and burning pancakes in the morning as soft music spills from the speakers, sitting tangled on the couch as you read a book and Lando played a game on Max’s console. He’s not sure what happened for it to feel so wrong when everything was going so well.

This morning, Lando watched you sleep. So serene, solemn and still. Your bare chest rose and fell with steady breaths, soft snores lingering at the back of your throat every once in a while.

He stayed like that— propped up on his elbow, eyes tracing over every inch of your face— until the weight in his chest felt like his ribs were breaking.

As he was getting dressed, he questioned it. He loves you— hell, he’s loved you for years, but he was too stupid to realise it sooner— and he knows you’re the girl he wants, so why is he running?

He’s quietly making his way down the stairs when he realises that maybe Max was right. Max made it clear that Lando wasn’t the guy for you, that you deserve much better, and while Lando disagreed with it before, he feels like it’s true.

He spent the majority of his later teens and early adulthood with more women than he could count on one hand, not a single one of them made him question his feelings, because there weren’t any.

But now, with you sleeping soundly upstairs and him standing by the open front door, Lando realises that maybe somewhere in the middle of your blooming relationship, he got too caught up in the delusion to face reality— you deserve someone who won’t walk out on you while you’re asleep.

For the past five minutes, Lando sat in the driver's seat, clutching the wheel so hard that his knuckles turned white. He didn’t want to call Max about this, but he was the only person in the world that Lando trusted and it was worth a shot.

“You what?” Max’s voice rang in Lando’s ears. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“You were right, I– I’m not the guy for her.” Lando’s voice sounded so flat that it made Max worried, just the tiniest bit. “She deserves better.”

“Mate, if it’s about what I said, I’ll fucking get over it eventually.” Max is now pacing around Mason’s living room while the blond man just watches him, a glimmer of hope in his eye that Max failed to catch. “But her? She’ll never get over you, Lando.”

“You don’t know that, Max.”

Max inhales sharply, as if he was just about to spew a string of insults at Lando but chose to take the calmer approach. “I do know that, she’s so fucking in love with you that it makes me sick. Do you realise how much you walking out will fuck her up?”

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” Lando’s starting his car now, still hesitant to turn the key. “It’s what’s best for her.”

“Since when do you decide that?” Max huffs a humorless laugh. “At least just talk to her, dude. I’ll get over you two dating but what I won’t forgive you for is walking out on both of us.”

“Bye, Max.” Lando inhales a deep breath and before his best friend can speak again, he’s ending the call.

The smell of cinnamon, bananas and something burning hits Max’s nose the second he opens the front door to his house. He steps into the kitchen slowly, eyes scanning the mess— flour dusted across the countertops like snow, dishes cluttering the sink, you aggressively mixing something in a big, blue bowl.

“What are you doing?”

You halt your movements, turning around to Max with the fakest smile he’s ever seen from you. “Baking. Banana bread, you want some?”

Max watches as you pull out the banana bread— that looks more like a chunk of coal— out of the oven. “Nah, I’ll pass.”

He knew not to push, not to ask because, in reality, he shouldn’t even care. You betrayed him as much as Lando did, but you’re his little sister and Max would be damned if he let you set the house on fire with your baking.

Max took a seat at one of the stools, eyes intently watching you. You never baked, not unless you were trying to occupy your mind by occupying your hands.

“I talked to Lando,” he says casually, like he didn’t hate the guy.

He notices the halt in your movements, the knife stilling in the burnt loaf. “Cool,” you shrug.

“He said he’s ending things with you.”

“And why do you think that is, Max?” You slam the knife down onto the counter with enough force to make Max jolt. “You got into his head.”

“I didn’t mean for him to take that shit seriously.” Your brother runs a hand down his face. “I was angry, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I wanted him to leave you.”

“You punched him, that’s not something to take lightly.” You say, a little quieter this time, a little more hurt.

Max notices the silent glimmer of a plea in your eyes, like you’re asking him what you should do. “You should talk to him.”

“And say what?” Your voice breaks as tears begin to roll down your cheeks, shoulders dropping. “He left me, Max, he le-“

A loud sob echoes in the kitchen and Max’s arms are around you immediately. He caresses your back, softly kissing your head as his arms squeeze you tighter.

“He’s at the garage, probably hasn’t left all day.” He mutters. “I’m not telling you to go fix it, but if you want answers, that’s where you’ll get them.”

Max watches your face as you pull away and wipe your tears with your sleeve. “Okay.”

“Go, I’ll clean up your mess.” Max gives your shoulders a soft squeeze and turns to the lump of coal you called banana bread.

Lando’s garage had always been his hideout.

The lights were always on too late and, even from across the street, you could see a sliver of fluorescent glow bleeding out through the cracked garage door.

You were parked at the end of his driveway. The air, thick and way too warm, smelled like motor oil and rubber, and it reminded you of simpler days— your legs dangling off the workbench while your boyfriend tinkered with something, grease smudging his fingers and face.

The door was already cracked open, your favourite song quietly playing from the bluetooth speaker at the corner of the room.

Lando was bent over the engine of one of the cars, back towards you, elbow deep in whatever he was messing with. He didn’t need to turn to know it was you who came in.

“You left while I was sleeping.” Your voice shook the calmness of his garage— his sanctuary— and he felt it in his bones. “You left and didn’t say anything. You talked to Max instead of me.”

Lando pulls his hands out of the engine bay and reaches for a nearby rag, wiping his fingers slowly and methodically, giving himself something to focus on before he breaks.

“I didn’t know what to say.” He finally turns to face you, though his eyes stay glued to the ground. He catches a glimpse of your pink crocs and it makes him smile, just barely.

“You knew what to say to the guy that punched you and not your girlfriend?” Your voice cracked with a quiet sob. “Do you know what it felt like to hear from my brother that you wanted to end things with me?”

“Listen, I’m sorry,” he draws in a deep breath before continuing. “I’m sorry I disappeared, okay? I just- I didn’t know how to handle it. I needed space to think.”

“About what?” You bit your bottom lip to stop it from shaking. “About whether or not I’m worth staying for?”

“No,” the word left his lips with urgency, eyes finally looking up at yours. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

The silence stretched, the music still playing from the corner of the room like it didn’t care that hearts broke in this room.

Lando exhaled slowly. “I’m scared.” He didn’t wait for you to ask why. “I’ve never had a good thing like this, I’m scared I’ll fuck it up and ruin it.”

“You won’t.”

He huffs a sigh of frustration. “You don’t know that.”

You step a little closer, inching towards the wall Lando built up around himself, a frail attempt to hide his feelings. Lando raises his eyes from the ground to— finally— look at your face.

“I know that you’re trying,” your voice cuts through the sharp silence. “I know that I noticed all the things you did for me.”

“What?” Lando blinked.

“I noticed,” you repeated. “You probably thought I didn’t, but I never mentioned it because I thought you’d stop doing them.”

You reach out to take his hand, rough and warm, in yours. He didn’t pull away, just looked at you— sad, scared, waiting.

“I noticed how you remembered stupid details about me. I noticed how you’d text me when you couldn’t sleep and pretend it was about something random, when you were trying to subtly let me in. I noticed how you got quieter when overwhelmed, how you’d hold back things you wanted to say. I saw all of that. I see you, Lando.”

Lando’s grasp on your hand tightened, like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. He looked up at you. Like your words were light he didn’t know he could stand in.

“I tried,” he whispered, voice gentle and soft in the way he’d never spoken before— like every word he says drops to the ground with added weight.

“I know you did,” you nod, eyes teary and locked into his face. “And I loved every bit of it. All the good and the bad. I wasn’t waiting for some perfect version of you, I just want you. The scared and the happy.”

A silence stretched in the air. Then, he exhaled shakily and spoke again.

“It’s like… The more I care, the worse I get at this. Like I’m holding something fragile and don’t know how to stop myself from dropping it.”

“You’re not going to drop me. You don’t have to protect me from you. I choose you and I choose this.”

He pulled his hand away gently, eyes focusing on anything other than your face. His jaw clenched, voice low when he mumbled, “I think I need a break.”

“A break?”

“Not because I don’t love you,” he quickly added, looking at you with wide eyes before dropping his shoulders. “I do, God, I love you. I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it.”

You don’t say anything— not a sound— tears falling from your eyes as you gave him a small, bittersweet smile.

Lando watched as you stepped closer, bringing your hands up to his cheeks. You pulled him in close enough to press your lips against the sweaty surface of his forehead, giving a gentle see you later, neither of you sure of when the later is.

Then, you turned on your heel and stepped out into the night, leaving Lando in his sanctuary of motor oil and gasoline.

The next few weeks feel like they’re moving in slow motion. It’s cruel how grief stretches time.

You kept expecting to wake up one day and feel fine, but it didn’t work like that.

You still reached for your phone some mornings, typing out something before remembering you weren’t talking. The playlist he made for you kept playing on repeat in your earbuds, his hoodie adorned your torso, sleeves pulled over your hands so at least some part of him was still holding you.

You caught yourself looking for him in the small things— when you’d walk out of university, eyes flickering to see if his car was there; when you’d walk downstairs and half-hope he was playing a game with Max; when you’d hear a word or phrase he’d often use and whip your head around to catch a glimpse of him, but he was never there.

It’s like living with a phantom limb– he wasn’t there, yet everything still remembered him.

Your best friends didn't push, Max didn’t mention him. But the silence— the kind that only fills the room after something’s broken and no one knows how to sweep it up— spoke for you.

In the meanwhile, Lando was coping in the only way he knew how.

He skipped hang outs with friends, ditched parties, just to work longer hours in his garage. Stayed until the heater shut off on its own and his hands were numb from the cold. He didn’t talk to anyone for those weeks. He just drowned himself in tasks— changing oil, fixing brakes, changing tires— anything that kept his hands busy and allowed his mind to work on autopilot.

His phone remained quiet. Once or twice, he clicked on your contact just to see the photo of you two. Thought about sending a voice memo or a meme— something friendly, something you’d tease him for— but he always backed out at the last minute.

Lando could hide in the garage all he wanted, but one thing remained true: he missed you like hell.

He missed the way you’d talk to him, like he wasn’t something broken. Missed how you’d be his escape from reality, much more than his garage ever was. Missed how easy it had started to feel, until he complicated it.

He kept seeing you everywhere or maybe he was just finding any excuse to take a moment to stop and think of you. He’d catch himself standing in the cereal aisle, staring at the brand you liked most. Or outside a bakery, reading the chalkboard sign that said banana bread in funky script, thinking of how he’d come downstairs in the morning to find you baking it.

Lando tried his best not to feel it— the regret, the grief, the overwhelming love.

Yet, despite his best efforts, he found himself staring at his lockscreen, a picture of the two of you on it. You were asleep tucked into his side, so serene and peaceful that he couldn’t help but snap a picture. He did this on nights he couldn’t sleep.

It was already two in the morning and his mind was running wild, he could’ve sworn he hallucinated a message from you. He checked his phone again, seeing the message and just as he’s about to click on it, your contact pops up on his screen.

Lando doesn’t hesitate to answer, pressing the green button immediately. “Hello?”

On the other end, you’re locked in a bathroom at Mason’s house, mascara running down your cheeks, dress hitched way too high up your thighs. You didn’t anticipate this night to go so wrong when all you were trying to do is move on from wallowing at home.

The party, at some point, became too much. Too many people, too much noise, too many bodies brushing past you like you didn’t exist— except for the one who did notice you and in all the wrong ways.

Mason caught you in the hallway, snaking an arm around your waist as he led you upstairs to his bedroom. You thought he was being nice, like he had been for the past few weeks. It was only when he started softly caressing your thighs, face inching closer to yours, that you realised his intentions. He didn’t stop, even when you were pushing and screaming at him to go away.

You found a pause in his movements, kicked him somewhere that distracted him long enough for you to run out of the room and lock yourself in the nearest bathroom. Your fingers trembled when you opened your phone.

There were people you could’ve called. People who would answer and help. But you didn’t want people, only him.

When the phone rang once, then twice, you started doubting your choice of calling him. But then, his voice cuts through the chaos in your mind and silences it all with just one word.

His voice was rough with surprise, tired, laced with something so familiar yet so distant.

You didn’t mean to cry again, but it spilled out of you without warning. “I— fuck, sorry. I shouldn’t have called.”

“Wait— hey, no— what’s wrong?” Lando sat up in his bed, alarmed by the trembling of your voice. “Where are you?”

“At a party,” you mumbled, wiping your tears uselessly. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

“I’m glad you called me,” he answered, no hesitation. “I’m coming to get you, text me the address?”

“No, I shouldn’t have called. I— I’m sorry.”

“Give me the address.” Lando says more sternly. You read it out and he repeated it back, like he was memorising it. “Stay there. You don’t have to explain a thing to me, just stay in that room and don’t open the door unless it’s me, okay?”

Then the line went dead.

You sunk to the floor, phone in your lap, arms around your knees. The minutes stretched painfully. Music blared, people walked by, someone knocked once but you told them to fuck off without even glancing at the door.

Then, barely ten minutes since the call ended, you hear a knock. Softer, rhythmic, familiar.

“It’s me,” he yelled over the music. You opened the door and there he was— messy haired, hoodie half-zipped, cheeks flushed like he ran the whole way there.

Lando saw your mascara-streaked face and something in him cracked open. He didn’t ask, not immediately. He just shut the door behind himself, reaching a hand out as if to ask for permission to touch you. And when he pulled you into him, arms shielding you, you let yourself break.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” you mumbled into his, now tear and mascara stained, hoodie. “I shouldn’t have called you, it’s too soon, I’m–”

“Stop,” his voice was quiet, but firm. He took your face into his hands, guiding your eyes towards him. “You called, I came. I always will.”

“I didn’t wanna be a burden.”

He placed a gentle kiss on your forehead. “You’re not. Not ever.”

Lando tucked you back into his chest again, hand on the back of your head like he’s anchoring you there. “Don’t worry about too soon or too late, I’m here for you. Doesn’t matter when or where.”

You nodded, inhaling shaky breaths until the ache in your chest became small enough to handle. Lando’s eyes traced your face when you pulled away, thumbs softly wiping the mascara from under your eyes. “Who did this to you?”

You bit your lip, not wanting to say anything. But Lando knew you. He knew how to read you, how to understand what you wanted to say even without words. “Mason?” A nod from you was all it took for Lando to mumble for you to stay there as he burst out the door.

The kitchen was buzzing— music hummed low, drinks were being poured, someone laughed too loudly over the sound of ice cracking in the glass.

Lando stormed in like a force of nature, his shoulders tense and jaw clenched, a fury in his eyes no one had ever seen before, not even Max.

Lando didn’t look around at the people in the small space. He moved straight to the kitchen counter, like a bloodhound drawn to the scent of something rotten.

Mason was there, laughing, surrounded by people too excited for the shots being poured to notice the storm. But Max did. The second he saw Lando, he knew something was up.

“Lando—“ Max’s callout was too late. Lando had already grabbed Mason by the collar and slammed him face-first into the marble.

The music abruptly stopped, Mason’s yell echoing in the still air. “What the fuck?”

Lando pulled him back and threw him against the fridge with a bone-rattling bang, the bottle of vodka from Mason’s hands clattering to the ground and breaking at their feet.

“You sick son of a bitch,” Lando snarled, pressing his forearm against Mason’s throat. “You don’t fucking know when to stop, do you?”

Mason coughed, struggling. “What the fuck are you on about?”

By now, Max had shoved forward and tried to pry Lando off. “Hey, man—“

“You know exactly what,” Lando spat, eyes not once leaving Mason’s face. “You wanna tell Max what you did to his sister? Why she called me crying and couldn’t even say your name without breaking into a sob?”

Max froze. “What?”

“She didn’t say no,” Mason tried to defend himself, wide eyed and panicked. “She didn’t say anything— She didn’t stop me.”

Lando punched him. Knuckles to cheekbone, sharp and brutal. Mason’s head whipped to the side with a force strong enough to bring him to the ground, blood already blooming from his lip.

The whole room stood frozen. Lando hovered over the recovering Mason, before shoving him to the ground with his knee between Mason’s shoulder blades.

“If I hear that you touched her again or even looked her way, you won’t be just bleeding.” Lando promises.

Then he leaves, as quickly and quietly as he arrived. Mason’s left on the floor with a fuming Max while Lando finds his way back to you, knuckles bleeding and heart racing triple.

The cold marble of your kitchen islands spreads coolth along your thighs, grounding you to the present, although your thoughts are elsewhere entirely. The kitchen light buzzing above you doesn’t help with the lingering headache from the party or the ghost of Mason’s hands still roaming your body.

You got home ten minutes ago.

Lando stands beside you, the heat from his body bleeding into the silence like wildfire, even as he zones out into nothing. His eyes seem so far away, jaw clenched with uncontrollable fury.

“Your knuckles are bleeding,” you murmur, barely a whisper. He doesn’t answer, simply stretches out and closes his fist again, before tucking it into his pocket, like he can hide the violence and anger of tonight.

He looked wrecked, not just from the fight, but from feeling— jaw clenched, lips tight, eyes narrowed in on the wooden floor.

“I shouldn’t have called you,” you whispered. “It was selfish and too soon, and I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Stop,” he said immediately, voice too gentle for how rough and broken he looked. He closed the distance between you, and like testing the waters, he placed a hand on the counter beside you. “Don’t ever apologise for needing me. I’ll always come when you call.”

The dam broke a little at that, tears pricking your eyes. Lando’s finger twitched like he wanted to reach for you, but didn’t know if he could. So you reached for him first— fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie as you pressed your forehead into his shoulder.

Lando melted around you instantly, arms winding around your waist, pulling you in, holding you against him like you were fragile and precious, and his.

Neither of you moved for a long time. The house was silent, apart from your quiet gasps for air once in a while. Your heartbeat matched the steady thrum of his and you finally felt like everything was slowly becoming okay again.

Eventually, Lando pulled away just enough to see your face, but kept you close enough for his fingers to still steadily warm your waist. “Can I clean this up?” He lifted his right hand, nudging his chin towards his knuckles. You nodded.

He led you to the bathroom and sat against the bathtub’s edge, watching as you hastily looked for the first aid kit. You knelt in front of him, gently cleaning the dried up blood from his knuckles and skin. He hissed once the antiseptic touched an open wound. You didn’t apologise, just looked up and met his eyes, already watching you. “Why?”

Lando turned his head to the side with a questioning hum, “what?”

“You didn’t have to go that far,” you mutter, lowering your eyes to his hand again. “We could’ve just gone home.”

“I did have to,” he shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“You didn’t even think twice, you just went there and…” your voice was quiet, like you’re ashamed.

“No,” he speaks again, “because it’s you.”

The quiet that settled in didn’t feel heavy anymore— it felt like home again. In the words Lando spoke and the tenderness of your fingers on his wounds, gentle and careful, both of you found your place again. Like two halves of one whole. You were the better half of him and he— of you.

The sun rose outside your bedroom window as Lando lay against your chest and you held him close, with a tight yet tender grip, like he’d disappear if you let go of him again.

“I’m glad you called me tonight,” Lando muttered, lips pressed to your bare chest. “I’m not sure how much longer I would have waited before talking to you again.”

“It was eating me alive,” you admit. “The not knowing whether this was it, whether you’d still want me whenever I saw you next. But I’m glad you do.”

“I always will,” the certainty in his voice, spoken like he knew what he’d feel for the rest of his life, made your heart skip a beat. “Thank you for calling me, again.”

You look down at him, your smile soft and bittersweet.

“Thank you for coming, again.”

“To you, always.”

#lando norris #formula 1 #f1 fanfic #f1 #lando norris fanfic #f1 x reader #lando x reader #formula one #lando norris x reader #lando x you #lando smut #lando norris imagine #formula one fic #f1 fic #fanfic #ln4 mcl #mclaren #ln4 x y/n #ln4 fic

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zyafics · 2 months ago

Note

Hi, zya! I love your writing and I love 'whatever she wants' the most! I was wondering if you could do a jealousy bitchy!kook!reader and rafe? if not, it's okay!!

i should be studying.

HER WAY | Rafe Cameron

MASTERLIST (Oneshot)

Pairing — Rafe x Bitchy!Kook!Female Reader

Content — 18+, smut, power/dominance play, jealousy, oral (f receiving), orgasm denial, and Reader being a spoiled princess.

Word Count — 2.4K

lıllılı Her Way by PARTYNEXTDOOR

Rafe Cameron thinks he’s funny.

He thinks it’s a joke. Some sick foreplay where he can get you to submit.

Across the room, during a house party, Rafe allows another woman to touch him. She isn’t being discrete; her nails graze the length of his bicep, head tilts with a sultry smile, and she’s giggling at everything he says—when you know for a fact, he isn’t that fucking funny. While you’re sipping on a fruity drink with your girlfriends, your boyfriend entertains a random skank from who knows where.

Rafe leans against the wall, holding a beer bottle with his hand, and while his body language doesn’t exude invitation, Skank takes it as one. Stepping closer, chest nearly touching his, her hand travels to the open top button of his Ralph Lauren shirt, meeting skin.

Before you can stop yourself, you cross the room, grab a handful of her hair, and yank it back. She winces in pain, hands cradling her scalp, as you toss her to the side. She stumbles backward, hitting the couch's armrest, before meeting your vicious glare and scurrying away.

Rafe’s mouth curls with amusement.

You huff. “You think you’re cute?”

“I’ve been told to be pretty,”

Ever since that party, where Rafe claimed you as his, you’ve enjoyed the exclusiveness of being a pampered princess in his arms. But you forgot about the reputation he boasts. The roster he owns. Rafe thinks you’ll easily concede because he has a long list of women who’d flock to him?

Think again.

“Fuck you, Rafe,” you sneer, “We’re not fucking tonight.”

You don’t wait for a response before turning away, discovering Topper sitting on a nearby couch, witnessing the entire conversation.

“Top, take me home,” you command with a flick of your manicured finger, taking a step towards the door.

Following orders, Topper stands while Rafe glares at his best friend. “Top, don’t,” he commands lowly, causing you to halt your steps and glance over your shoulder at the stagnant dog. Topper sits back down.

“Top, let’s go.” You order, a sharpness coating your tongue that scares the young blond. Once again, he rises to his feet.

“Topper, sit,” Rafe snaps, the roughness of his tone edges with darkness. Topper, unsure of what to do, settles midair, not completely reclaiming his seat.

You let out a frustrated groan. Rafe pushes himself off the wall and steps closer. “I’ll take you home.”

“Go entertain your skank,” you snap, glancing back to Topper. “Are you coming or not?”

He doesn’t move. From the look on his face, he’s more afraid of Rafe, and that agitates you further. A man who’s pathetically bounded to the whims of his best friend’s calling. This is why you could never be with someone like Topper.

You aren’t sure you want to be with someone like Rafe either.

“Fine,” you toss your hands in the air, “I’ll order an Uber.”

With quick strides to an exit and a half-hearted farewell to your girlfriends, you leave the party. Nighttime during the summer contrasts with the day's humid heat, and meets your skin with a shivering cold. You wrap your jacket closer around your arms, pulling out your phone and swiping through the screen.

Music fades in the background with each furthering step, and an accompanying noise of rapid footsteps follows after you.

“Come on, doll,” Rafe coaxes, his voice inching closer. He’s taller, his stride faster, so that it easily matches yours in a matter of seconds.

“Don’t start with me,” you say, still loading up the app, the blinking circle loads as your patience wears thin.

“I’ll take you home.”

“You’ve lost that privilege.”

“Top can’t take you home,” Rafe declares with a bite of annoyance, trailing you as you make your way down the driveway, meeting the asphalt road.

You toss a look over your shoulder, “Why not? You’re flirting with him, too?”

Rafe huffs. “Because it’ll be a fucking riot if my friend takes my girlfriend home.”

“Ex-girlfriend,”

“Don’t say that.” Rafe captures your wrist, stalling your pursuit. He steps in front of you, chin tipped downwards, his cerulean eyes meet yours, and a sincere look passes through his expression. “You’re my girl.”

You snatch back your arm as if his touch burns.

“You want to know something, Rafe?” You demand, clicking your phone off, “You think I’m like your past girlfriends. That I’m willing to tolerate things like this because,” your voice twists into mockery, “Rafe Cameron’s giving me attention,” you scoff. “You would be so lucky to have me.”

Resuming your walk, you finally catch a signal and order an Uber. But it blinks again, waiting, filtering, passing through another stream of misconnection that leaves you steaming at the side of your road because you refuse to walk home in your expensive Louis Vuitton heels.

A familiar car slides into your view a few moments later and rolls down the passenger window.

“Get in,” Rafe commands.

“Fuck you,” you spat.

“So fucking stubborn,” he mutters under his breath as he exits the car and rounds the bonnet. Eyes widening, you twist to run, but Rafe snatches your waist, tosses you over his shoulders, and shoves you inside the car.

He clicks the safety belt and returns to his side. With a flick of his wrist, he shifts into drive and heads down the road.

You begrudgingly accept your fate in the passenger seat. Awful rap music plays from his stereo, contrasting the agitated mood you’re in, to the point you turn off the radio and throw the disk into the backseat.

Rafe chuckles.

The drive to your house is silent, forcing you to mellow in your anger. Rafe tried to talk, but you refuse to look at him, refuse to give him a spec of validation. When he parks, it isn’t a full stop before you rip off the seatbelt, head to the door, key already in hand.

You slam the door on his face, and it works—for three seconds—before he produces his own copy and enters. Another wild chase ensues where you quickly ascend up the spiral staircase, slide into your bedroom, and lock your door behind with a loud bang.

Good luck getting in now, asshole.

After you remove your jewelry, strip down, and replace your clothes with a silk pajama set, Rafe knocks on your door.

“Baby,” he says softly on the other side of the hardwood, “Let me in.”

“Go home,” you shout, but you don’t want him to. You want him to fight, to beg for your forgiveness, to hang around like a lost puppy. If he does leave, you’re sure it’ll leave you more infuriated. “I don’t want to see your face.”

Rafe doesn’t answer, and your heart twists. Until he knocks again, knuckles rapping against the hardwood in soft, dejected clicks. “I was wrong.”

Exhaling sharply, you walk across the floor and unlock the door, but stand in the entryway, not yet granting him access.

It shouldn’t be possible, but Rafe looks deviously handsome, even after the whole cat-and-mouse game, and it makes you furious that he can never seem to be disheveled by your acts. Quite possibly, Rafe Cameron is the only man on earth who can handle your attitude.

You cross your arms. “I’m listening,”

“For what?”

You huff, “Are you not going to apologize?”

“For your jealousy?”

You shove the door closed, but Rafe plants a firm palm out.

“Let me make up to you.”

“Why? We’re not together.”

He groans, “Stop saying that.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” You snap, “A good boyfriend doesn’t entertain shanks while their girlfriend is across the room. A good boyfriend apologizes when they’re wrong.”

“And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“A good girlfriend doesn’t sit around with her girlfriends while her boyfriend wants her around. A good girlfriend doesn’t act like a brat in front of his friends.”

You scoff, “Then it’s settle, then.”

“Sure is.”

“Get out.”

“No,”

You attempt to close the door again, but he shoves inside, shouldering the door until he passes the threshold. Your eyes widen as you step backward, but Rafe grabs your face in his large hands, the callouses of his palms contrast with the softness of your skin, and you sigh fondly.

Your gaze connects with his, and while his breath reeks with peppermint and cheap beer, his eyes are sincere. “Let me make it up to you,” he whispers.

Heart thumping in your chest, “You want to make it up to me?”

“Yes.”

“Beg for forgiveness.”

He reels back, releasing your face, causing you to desperately miss his touch. “Fuck, no.”

“Fine,” you say, stepping back, unblocking your top button-by-button, each revealing another silver of skin. Soft silk slips from your shoulders, and you reveal the lacy red bralette that’s his favorite. “You see this?”

Rafe nods, his eyes following your hands as you trace the hems of your shorts, pushing them down enough to show him the matching red panties. “Yes.”

You snap the band back in place, “You’ll never touch me again.”

You don’t know how it happens. One second, you’re turning away from him, and in the next, Rafe tosses you onto the mattress, laying you flat against the sheets.

His large, warm palms planted on either side of your thighs, Rafe settles on his knees at the edge of the bed—the position you wanted him in—with his hands sliding up the bands of your shorts, tugging them down slowly, needfully.

“Let me eat you out.”

“Only good boys get to do that.”

"Let me be a good boy,” he all but begs. Your lips curl into a satisfied smirk. You hide your expression as you gently lift your hips, allowing Rafe to pull down your shorts and panties in one quick swoop. A shiver passes down your spine at the way his eyes stares at your exposed pussy, the whip of the low-blowing AC fanning against your heating skin.

His thumb travels between your legs, rubbing broad circles for the inside of your thighs, and your pussy flutters with need. Rafe lowers himself, spreading you further apart, as his hot breath fans against your cunt, and his thumb finally grazes your wet folds.

“So fucking wet for me,” he murmurs, more to himself than you.

Breathlessly, you ask, “Are you going to do something about it?”

His gaze lifts, pupils dilated to pitch-black, before he lowers his head and covers his mouth on your clit.

He sucks, tastes, and plays—but the thing about Rafe Cameron eating pussy is he’s nasty; his tongue strokes your swollen nub, his fingers teasing your holes, and he sucks so sloppily, your slick forms a pool on your sheets.

He slurps up your arousal like a thirsty man returning from the desert, squelching noises echoing from your walls, while your legs clenched around his head. He does it so well, it seems like it’s purely for his own enjoyment.

Writhing and grabbing the sheets, our head tips into the silk pillow, as Rafe tightens his arms around your hips, keeping you in place. Moans and whimpers slipping out your mouth in pure desperation, you can feel the faint smile of Rafe’s grin against your cunt as you chase your high.

At the peak of your carnal desire, Rafe pulls away.

“Say you forgive me,” he declares, his tongue kissing your slick slit with kitten licks. Breathless, you’re unable to comprehend his words.

“What?”

‘Say you forgive me, doll,” he declares, his thick digits teasing your entrance in a way that has you lifting your hips, begging for more friction. But he carefully anchors you with his arms, biceps wrapped around your thighs. “And you can come.”

“No,”

“No?” He asks mockingly, his mouth meeting your swollen clit again, sucking for a faint second before withdrawing his hot mouth. You squirm under his touch. “I can’t hear you.”

“N–no,” you stammer, but Rafe is rubbing tight circles against your clit again, knowing the right pressure to add that has you at the palm of his hand, but not inching closer to release. “Rafe.”

“Maybe you don’t want to come that badly,” Rafe taunts, pulling again. Your body clenches at the denied orgasm. “Maybe you need another lesson.”

“No,” you wrap your legs around Rafe’s shoulders, trapping him, and your fingers thread through his tousled hair, pushing him back against your needy cunt. Resolve cracks. “I forgive you, I forgive you, I forgive you.”

You don’t see it, but you feel him grinning, and his mouth latches back on your clit, fastening to towards a much-needed orgasm in lightning speed. Your high reached, you never came so hard before, so quickly, and you’re messy, dirty, and heaving as Rafe withdraws from between your legs.

Rafe meets your gaze as you pant, “Want to return the favor?”

Chest rising and falling, you nod and pull your weak legs to stand. You force him to stand too, and your fingers trace the bands of his jeans as you step forward. He steps back. It’s a dance, like you’re about to screw him against the wall, until he crosses the threshold of your room and you slam the door on his face, locking it.

The doorknob rattles.

He calls your name, but you lean back against the doorframe, needing it to steady you upright with heaving breaths. “What the fuck?” Rafe demands.

“Sleep on the couch tonight,” you say with a hint of a smile.

“You said you forgive me,”

“It’s dirty talk,”

He shouts your name again, but you don’t concede. Rafe has two options: listen to your orders, or leave.

By next morning, you had the best sleep. Unlocking your door, Rafe is nowhere to be seen. Disappointment clouds your chest at the thought that he left after all, but when you descend the staircase, you find your favorite flowers covering every inch of your foyer to your living room, with your favorite breakfast plate made on the marble island, and a jewelry box sitting beside it.

Smiling, you settle on the bar stool, as Rafe exits from the guest bathroom, approaches you, and kisses your cheek.

“What’s this?” You ask, tilting your head.

“An apology,” he declares.

“Know what you did wrong?”

He nods.

“I’m sorry, doll,” he murmurs, “Won’t happen again.”

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em1i2a3 · 12 days ago

Text

Embrace

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader!

Summary: After a year hiatus from dating, you decide to get back on the apps and begin the search again for the one…Only to find out that the pool of guys in New York has extremely slim pickings. Every time you return from a date though, Bob and a glass of wine are always waiting to hear the latest story from your dating chronicles.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, and just a little small hint of Angst (like a dusting of angst…a little peppercorn of angst lol), Reader and Bob have an established friendship and they are super close, Bob just wants the reader to be happy…But I mean…At the same time he’s a bit jealous of course, Swearing, Talks about relationships and awkward interactions with guys lol.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (…please protect yourselves, I beg of thee), Sensual/Super frickin soft looooove makin’ lol, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Fingering, Biting, Scratching, Leaving Marks by accident but kind of on purpose? Heheheheh. It’s been a while since reader has had sex, Worshipping/Praising Kink,

Author’s Note: Thank you Anon for requesting this! I went off the damn rails with this one because I really loved the concept, and thought it would be great to put a really cute little twist to it! I truly enjoy writing this type of stuff, it’s just so scrumptious for my brain. Hope y’all enjoy <3

Word Count: 16,826

The cold bit at your knees the second you stepped out of the restaurant.

You wrapped your arms tightly around yourself, pulling your jacket closed as you shifted your weight from heel to heel. It was a nice jacket–mid-thigh length, fitted, soft beige wool with a classic belt–but it didn’t do much to protect your bare legs from the peak fall weather that plagued New York. You were wearing a navy-blue satin slip dress that skimmed your thighs and clung in all the ways the mirror at the compound had promised would be flattering. You had paired it with a delicate rose gold necklace and matching heels that now dangled from your fingers–replaced with the fold out flats you always brought. The outfit had felt elegant when you left earlier tonight…Now it just felt cold.

You were standing a few feet away from your date, Jeremy–the man who insisted on dining at Le Pavillon because he ‘had a connection there’ and claimed it was ‘just upscale enough to set the mood.’ He was scrolling absently through his phone, occasionally glancing toward the street like he was trying to manifest his ride faster.

You shifted again, arms crossed under your chest. Your Uber was three minutes away…Three minutes too long.

The dinner itself had been passable. The wine was decent, and the risotto was rich enough to almost make up for the conversation. But…He had a habit of interrupting. Correcting. Smiling too long. You insisted on splitting the bill after he made a smug comment about being ‘happy to invest in a beautiful woman’–and he had not taken it well. You could feel the awkward tension humming between you now, like static off an unplugged cord.

His phone buzzed and he quickly glanced down at it, “That’s me!” He exclaimed, stuffing it into his coat pocket. He turned toward you, giving the kind of grin that probably worked better in dim lighting, “I’ll text you, yeah? We’ll set up something for next week.

You forced a tight, polite smile, “Sure…” He leaned in for a hug, and you let him–quick, loose, impersonal. He smelled like cheap cigars, chlorine, and headache inducing aftershave. When he pulled back, you already had your phone out.

The second his back turned and he slipped into his rideshare, your whole posture deflated–your shoulders dropped, your jaw unclenched, and the carefully pleasant expression faded off your face in the chilly fall air.

You opened your text thread with Bob and typed with cold fingers:

“Heading back to the compound now, no need to be worried. Will talk soon.”

Three dots appeared almost immediately, and he responded:

“No problem, see you soon. Send the location tracker thing when you get in.”

You smirked at his message, thumbs already moving before you could stop yourself:

“Such a worrier Robert…Kinda hot though 🥵”

You sent it before you could think twice. The moment it was delivered, you stared at it–head tilting slightly, your expression catching somewhere between amusement and embarrassment. Of course it was meant to be a teasing, lighthearted message. The kind of dry humor you always used when Bob got extra overprotective.

But you knew how he was about safety, especially regarding your safety, and especially since you started going on these dates.

You could still hear Yelena’s voice echoing in your head–“You’re turning into a hermit. A sexy, socially-anxious, wine-drunk hermit. That’s not hot, babe…Download some apps for the love of god.”

So you did, and now you had been on six dates, with six different men, and had been introduced to six different brands of disappointment.

And for the first time tonight, as you froze outside, with your fingers brushing the familiar edge of your phone case, the thought crept in that maybe it was you…

You weren’t exactly inexperienced, you had been in a relationship prior to this that had a bad falling out due to you moving to New York…But you were a Thunderbolt, for God’s sake–trained, capable, unflinching in combat. But when it comes to this kind of intimacy? Emotional vulnerability? The whole practice of letting yourself be seen? It felt harder than dodging bullets sometimes.

The Uber driver–a soft-spoken woman with calm eyes–pulled up to the restaurant and greeted you, confirming your name before you stepped into the back.

“Y/N…” You responded, returning a tired smile to her. You placed your heels beside you on the seat and sank into the warm leather, finally feeling the muscles in your back relax. You had one more task before you could switch off for the night–you opened Bob’s pinned thread and tapped the location share icon, putting a note below.

“Tracker sent…Unless the driver turns out to be a serial killer, you’ll see me in twenty.”

The reply came a second later.

“Don’t joke about that…I’m already watching your route.”

You rolled your eyes fondly and let your head fall back against the seat. Of course he was already watching, because that was just Bob. He was always two steps ahead when it came to you. Every time you mentioned a new guy he always asked to read through the profile, but he never said anything critical–like he just wanted to put a name to the face, and see the little blurb they wrote. Then he would always stay up for you, and wait till you got back to the compound safely.

You exhaled softly, watching the city blur past your window. It was late enough that traffic was light, and the closer you got to the Tower, the more you felt the tension bleeding out of your body in slow waves. The warmth of the car helped, but so did knowing who was waiting at the end of the ride.

Twenty minutes later, the familiar glass front of the Watchtower loomed into view. The car came to a slow, quiet stop along the curb.

The driver turned slightly toward you, smiling, “Wow,” She said, tilting her head a bit to get a better look outside the passenger window, “What a nice building.” You followed her gaze toward the glass-fronted façade of the Watchtower, the compound’s lower half glowing faintly from the lobby lights still burning behind reinforced panes. The upper floors were dark now, a few security strobes blinking red against the skyline. It looked sleek from the outside–imposing, even. But from within, it was just…Familiar. The only place in New York that really felt like home. You gave a soft, tired smile.

”Still under renovations,” You replied, gathering your shoes up in your arms, “But it’s comfy.”

”Looks very secure,” She commented with a grin, you chuckled a bit.

“Yeah…That’s definitely the idea.” You slipped out of the back seat with a gentle murmur of thanks, heels in one hand, Your small clutch tucked beneath your arm.

“Have a great night,” You added, closing the door behind you. “Drive safe.” As the car pulled away, you turned and padded toward the entrance, cold air nipping at your legs again. You reached for the key fob clipped to the inside of your jacket and scanned it against the reader beside the reinforced door. A soft chime, then a green light blinked.

Click.

You slipped inside before the wind could follow you.

The lobby was dim and quiet, lit mostly by the soft glow of recessed ceiling panels. The walls were a combination of blackened steel and warm wood accents–part utilitarian fortress, part sleek design prototype. A sitting area to the right was still cluttered with folded blankets and someone’s abandoned socks (Walker’s, probably). One of the wall panels buzzed faintly as the security system refreshed. Somewhere in the back hallway, a cleaning drone hummed past.

Your cheap fold-out flats squeaked against the polished concrete floor as you walked toward the elevator bay, the straps starting to chafe against the inside of your toes. You pulled out your phone and quickly left the driver five stars and a generous tip before sliding it back into your pocket.

The elevator dinged a few seconds later.

You stepped inside and hit the button for the 80th floor–Thunderbolts’ private quarters. The doors slid shut behind you with a whisper.

Then came the feeling. That familiar weightlessness.

The elevator ascended fast–too fast for your already sensitive post-date stomach. You felt it in your ribs first, that swooping g-force pull that lifted the pit of your stomach an inch higher than it was supposed to sit. You leaned your head back against the cool mirrored wall with a quiet sigh and let your eyes fall shut for a moment, letting yourself go completely still.

You felt the shift in your knees when the elevator slowed.

Then–ding.

The doors opened.

You stepped out of the elevator, the doors whispering shut behind you.

The 80th floor always had a particular stillness to it at this time of night, one that could be felt from miles away. The air was cooler here, tinged with the ever-present scent of industrial concrete, stale coffee, and the softest trace of Bob’s cedarwood laundry detergent. Someone–probably Ava–had left a sweater draped over the back of one of the common room chairs, and the hallway light above flickered once, then steadied. Everyone–but you and Bob–were sent on their own missions for the next few weeks, so the both of you had settled in this rhythmic routine of soft conversations and silence. It was peaceful, and for once you didn’t feel like you were being pulled every which way like a medieval torture device.

You bent near the wall, carefully setting down your heels with a soft clink of buckles. Then, with a quiet sigh, you toed off your fold-out flats one by one, nudging them beside the heels in a tired pile. Your toes stretched gratefully against the cold floor.

Soft sounds filtered in from the common room–a low, rhythmic rustle of fabric.

You padded forward.

Bob was sitting on the far end of the couch, folding a small pile of freshly washed clothes on the coffee table in front of him. He wore his usual nighttime uniform–dark sweatpants, slightly too-long sleeves pushed up on a navy crewneck. His light brown hair was still a little damp at the ends, like he had showered not long ago, and gave up halfway through blow drying his locks.

He didn’t notice you at first. His head was bent in quiet concentration, fingers folding a t-shirt with slow, precise care. But the second your footsteps hit the carpeted edge of the room, his head lifted.

His eyes met yours. And then, briefly–barely–they flicked down.

Your jacket had fallen open slightly, the soft beige parting just enough to reveal the satin navy-blue slip beneath. The dress caught what little light there was, glinting at the edges where it hugged your waist and dipped at the neckline. Your makeup was still intact, though your lipstick had faded, and your eyeshadow had begun to crease. But there was something else too–something vulnerable in your eyes now, without the polite mask you’d worn earlier.

Bob swallowed.

His gaze returned quickly to your face, and he offered a soft, crooked smile.

“G-Guess the d-driver wasn’t a s-serial killer, hmm?”

You shook your head with a tired huff. “Disappointing, right?” That earned a soft laugh. He shifted on the couch slightly, still holding a half-folded towel in his lap.

“H-How was the d-date?” You gave a groan that seemed to come from your soul and reached up to rub your fingers along your temple.

“Let me take my face off first,” You muttered, already turning toward the hallway. “Then I’ll divulge the gory details.”

Bob let out another quiet laugh, head tilting slightly. “A-alright. I’ll be here.”

He always was.

You made your way to your room, the door swinging quietly shut behind you. The ritual was muscle memory now: a warm shower to get the city off your skin, your fingers pulling pins from your hair one by one, the hiss of the micellar water bottle as you soaked a cotton pad and wiped away the eyeliner that always smudged more than you expected.

Fifteen minutes later, you emerged again in your night robe–pale gray and soft as clouds, cinched at the waist–and your fluffy white slippers, the thick soles muted against the floor. A cooling gel mask clung to your face, pale green and slightly shiny, promising to soothe the irritation blooming beneath your cheekbones from where you had rubbed too hard.

You looked like a woman who had been to war and came back with just enough energy to report what had happened.

Bob looked up the second he heard your approach.

You didn’t speak right away–just shuffled back into the common room and dropped into the spot on the couch beside him with a dramatic grunt, your limbs folding into the cushions like you were eighty years older than you were.

“W-Want me to get y-you a glass of wine?” He asked quietly. You nodded immediately at his offer, adjusting your robe with a small tug at the collar to cover the exposed curve of your shoulder. The cooling mask clung a little tighter as your expression settled somewhere between

Bob smiled–crooked, and fond–before rising from the couch, stretching out his long limbs, shaking off the stiffness.

He padded softly across the room, bare feet silent against the concrete floor as he stepped into the kitchen. The fridge opened with a quiet suction-pop, casting a muted glow across the space. He pulled out the bottle of red you’d been nursing your way through all week–a California Pinot Noir with plum notes and just enough bite to make you feel like your post-date venting was sophisticated instead of sad, disappointing, and embarrassing.

He poured it carefully into the large glass you always used–stemless, wide-rimmed, and shimmering from the last time you cleaned it.

Then he grabbed himself a can of lemon-lime sparkling water from the side shelf and cracked it open. The hiss echoed softly in the quiet. He grimaced slightly at the first fizz.

It tasted like the static from an old TV, but it was better than caffeine this late at night.

When he returned, he handed you the glass slowly, like he didn’t want to startle you out of the soft space you’d found yourself in.

You looked up and accepted it with both hands, the glass cool against your fingers. “Thanks, Bob.” He nodded–shy, and timid–before he reclaimed his spot beside you on the couch, legs folding underneath him as he resumed his slow, methodical folding of socks and towels and the occasional Thunderbolts t-shirt.

A beat passed.

Then: “S-So…You’re all c-comfortable now…” He paused for effect, glancing sideways with a small, expectant raise of his brows. “D-Divulge.”You let out a long sigh and stared into your wine like it might come alive and answer for you.

“It started okay,” You began. “Really. The place was nice, I actually liked the risotto. He was polite at first, made some decent small talk–asked about my job, what I do with my team. I kept it vague, obviously.”

“O-Obviously,” Bob echoed, smiling faintly as he folded another shirt.

“But then…” You took a slow sip to try and give yourself time to choose your words carefully–letting the sweet tinge of plum settle on your tongue before swallowing, “Something shifted. I don’t even know how to describe it. Just–this weird vibe started coming off him. Like I owed him something for showing up. Like just agreeing to dinner meant I was suddenly locked into…I don’t know. Some kind of romantic contract.”

Bob’s hands slowed their movement. “H-He said that?”

“No,” You muttered, shaking your head. “But he didn’t have to. He looked at me like that. And then I said I wanted to split the bill because he made this smug little comment about ‘investing’ in me.”

Bob’s face twitched. Slightly. His fingers resumed folding, carefully adding another towel to the growing pile. “And h-he didn’t like that?”

You snorted. “Not even a little. He got all passive aggressive about it. Like he was trying to hide that he was annoyed, but it was obvious. Barely made eye contact the rest of the time. Kept checking his phone. He didn’t even wait for me to get my ride.”

Bob’s jaw ticked for half a second, and you missed it. You were still staring into your wineglass, lips pressed into a faint pout that he’d seen too many times lately. He wished he didn’t love that face. He wished you didn’t have to make it so often.

“I just don’t get it,” You started quietly after a beat. “Am I giving off the wrong energy? Is there some neon sign over my head that says ’emotionally exploit me’?”

Bob’s voice came soft. Gentle.

“No,” He replied, “Y-You’re just going out with the w-wrong people…I-I’m sure if you k-keep looking you’ll find someone.” Bob swallowed hard. You could see it–how his throat moved around the sound he didn’t quite let out. His jaw flexed once, and his hand paused in the middle of folding a t-shirt, fingers tightening slightly on the fabric.

The stutter had come on stronger, and you watched as he tried to shake it off, attempting to get a handle on it, even though it wasn’t completely possible. He hated that it got worse when he was around you. There was no way for him to get rid of it–even though the lab techs in the med bay said they would try to help him–but lump the issue in with the anxiousness he felt when you came around him, it became an issue.

Bob wanted to say ‘Maybe that person is me’, he wanted to say ‘The right one could be sitting right in front of you actually’.

But instead, he stayed quiet–letting it rot in the back of his throat like a fruit that never quite ripened. Because the fear of losing this, whatever it was you shared together, was louder than any hope he might’ve harboured.

There was something tragic all poetic about it, really. How close you were, how often you leaned on him, how easily he could reach out and touch you right now–and how impossible it felt to close that final, aching inch.

You took another sip of wine, rolling it across your tongue slowly before swallowing and sighing into the glass.

”All I want is simplicity,” You muttered, eyes fixed somewhere off in the distance. Bob’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second. Then he began folding again–but his pace quickened. Not rushed. Just…focused. Sharpened. Like he couldn’t afford to let himself freeze.

His voice, when it came, was soft but pointed. “A-And w-what does that entail e-exactly…? ‘Cause if you can explain it well, y-you should put it in your profile.” You let out a surprised laugh–small and warm–and nudged your shoulder gently against his.

”Yeah,” You chuckled, “And I should absolutely put a picture of me in this face mask too…It’ll really give off an Osiris vibe.” Bob gave a breathy little laugh of his own, glancing sideways.

”I-I don’t know…M-Might give off the w-wrong impression.” You raised both brows in a mock challenge.

”Who wouldn’t want to go out on a date with the god of fertility, agriculture, the afterlife, and resurrection?” He grinned.

And for a second–just a second–it was easy. Light. You and Bob, trading quiet jokes in the warmth of low light and soft fabric piles. But then the moment shifted again, softening at the edges as the laughter tapered off.

Your voice dropped, just slightly.

“I just want…Small gestures,” You said. “To show that I’m appreciated…Like a bouquet of daisies or something…I’d take anything…”

Bob’s hands stopped moving completely.

“I don’t need extravagant dinners, or to be treated like I’m royalty,” You continued, still not looking at him directly. “I just want some… calm. This life that I lead is already so chaotic. Every mission, every city, every week is different. I want to come home to someone who–” You hesitated, just a beat, “–who will hold me. Who’ll tell me everything is alright. Who won’t ask me to be anyone except exactly who I am.”

Bob’s jaw clenched again. He didn’t realize you were watching him now. Not fully. Not in that slow, deliberate way you only looked when you were trying to see something.

And there it was–the soft pink rising at his cheeks. Not just from your words, but from the fact that he couldn’t hide how much they meant to him. How much they wrecked him.

He swallowed once more, eyes darting to the pile in front of him like it was his lifeline.

Then he cleared his throat and said–voice low, cracking slightly:

“Y-You should… P-Put that down.”

You tilted your head, amused despite the emotion threading your chest. “In my profile?”

Bob nodded quickly–too quickly. “Y-Yeah. All of it. Just—j-just like that.” There was something raw in his voice now. A quiet gentleness. Like he’d been handed a blueprint for the life he wanted most, and it was yours. You leaned back slightly against the couch cushions, one hand curling gently around your wineglass.

“You sure I’m not asking for too much?”

“O-Of course not…” Bob said, his voice low but sure, even if the edges of it still wavered. “I-It’s what you want… I-I don’t think it’s that big of an ask.”

You took a slow breath, one that stretched deep into your chest and pulled at something behind your ribs. Then you tipped back the rest of your wine, letting the last few sips warm your throat as you swallowed down the lump forming there.

You set the empty glass gently on the table and looked down at your hands, thumb brushing along the curve of your palm.

God, Bob.

You’d always known he was a good man. Not just kind, but tender in a way most men didn’t know how to be–especially in your line of work. Bob had that softness that didn’t come from fragility, but from surviving pain and choosing not to become bitter. He was loyal in a way that felt bone-deep. Present without being overbearing. He saw people. He saw you.

And the worst part was…You’d wanted him for a long time.

Not in a crush-on-your-teammate way. Not in a reckless, post-mission hookup way.

But in the quiet way. The real way.

You wanted the version of love that grew slowly between two people who already knew each other inside and out. Who’d seen one another covered in blood and grief and stubbornness. Who’d still shown up anyway. You and Bob had fallen into this rhythm over time��a pattern of mutual tending. Him reading the signs of your stress before you spoke. You reminding him to drink water, to eat, to rest. Him folding your laundry when you left it in the wash too long. You buying his favorite weird little snacks for the pantry without saying anything.

There was so much care between you. So much love, if you were brave enough to name it. But you weren’t. Not really. Because Bob had been through so much–too much–and he was still trying to heal, still trying to be here. You didn’t want to complicate that. You didn’t want to reach for more if it meant tipping the balance.

So instead, you gave him a small, quiet smile and reached out to pat his shoulder once. Just a light tap. Friendly. Familiar.

“I wish they made carbon copies of you, Bob,” you murmured.

He blinked, startled by the comment, and glanced up at you with slightly flushed cheeks. “W-W-Why’s that?”

You shrugged, playing it off like it wasn’t a dagger of truth tucked inside a half-joke.

“I think the dating pool would be a lot less disappointing,” You said casually, but your eyes lingered on him just a second too long. Your voice softened. “Maybe then I’d actually have a chance at something good.”

Bob’s brows furrowed faintly.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Tilted his head like he was trying to solve a riddle.

“W-Wait, d-do you mean–like–m-more guys who c-care about safety? Or–uh–laundry?” He asked, uncertain, lips pursed slightly.

You smiled–tight, almost fond. Of course it went over his head.

You turned back toward the couch cushion, pulling your legs beneath you and tucking your robe a little tighter at the waist.

“Never mind,” You said, voice easy and light, but your heart thudding just a little harder. “Forget I said anything.”

Bob looked at you for a moment longer, like he could sense something more behind the words but didn’t quite know how to reach it.

Then, slowly, he nodded and went back to folding.

You watched the way his fingers moved–so gentle, so meticulous. As if every wrinkle mattered. As if it was easier to smooth out cotton than the knot slowly forming in his chest.

Neither of you said anything for a long time.

But your hand stayed close to his on the cushion, only an inch away.

————————

Two days later you were walking up the familiar steps of the Watchtower again, this time with your hands deep in your jacket pockets and lips pressed into a thin, tight line.

It had started off fine–actually, better than fine. Leo had chosen something casual, a walk through Central Park with lattes in hand. Low-pressure, decent weather, and a chance to talk. You’d worn jeans this time, a cozy knit sweater tucked into a belt at your waist, a cream scarf wound loose around your neck, and boots that were comfortable enough for walking.

You tried. Yet again.

But about twenty minutes in, you realized you were asking all the questions. You asked what he did, what he liked to do, where he grew up, what kind of music he liked–trying to keep the flow natural, easy. But every time you paused to take a sip of your coffee, hoping he’d ask you something back…He didn’t. Not once.

Worse still, every other sentence seemed to reference how close his apartment was. ‘Just a few blocks up, fifteen-minute walk tops, I could make us some drinks, you like mezcal?’ You smiled through it, tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was just nervous. Maybe he wasn’t great with conversation. But the more time passed, the more it felt like you were auditioning for the role of “hookup of the night.”

Eventually, you stopped walking.

“Hey…” You started, wrapping both hands around your coffee cup for warmth. “I don’t want to waste your time. You seem nice, but…I’m not really feeling a connection here.”

Leo blinked, shrugged, and gave a crooked smirk. “Well…Your loss.”

You smiled back. Not because it was funny–but because it was so damn predictable.

You peeled off from the sidewalk and ordered an Uber back to the Tower before he could say anything else.

The elevator doors whispered shut behind you as you stepped out onto the 80th floor, your boots thudding softly against the polished concrete. The air smelled different up here tonight.

Warm.

Sweet.

Soft citrus curled into your nose before you even reached the hallway–sharp and bright, softened by a buttery undercurrent that clung to the air like steam from a kettle. It smelled like sugar and zest and something just on the verge of golden brown.

Lemon.

You breathed in deeper. There was vanilla too–just a touch–folded gently beneath the tartness. Something baked. Something familiar.

Lemon poppyseed.

Of course.

You kicked your boots off by the wall, nudging them neatly beneath the little bench just outside the elevator bay. You could already hear movement coming from the kitchen–quiet shifting, the muffled rattle of a spoon against ceramic, and the hum of the oven fan cycling low in the background.

“H-How did i-it go?”

His voice came from around the corner, soft and hopeful and already laced with a nervous edge.

You paused mid-step.

For a moment, you just…Stood there. Breathing in the smell. Letting the warmth settle somewhere in your chest. Then, slowly, you reached up and unraveled your scarf from around your neck. The soft wool slipped free with a sigh of fabric, and you tossed it over the hook near the elevator. Your jacket followed, shoulders slumping as you shrugged out of it and hung it up too.

You padded forward.

“Another dud,” You announced plainly, turning into the wide open space of the Thunderbolts common kitchen. The lights were low, golden, casting soft amber glows across the granite counters and brushed steel appliances. Bob was perched at the far end of the kitchen island, elbows resting on either side of an open book, one knee pulled up on the stool.

He looked up from the pages immediately.

The sleeves of his dark thermal sweater had been shoved up to his forearms, revealing his pale blue veins that traveled up the inside of it. His cheeks were pink–not just from the oven’s warmth, but from the way your voice had settled into something tired and close. He closed the book slowly, a thumb marking the page.

“R-Really?” He asked. “I-I thought you said he w-was awesome…” You moved toward the oven without answering, hands absently dragging along the edge of the counter as you passed. Your fingers reached for the switch beside the stovetop, flicking on the tiny oven light. The inside glowed to life.

A loaf tin sat in the center rack–round and golden, the top just beginning to dome. Tiny cracks laced the surface where the batter had risen, flecked through with little black seeds. A small pool of sugar syrup had glazed part of the crust, catching the light like glass. It was almost done.

You stared at it for a beat. The warmth from the oven kissed your knees through your jeans. Then you exhaled through your nose, lips curling faintly.

“What’re you making?” You murmured, though you already knew.

He cleared his throat, sitting up a little straighter. “L-Lemon poppyseed l-loaf…Your f-favourite.”

You turned slowly to look at him over your shoulder, one brow raised, a knowing smile twitching at your mouth. “You know me too well.”

Bob flushed immediately–his chin tucking just slightly as he looked down at the book again, shifting like he didn’t know what to do with his hands now. He fiddled with the edge of the spine. “T-Thought we would be c-celebrating a successful first date…”

You let out a small, quiet laugh–not because it was funny, but because he meant it. Because he’d baked your favorite thing, timed it to be warm for your return, because he had hoped.

That was the thing with Bob. He hoped for you when you didn’t even bother anymore.

You stepped away from the oven and came around the island, hands brushing along the edge again as you moved. You leaned one hip against the stool beside him and glanced down at his book–Dune, from the looks of the cover. An older edition. His finger still held the page bookmarking it as he kept his attention on you.

You reached for the lemon syrup bowl he had left near the stove and dipped one finger into it absently, then touched it to your tongue. Tart. Warm. Sticky. He watched the way you closed your eyes for a brief moment and sighed before glancing up at him.

“Guess I don’t know how to read people too well.” Bob stared at you like he could read you better than anyone else ever had.

But he didn’t say it.

He just nodded once, shy and small, and reached for a folded tea towel beside the cooling rack, laying it out for the loaf even though it wasn’t quite ready yet.

Your eyes lingered on his hands for a second too long, and then your voice broke the silence–gentle, but teasing. You dipped your finger into the syrup again–just to give yourself something to do other than daydream about the gentleness of his touch–then licked it clean with a soft sigh and turned toward Bob.

“Why haven’t you gotten on the dating apps?” You asked, voice quiet but genuine. “I mean, I’m sure there’s a girl out there who’d be dying to have someone like you.” Bob’s head snapped up slightly, like you’d just suggested something obscene. His brows pinched together, and then he let out a nervous laugh, shaking his head almost immediately.

“N-No, no…That’d mean b-both of us would end up swapping b-bad date stories every other day,” He said, waving the idea off like it might physically catch fire in the air between you. “I-If the dating pool’s treating you this badly…I think I’d be incinerated on the first go.”

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t think you’d have as much trouble as me, Bob.”

He gave you a small, confused glance. “W-Why not?”

You shrugged, your tone casual, but your eyes stayed trained on him. “Because you’re…You. You listen. You care. You’ll literally do anything to make sure someone is comfortable, and you don’t make people feel like they’re a burden. That’s…A lot more rare than you think.”

Bob blinked. Then flushed again–his jaw tightening slightly as he looked down at the tea towel like it held the answer to everything he didn’t know how to say.

He didn’t joke this time. He didn’t deflect.

Instead, his voice came soft, honest, and out of nowhere.

“I-I think you deserve someone who c-could give you the world…” Your eyes lifted to his–soft and searching, your expression unreadable for just a breath.

“You really think so?” You asked, your voice quiet. Too quiet.

Bob met your gaze, hesitant at first, like he didn’t quite believe he was allowed to look at you like this. But he nodded, slow and sure.

“O-Of course…” He said, the words trembling just slightly. “Y-You’d want the same for m-me…w-would you not?”

Your brows lifted a touch, surprised by how gently–how truthfully–he turned the question around onto you, so the spotlight would no longer be directed to him.

And for a second, you forgot how to breathe.

Then, almost instinctively, you smiled. It was small, lopsided. But real. Something soft tugged at the corner of your mouth, and you had to glance away for a moment just to keep your chest from cracking wide open.

“…Yeah,” You murmured, clearing your throat faintly. “Yeah. I would.”

It wasn’t just a platitude.

You meant it.

You wanted the world for him too. You always had.

And maybe, for the first time, you realized he knew that.

Bob blinked a few times, like he was trying to ground himself in the moment–trying not to let the weight of your answer topple him over. His hands twitched slightly on the tea towel, and he looked like he was about to say something else–something important–when–

Beep.

The oven timer broke through the silence, sharp and shrill in the golden warmth of the kitchen.

Bob jolted slightly, blinking hard as if the sound yanked him out of a dream. “O-Oh,” He breathed, rising quickly from the stool. “T-That’s the loaf.”

He turned, his sweater sleeves falling slightly down as he grabbed an oven mitt and opened the door.

Heat spilled into the kitchen in a rush–rich and fragrant. The scent of sugar and lemon intensified, thickening the air with sweetness and steam. Bob carefully slid the tin out and onto the counter, setting it on the tea towel he’d laid out earlier.

You watched as he worked–his hands steady despite the pink in his cheeks, despite the subtle tension still sitting at the base of his neck.

The moment between you still hummed there, quiet and full of everything unsaid.

But you didn’t press it. Not yet.

Because something had changed. Because even though the timer had interrupted the words, the feeling still lingered. Settled between you like the scent of lemon zest and vanilla.

You stood beside the counter as Bob leaned over the loaf, gently brushing the syrup glaze over the top with a small silicone brush, careful not to let it pool too fast.

He didn’t speak. Neither did you.

But your arms brushed once, barely.

And he didn’t move away.

You stayed there–close enough to feel the warmth rising off the pound cake, close enough to feel the air shift every time he breathed.

Close enough to wonder if maybe, just maybe…

You hadn’t been looking too deep into it at all.

————————

Three days later, you were sitting in the corner of a quiet coffee shop downtown, holding a half-full latte that had long gone cold.

The man across from you–Jason? Jordan?–was talking. About something. Work, maybe. Or CrossFit. Or how his ex still texted him sometimes, but it wasn’t weird because “she’s just not over me yet.” You’d stopped tracking it somewhere around minute seven. Your eyes were on him, your chin resting on your palm, but your mind was far, far away and sharply focused on Bob.

You hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since that night in the kitchen. The smell of lemon glaze still lingered somewhere in your senses, curling around you like a memory you didn’t want to shake off. You kept replaying the sound of his voice–the way it cracked when he said you deserve someone who could give you the world. The way he looked at you when you asked if he meant it.

It wasn’t fair to sit across from someone new while thinking about him—but here you were, watching this guy check his reflection in the window for the third time while your mind looped the image of Bob brushing syrup across golden crust like it was an act of devotion.

You sipped your latte again. Cold.

“I mean, what kind of girl doesn’t like tequila?” the man asked suddenly, with a scoff and a shake of his head.

You blinked. “Hm?”

He laughed. “I said–I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t like tequila. Like, if a girl says that on a date, I’m already checking out.” He grinned like it was charming. Like it was some kind of universal truth.

You offered a tight smile and checked your phone. No new messages. But Bob’s pinned thread sat right there at the top, quietly glowing like a lighthouse in fog.

“Excuse me,” You said suddenly, pushing your chair back, grabbing your coat before he could say anything else. “I just remembered I have to be somewhere.”

You didn’t wait for him to respond, you just apologized and rushed out.

The cold slapped your cheeks the moment you stepped outside the café, but you didn’t care. You didn’t even flinch.

Your boots hit the pavement hard, one after the other, your hands jammed deep in your coat pockets and your mind racing with every step. You didn’t call for a car this time. You didn’t need to. The Watchtower was just a block away–rising tall and familiar through the gray city haze like it had been waiting for you. Like he had been waiting for you.

You crossed the street on instinct, breath catching at your throat as the compound’s glass façade came into view. You didn’t even register the security team at the front desk. You just nodded once, clipped your badge at the scanner, and pushed your way through the reinforced door like it owed you answers.

The elevator opened with a quiet chime.

You stepped in, hit the button for the 80th floor, and leaned back against the mirror, exhaling through your nose.

Your fingers were trembling. You folded your arms across your chest, trying to keep still. But your hand started tapping against the side of the elevator anyway, bouncing in a quick, nervous rhythm. One. Two. Three. Tap tap tap.

This wasn’t just about the date anymore. This wasn’t about frustration or exhaustion or bad conversation. This was about Bob.

This was about all the quiet gestures. The folding of your laundry. The checking of your location to make sure you were safe. The lemon loaf. The way he had looked at you like he wanted to say more but didn’t know how. You couldn’t sit on it anymore. You couldn’t wonder if you were imagining it. You had to know.

The elevator dinged.

You stepped out.

The air on the 80th floor was warm–quiet. Like the world was holding its breath.

Your boots hit the polished concrete with familiar weight, but you kicked them off quickly near the bench, letting them thud softly as they landed side by side. You padded forward in thick socks, heart thumping loud in your ears, and turned the corner toward the common room.

“Bob?” You called softly, voice catching on the edge of your breath. “Are you here? I… I need to talk–”

You stopped mid-step.

The words caught in your throat like smoke.

Because there, right in the center of the coffee table, beneath the soft glow of the standing lamp–

Was a vase of daisies.

Your breath hitched quietly.

Not roses. Not peonies. Not anything dramatic or overt.

Just simple, white-petaled daisies–dozens of them–tall and bright and a little uneven, like he’d picked through the bunches carefully to find the right ones. The ones that felt like you. Gentle. Honest. Unassuming.

Beside the vase was a small bowl–ceramic, navy blue, the one you always used for popcorn on movie nights. But instead of popcorn, it was filled to the brim with Lindor truffles.

Every kind.

White chocolate. Dark. Sea salt. Milk. Hazelnut. Pistachio.

Your breath left you in a soft, shaky exhale.

He remembered. You’d once told him–months ago in a conversation you barely remembered yourself–that you didn’t have a favorite flavor. That you just liked the surprise of reaching in and never knowing which one you’d get. That it felt like a reward no matter what.

You stepped forward slowly, almost on instinct, like the moment would vanish if you moved too fast. You came to stand before the table, eyes wide and soft, lips parting just slightly as you reached out.

Your fingers brushed the rim of the vase.

The stems were fresh. Still damp with condensation. He must have gone out earlier today–probably snuck them in while you were on your date, hoping to surprise you when you got back. Hoping to make you smile.

And God, it worked.

Your eyes shimmered slightly–not with sadness, but with something else. Something warm and aching and full.

You smiled, small and stunned and tender.

Then you heard it–the quiet shuffle of footsteps from the hallway behind you.

You turned.

And there he was.

Bob stood just past the hallway arch, bathed in the low amber light spilling from the living room. His light brown hair was soft and fluffed at the crown, like he’d run a brush through it half a dozen times and still thought it wasn’t enough. There was a faint wave to it, the kind that always tried to curl when he let it dry naturally. His sweater–charcoal gray with sleeves pushed up to his elbows–clung slightly to the line of his shoulders, and the soft cotton of his navy sweatpants hung low on his hips, loose but familiar.

He looked so domestic it nearly broke your heart.

He froze when he saw you standing there, still in your socks, still inches from the daisies, still wrapped in the kind of silence that only ever came before something life-changing.

“I-I didn’t expect you to be b-back so early…” He stammered, eyes flicking to the door like he was trying to reorient himself in real time.

You shook your head, the corner of your mouth tugging with something soft–something bruised and full of clarity.

“I left.”

Bob blinked.

“I stopped the date,” You added, voice quiet, but steady. “I couldn’t be there anymore.”

His brows drew in with sudden concern. “A-Are you okay?”

You hesitated.

Then shook your head again–then nodded. A small, helpless sound left you, somewhere between a laugh and a breath. “No–I mean…yes, I’m okay, I just…”

Your hand lifted slightly from your side, like the words needed a physical anchor. Your fingers hovered in the air between you.

“I left because of you.”

That stopped him.

Completely.

His mouth parted slightly, confusion flickering across his face, chased by something softer–something more dangerous. Hope.

You stepped toward him.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you, Bob.”

His whole body stilled. His shoulders lifted–just a little–like the breath in his lungs was suddenly too big to keep quiet.

And then you said it.

“I’ve been trying so hard to pretend that it’s just friendship. That it’s just comfort. That I’m just tired or lonely or healing from something else. But it’s not. It’s never been that.”

Your voice was trembling now. But it didn’t falter.

“Every time I sit across from someone new, I realize that all I’m looking for is you. I’m hoping for your laugh, your voice, your hands. I’m comparing everything to how it feels when I’m sitting beside you on that couch folding towels and drinking wine like we’re building a life together in the quiet.”

Bob’s eyes shined. Wide and liquidy. Like the words were pouring into him faster than he could hold them.

“I don’t need someone who’ll try to impress me. I don’t want someone who’ll try to win me. I just want someone who’s already here. Who sees me, who remembers the truffles I love, who bakes lemon poppyseed loaves not because I asked–but because they knew I’d need comfort.”

Your voice cracked, and you let it bloom raw and real between you.

“I want someone whose voice I miss when I’m surrounded by people. I want someone who listens like the world goes quiet when I speak. I want you, Bob. Not a maybe. Not a someday. Not if you ever get around to feeling the same. I want you now. Exactly as you are.”

Silence stretched.

Your chest rose and fell, breathless and stripped bare.

Bob didn’t speak. He just stared–like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right. Like the words were still echoing in the space between you, too fragile to touch.

His mouth opened slightly. Then closed. His eyes flicked across your face like he was trying to memorize it again, all over again–trying to understand how something he’d wanted for so long had just unfolded in front of him like a gift he didn’t think he deserved.

You could see it–the way his fingers twitched at his sides, the way his chest rose too fast and shallow beneath the soft cotton of his sweater. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move.

And then he did.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Each step he took was measured, careful–like if he moved too fast, it might startle you, might wake you both up from the spell that had settled over the room like warm syrup and late summer light. And the closer he got, the more the air shifted.

That scent–his scent–wrapped around you before he even reached you. Clean cedar. Fresh laundry. Something faintly earthy, like he’d gone out earlier and carried the scent of wind back with him. It hit you like a comfort you hadn’t realized you’d been starving for. And then he was right in front of you.

He didn’t speak. Not yet.

He just looked at you.

And then his hands rose and found your cheeks.

Warm. Gentle.

His thumbs swept forward, brushing softly beneath your eyes, tracing the delicate skin there like it mattered to him more than anything. And maybe it did. His fingers curled along your jaw, tilting your face just enough to meet his eyes.

They were glassy blue–pale and bright and shining with something barely held back. The kind of color that looked like sky at the edge of winter, but deeper somehow. More infinite. His lashes fluttered just once as he took you in, as if he couldn’t believe you were real. His gaze searched every inch of your face–your lips, your brows, your tear-glossed lashes–like you were a question he already knew the answer to.

He was smiling.

So soft.

So vulnerable.

Like it hurt, but in the best way.

“I-I’m very sure y-you know how I f-feel…” he whispered, voice fraying around the edges. “I… I t-think it’s obvious…R-Right?” You couldn’t breathe, not with him this close. Not with that look in his eyes. But your hand lifted–nervous, slow–and slid to the back of his, pressing your palm against his knuckles where they cupped your cheek.

“…Can you say it?” You whispered, barely audible. Your voice cracked on the last word.

Bob’s breath hitched.

His forehead tipped down, brushing just slightly against yours as he closed his eyes for a moment, gathering himself. You could feel it in the way his chest trembled when he exhaled. And then he nodded–just once, almost imperceptibly.

“I-I love you.”

The words were quiet and raw. Just pure truth.

“I’ve l-loved you for months,” He added, his breath hot against your cheek. “I–I just didn’t know how to say it without losing you.” You made a soft sound, somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, and his eyes opened again–so blue, so open it made your knees weak.

“You’re not losing me,” You whispered.

Bob gave you the smallest smile—barely a curve, barely a breath—but it lit up every inch of his face. His eyes glimmered, lashes low as they flicked down…

To your mouth.

And God help you, your gaze did the same.

You saw it happen—the moment everything between you shifted. The air went still, thicker somehow, humming with anticipation. Your chests rose in perfect rhythm, and when your eyes met again, it was like every hesitation had burned away under the weight of the moment.

You leaned in at the same time.

Not fast.

Not urgent.

But with a certainty that stole the breath straight from your lungs.

Your lips met with a soft, searing press–a sigh shared in skin.

Warm. Delicate. Then deeper.

Bob kissed like he’d been waiting his entire life for it.

He tilted his head just slightly to the side, coaxing you closer with a trembling inhale against your mouth. His lips parted slow, brushing yours again–this time with more heat, more surety–and you responded in kind, your fingers curling into the soft cotton of his sweater as your body folded into his.

You could feel it in the way his chest moved–tight, uneven, like the kiss had undone something at the center of him. His hands left your face then, slow and reverent, sliding down the line of your neck, over your shoulders, down your sides until his fingers found the soft denim belt loops at your waist.

He tugged gently.

And you stepped into him like you were meant to be there.

The front of your body pressed against his fully now–your sweater brushing his, your belt buckle hitting just right against the soft curve of his hips. He pulled you closer by those loops, anchoring you there as his mouth moved against yours with more purpose.

This wasn’t a tentative kiss.

This was discovery.

He kissed you like he was trying to memorize everything–how your breath caught when his tongue teased the edge of your bottom lip, how your fingers fisted tighter in his shirt when he deepened the kiss just slightly, how you sighed into him like you were pouring your soul through your mouth.

And God, the sound he made when you kissed him back like that–a low, broken hum that spilled from his chest and straight into your skin–made your knees falter. He caught you without thinking, his arms tightening around your waist as he walked you backward gently.

Your knees hit the couch with a gentle bump, and Bob slowed just enough to ease the kiss, to make sure you were still with him–still saying yes in every way your mouth and hands and breath could offer it. His lips lingered against yours for one last soft brush before he pulled back just slightly, just enough to breathe.

His eyes searched yours–wide, awestruck, dazed with heat and disbelief. His breath was shallow, his chest rising fast against yours. He looked drunk on you. Like he couldn’t believe this was real. Like it was better than any dream he’d dared to have.

“That was…” He whispered, voice raw and ragged. “That was b-better than what I-I imagined.”

Your lips curled into a smile. Slow. Deep. Smug in the softest, most tender way.

“You’ve been imagining this?”

Bob flushed instantly–pink rising to his cheeks, to the tips of his ears. But he didn’t deny it.

“…Every night,” He murmured, like it was a confession too intimate to speak aloud, but too honest to bury. “S-Since the mission in Prague. W-When you fell asleep in my room…And you–”

You didn’t let him finish. You leaned up and kissed him again–fast, needy, grateful.

He groaned softly into your mouth, and then he moved.

One arm wrapped behind your thighs, the other around your back, and with a soft grunt of effort and a gentle grip, Bob lifted you–just enough to make you gasp quietly against his lips.

You clung to him instinctively, your arms winding around his shoulders as he eased you down onto the couch, laying you out gently across the cushions. His body followed, covering yours in one slow motion. His weight was careful, braced on his forearms, but the closeness was unbearable in the best way. Every line of him pressed against you–chest to chest, hips cradled between your legs, the fabric of his sweatpants brushing your jeans.

The world outside that couch didn’t exist anymore.

Not the cold, not the city, not the weight of bad dates or missed signals or time spent pretending. There was only this–the heat of his body pressed to yours, the sharp rise and fall of his breath, the way your legs cradled his hips like you were carved to fit him there. His nose brushed yours once–just the lightest touch–before his mouth returned to yours with a kiss slower than the last. A little deeper. A little more certain.

Then he pulled back just enough to press his forehead to yours again. His breath ghosted across your lips, shaky and uneven, and his eyes fluttered closed for half a second like he needed a moment to just exist inside the feeling.

“C-Can I…?” He whispered, the words barely a sound. His hands hadn’t moved—still braced beside your ribs, still careful not to overwhelm you with his weight. “C-Can I kiss you there…? J-Just your neck, I—” He swallowed hard. “I-I’ve imagined it s-so many times…” Your heart thudded in your chest, and you tilted your head without a word, exposing the soft skin that lined your neck and slipped beneath the collar of your sweater.

And that was all it took.

Bob bent slowly, reverently, until his mouth met the curve of your throat. His lips brushed there once–so gentle it felt more like breath than contact–before he kissed again, then again, a little lower each time. His nose nuzzled against your skin, and you could feel the way his breath stuttered as his lips found the hollow just above your collarbone. He lingered there. Soft. Warm. Like he needed the taste of your skin to make sure this was real.

You reached up slowly, fingers weaving into his hair, and the soft sound that left his chest–half a whimper, half a sigh–nearly undid you. His mouth parted against your neck and he kissed deeper this time, tongue flicking out to taste you with a need so gentle it ached.

“You’re so…” He murmured between kisses, lips brushing the base of your jaw, “s-so beautiful…”

Your breath hitched as you felt him mouth along your pulse, each kiss more tender than the last.

“B-Bob…”

The sound of his name in your voice–it wrecked him.

He lifted his head, eyes heavy with awe, and looked down at you like you were the center of the universe. Like he’d been holding back every star just to make sure they didn’t blind you. His fingers moved finally, trembling as they skimmed along your waist, slipping beneath the hem of your sweater with devastating care.

“I… I want to see you,” He whispered, and even though the words were quiet, they carried the weight of everything he’d never let himself say. “I w-want to kiss all of you. I w-want you to feel how long I’ve been waiting…”

You lifted your arms in silent answer.

He tugged your sweater up slowly–inch by inch–like every new patch of skin was something sacred. His eyes never left you. Not even when the fabric caught at your elbows, not even when it bared your ice white bra and the delicate slope of your waist beneath. He was trembling when he helped you sit up just enough to pull it the rest of the way off, his breath hitching as he took in the sight of you–soft and flushed beneath him, chest rising fast.

“Oh my god…” He breathed, voice frayed and full of light. “You’re…y-you’re unreal…” You could see him drinking you in. His hands moved on their own now, cupping the sides of your ribs, thumbs brushing up just beneath the line of your bra. But even then–trembling and overwhelmed–he looked up at you for permission, eyes wide, desperate for yes.

You gave it with a kiss–hot and slow and aching–and his body folded into you like it was breaking.

His hands moved with more certainty now, finding the clasp at your back, undoing it with a shaky exhale. You felt the tension melt out of him when the bra slipped away and your bare chest was revealed. His mouth parted slightly. His pupils blew wide. His gaze swept over you like poetry he didn’t know how to write.

Then he bent.

And kissed the swell of your breast–so gentle, it made your back arch into him desperate for more. His lips lingered there for a moment, breathing warmth onto your skin before giving a soft, open-mouthed kiss that left heat blooming across your skin. He moved with aching restraint, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you with his mouth. You gasped as his tongue slipped out to taste you, the barest flick before he suckled gently at the skin, then moved down again. His breath hitched as his lips dragged along the swell just above your nipple, and his fingers dug tighter into your waist like he needed grounding.

“You smell so good,” He whispered hoarsely, words barely audible against your skin. “Y-You taste like…Like vanilla and heaven and–God, I don’t know, I…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

His mouth moved lower again, and this time he parted his lips around the top of your breast and sucked–softly, then increasing the intensity. You felt the pull of it all the way down your spine. His teeth grazed just slightly before his tongue smoothed over it, like an apology and a promise in one. Your back arched, your fingers threading tighter into his hair, and that made him groan. Deep in his throat. Almost possessive.

And then he did it again.

A slower suck. Firmer. Longer.

And then another.

He moved to the other side, leaving your skin glistening and flushed in his wake. And now you felt it–cool air where his mouth had just been, and the slow, heady sting blooming beneath the surface as blood rushed up to meet the bruises he was pressing into you.

Little love bites.

He was marking you.

Not out of control, not careless–but worshipfully. Intimately. He wanted to see the proof of how much he adored you, how much you wanted this. Wanted him.

His hair had fallen forward now–messy, loose strands tickling across your chest, brushing against your collarbone and the top of your stomach. The softness of it contrasted the way his mouth worked–hot and unrelenting now, like he couldn’t stop. Like he didn’t want to.

You whimpered–soft, broken–and he moaned at the sound, dragging his lips down again to leave another kiss, another suck, another blooming ache just above your rib cage.

When he finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, he lifted his head and stared down at you.

At the marks.

His eyes darkened. And a smile–barely there, but unmistakably real–curved the corner of his mouth.

He looked proud.

His thumb traced one of the little bruises, and he hummed softly, like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever made. “C-Can’t believe… I get to do this,” he murmured, voice rough with disbelief and reverence.

And then he bent lower, slowly, slowly, until his mouth hovered over your nipple.

His breath hit you first. Hot. Shaky.

Then–just once–he sucked.

A soft, teasing pull that made your whole body jolt.

“B-Bob…” You whispered, your voice shaking like it couldn’t contain the sound of his name and the feeling at once.

He looked up at you through his lashes, hair falling into his eyes, lips still parted over your skin.

“I-I’m sorry,” He whispered, but the wicked glint in his eyes betrayed him. “I-I’ve wanted this f-for so long… I c-can’t go slow anymore…”

And then he closed his mouth over you fully.

Heat exploded through your chest as he sucked harder this time, tongue circling, flattening, flicking over your nipple in fast, rhythmic passes. He moaned again–loud and broken–like just having you like this in his mouth was overwhelming him.

His hand came up to cup your other breast, thumb brushing the peak, coaxing it to life while his mouth ravaged the first.

You arched against him, hips lifting, your fingers tugging his hair hard now–and that only made him groan louder. He pressed himself closer to you, grinding just a little, like he couldn’t help it, like the pleasure of this was sinking through every inch of him and setting his nerves on fire.

His mouth worked with feverish devotion–sucking, licking, pulling until the pleasure had you gasping, trembling, whispering his name like it was a prayer.

When he finally released you, your nipple wet and swollen from his mouth, he kissed it once more–soft, lingering.

Then his voice came again, low and reverent.

“You’re…Y–You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

He was visibly shaking.

His eyes were glassy with heat, with awe, with everything he’d been holding back for months.

And still… He wanted more.

Bob’s lips lingered against your chest, breath coming in shallow waves, his mouth still slick from the last kiss he’d left on your skin. His hand was trembling slightly where it cupped the side of your waist, and when he pulled back just enough to look at you, the blue in his eyes was molten–liquid with heat, gentleness, and just a trace of hesitation.

“W-We…W-we can stop now, if you want…” He whispered, voice raw and uneven. “I-I know we’re going, like…R-Really fast right now and I just–”

You shook your head immediately, too fast, your hand reaching for his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek like you needed him to hear you–really hear you.

“No. No, I like this,” You said, breathless but sure. “Fast is fine with me. Please don’t stop.” Bob’s brows lifted just slightly, his expression wrecked with awe and something softer–something close to disbelief

“A-Are you sure?” he asked, the words catching on the edge of a breath. “I-I don’t wanna mess this up. I don’t wanna rush y-you or–”

You cut him off with a whisper

“I haven’t been touched like this in over a year, Bob.”

His breath hitched hard in his throat. His lips parted, but he didn’t speak.

“I forgot what it was like,” You continued, voice cracking with emotion and need, “To want someone to touch me this badly. To feel good with it. Safe with it. Wanted like this. Like I’m…Something you can’t stop worshipping.”

Bob made a quiet, broken noise in the back of his throat. His hand fisted gently in the cushion beside your head, his whole body taut with restraint. You pulled him closer, your leg curling around his hip as your voice dropped even lower–soft and hot against the shell of his ear.

“I want to feel all of you. I want to feel your hands everywhere. Your mouth, your breath, the way you look at me like I’m yours. I don’t want to slow down, Bob. Not with you. I’ve been waiting a long time… And it’s only ever been you in the back of my mind.”

A shudder rolled through him like a wave. His head dropped to your shoulder for a beat, breath heaving once, twice, as he soaked in your words.

When he lifted it again, something had changed in his eyes.

There was no hesitation now. No uncertainty. Just wonder. Just hunger. Just the overwhelming need to give you everything.

His hand slid down to your thigh, trembling but firm, and his voice was barely above a whisper as he pressed his forehead to yours and spoke.

“O-Okay,” He said, with a nod so soft it felt like a vow, and then he kissed you again–deep and devastating and full of everything he had left to give. His tongue swept into your mouth with a low, muffled groan, meeting yours in a rhythm that made your thighs clench around his hips. You kissed him like you needed to breathe him in–open-mouthed, gasping, letting the slick heat of it slide between your teeth as your fingers curled into the back of his neck. His moan vibrated against your mouth, and you swallowed it down, letting the sound melt between the drag of your tongues and the quiet, breathless whimpers it drew from both of you.

It was messy in the best way–saliva slicking the seam of your lips, the soft pull of his bottom lip between your teeth, the desperate glide of his mouth returning to yours like he couldn’t stay away for more than a second. Your fingers drifted down from his neck–shaky and eager–sliding past his collarbone to the hem of his sweater.

You tugged once.

Bob pulled back from the kiss, breath shuddering, and looked down at you with flushed cheeks and glistening lips. A string of wet heat broke between your mouths as he hovered just above you, eyes dark, dazed, and wrecked with reverence.

He reached behind his head and took hold of the back of his sweater–then in one slow, fluid motion, pulled it over his head and tossed it aside.

It hit the floor with a soft thud. Your breath caught.

The sight of him–bare and warm and glowing in the soft amber light–made your stomach tighten with want.

His chest was all soft muscle and broad lines, defined but not super intense, he looked strong without even trying. There were faint shadows where his ribs curved beneath smooth skin, and a constellation of freckles scattered across his chest and shoulders like the stars had kissed him once and left their mark. You traced them with your eyes, then your hands, fingers feathering over the slope of his abdomen, feeling the warmth of him, the subtle tremble in his stomach as you dragged your touch lower.

There were beauty marks near his ribs. A scar just beneath one. A thin, faded line on his left hip. You memorized each one like they were holy things.

His breath hitched.

He looked down at you, blinking slowly, and then he smirked. Just barely. Just enough to steal your breath all over again.

“That s-suit…” He rasped, eyes flicking across your face as your hands continued their soft exploration, “R-Really doesn’t do all of this justice.”

You let out a breathy laugh, thumb brushing a freckle near his sternum. “What, the Sentry suit?” You teased, eyebrows lifting as you let your gaze drag down his torso again. “No kidding. That thing hides the good stuff.” Bob’s laughter was soft and hoarse–more a puff of breath than a full sound–but it shook through him all the same.

His shoulders trembled slightly as he ducked his head, the flush creeping up from his chest to stain his neck and cheeks a deep rose. He shook his head slowly, strands of light brown hair falling over his brown, then looked back down at you with a gaze so open and adoring it made your heart lurch.

“Y-You’re ridiculous,” He whispered, smiling like he didn’t know what to do with how much he wanted you. Your fingers brushed slowly down the center of his chest, and he shivered under the touch. His breath caught, and before you could say anything else, he reached down gently–his hand curling around your wrist like it was made for his palm. He brought it up between your bodies, eyes never leaving yours.

Then, with infinite care, he pressed a kiss to your palm.

It was slow. Hot. The kind of kiss that burned straight into your skin and stayed there. His lips parted slightly as they brushed your hand, and the sigh he breathed out as he kissed it again–so tender, so loving–made your throat tighten.

“C-Can I take your j-jeans off?” He asked, voice barely above a breath, almost shy despite the way his eyes darkened with want.

You nodded.

His expression flickered–relief, desire, awe–and then he shifted. Slowly. Carefully.

Bob sat back on his heels between your legs, hands moving to the waistband of your jeans with trembling fingers. He leaned down as he worked the button open, pressing a kiss just beneath your navel, right where your stomach dipped gently in.

You gasped.

And he paused, glanced up at you, searching for permission.

“Please,” You whispered, your voice breaking slightly from how badly you wanted it. “Keep going.”

He nodded–swallowed hard–and began to shimmy the jeans down.

He kissed his way down with them.

Every inch he uncovered, he honored. The denim slid inch by inch over your hips, down your thighs, and as it went, his mouth followed. He kissed the curve of your hipbone, the soft dip above your inner thigh, the top of your kneecap. His nose nuzzled into the skin as he worked, lips brushing tenderly along the sensitive flesh of your upper legs, and every kiss made you twitch, gasp, sigh.

By the time your jeans were completely off and tossed to the side, you were panting—half from anticipation, half from the weight of his mouth on your skin.

Bob’s hands ran up your calves, slow and wide-palmed, then curled behind your knees, spreading you open just a little more, until you were fully on display for him. His gaze dropped then.

And when it landed, it stuck.

You could see his breath catch. His mouth parted slightly as his eyes took you in—laid out beneath him in a delicate black pair of underwear trimmed in lace, the shape of your body flushed and trembling and framed by the soft glow of the room.

His fingers drifted toward your hips again, calloused pads skimming along the waistband.

He swallowed.

“V-Very pretty…” he whispered, almost reverent. “So, so pretty…”

Your face burned. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your chest, your neck. Not from embarrassment. From the intensity of the way he looked at you. Like you were something priceless. Like he wanted to take hours just exploring every inch of you.

His fingertips traced the lace slowly–just once–before he bent down again.

This time, he kissed just above the waistband. Soft, warm, slow. Then lower.

A gentle nibble at the curve of your lower stomach made you jolt, your breath catching in your throat as your hips twitched under his mouth. He kissed the spot soothingly, tongue brushing the skin like an apology–or a tease–and then did it again, just a little to the left.

You whimpered. And he smiled against your skin.

“You’re so warm here,” he murmured, brushing his nose along your lower belly. “S-So soft…”

His hands caressed your thighs, thumbs rubbing gentle circles near the crease where they met your hips. You felt your legs fall even wider at his touch, inviting him in, your fingers tangled tight in the couch cushion now, fighting the urge to cry out from how badly you wanted him.

Bob looked up then, his breath hot against your stomach.

“I… I d-don’t want to rush this part,” He whispered. “I-I want to remember every single second of it.” And then he kissed your belly again–longer this time, slower. His lips parted against your skin, and his breath fanned out in warm, reverent waves as his hands slid down to anchor you by the hips.

He looked like a man starving.

And you were going to be his first meal.

Your bottom lip slipped between your teeth as your hips lifted–barely, instinctively–chasing the heat of his mouth like it was the only thing that could soothe the ache blooming inside you. Bob let out a soft laugh, low and wrecked, the sound curling in his throat like smoke.

“P-Patience,” He murmured, the word half-teasing, half-sincere, as he kissed the sensitive skin just below your belly button again. “I–I wanna savor this…All of you…” You whimpered, the sound involuntary, and he moaned softly in return, like the sound alone had done something to him.

Then his hands slid down.

They curved around your hips again, warm and steady, and you felt the fabric of your underwear catch under his fingers–tugging gently, down your thighs. His mouth followed, lips brushing every newly revealed inch, teeth grazing the soft skin just above your hipbone as he slowly pulled the lace past your knees, then down over your calves. You lifted your legs for him, obedient, trembling, and he pulled them the rest of the way off, tossing the panties to the side without looking.

Bob shifted on the couch again—his body moving fluidly, slowly, like he didn’t want to jostle a single nerve in you. He settled lower, then gently reached for your legs.

“C’mere…” He instructed, voice thick and shaking as his hands slid beneath your knees.

He lifted one leg, then the other, and placed them over his broad shoulders with exquisite care–his palms gliding down the backs of your thighs before curling around to brace you, spreading you open for him. Your breath caught at the position–so exposed, so vulnerable–but Bob didn’t take his eyes off you as he adjusted, settling his weight between the cushions and anchoring himself close to the edge of the couch.

His breath hitched the moment he looked down.

You saw the awe flood his face–the wide, hungry eyes, the parting of his lips, the quick, sharp intake of breath that sounded almost pained.

“C-Can’t believe y-you’re this wet from j-just kissing me…” He commented, voice ragged and hoarse with disbelief.

Your cheeks burned. Your breath came faster. But you didn’t look away.

“I’ve been aching for you, Bob,” you whispered, voice raw with truth, “You have no idea what you do to me…” Bob let out a small whimper, and then his gaze dropped again. His hands smoothed down your thighs, thumbs gliding reverently over the soft skin before slipping outward to spread you wider–just enough to bare you fully to his eyes. He looked like a man who’d found something holy. His lashes lowered briefly. Then he bowed his head.

And kissed you.

Not where you thought he would. Not yet.

He kissed your right thigh–just inside, just above the crease–soft and slow. Then your left. Then lower, right above your knee. And then he returned to the center, placing a final kiss high up between your thighs, right above your aching core.

It was gentle.

Like he was making an offering.

Or a promise.

A cross traced in heat and mouth and meaning.

Then he exhaled–and the warm gust of his breath ghosted across your slickness, and you whimpered again, hips twitching upward. His gaze flicked up to meet yours one last time.

Then he lowered his head…And tasted you.

His tongue didn’t drag.

It pressed in with a short, purposeful stroke–just enough to part you, just enough to collect the slickness waiting there. His mouth sealed around the heat of you, and he groaned. Loud. Shattered. As if the flavor of you had broken him open from the inside.

“God…” He groaned against you. “Y-You taste so s-sweet.” He dove back in.

No more teasing. No more waiting.

Bob’s mouth opened fully, tongue licking again–slow but deliberate–lapping in tight, precise motions as he held your thighs wide around his shoulders. His nose brushed just against your mound as he angled in deeper, and the moment his tongue swiped over your clit–just once–you gasped aloud, back arching off the cushions.

“B-Bob–!”

He moaned again at the sound of his name–drawn out, broken, overwhelmed. His hands held you steady now, fingers digging slightly into your skin as his mouth worked with growing confidence and hunger. He licked again–short strokes, then longer ones. His tongue flattened and dragged through you like he was savoring every drop, then circled your clit with devastating patience, only to pull back and kiss the tender, flushed skin around it again like he was apologizing for the pressure.

You were trembling.

Every touch, every flick of his tongue sent lightning up your spine. You were so sensitive and yet not enough. Your fingers buried in his hair, fisting it tight, pulling him closer. He groaned at that, the vibration of it sending another wave of pleasure through your core.

“P-Please don’t stop,” you gasped, voice cracking.

His answer was another lick–firmer, more focused, his tongue curling at the end to pull a strangled cry from your throat. He latched on then–mouth sealed over your clit, tongue flicking in a rhythm that felt like worship, felt like penance, felt like a man trying to pray with his mouth and be answered through your moans.

And he was.

Because you were moaning for him now, falling apart under the heat and wet and weight of it all. Your thighs quivered, toes curling against the couch cushions, and your voice turned to broken breaths and whimpers, each one gasping his name between sobs of pleasure.

You could feel it building–already, too fast–coiling low and molten in your belly. But you didn’t want to stop him. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Especially when Bob pulled back for just a moment–just long enough to murmur:

“I c-can’t stop, Y/N…Y-You taste too good…”

And then he was back again, eating you with feverish reverence, moaning like the pleasure was mutual, like he was addicted to the slick heat of you and had no plans to come up for air. The wet, obscene sounds of his lips moving against you filled the room, thick and echoing off the walls like music made just for you.

Then his hand moved.

You felt it the moment the heat of his palm slipped from your thigh, slow and steady, like he didn’t want to lose an ounce of pressure from where he held you open for him. But he let go, trailing his palm upward, over the sensitive crease of your hip, then lower…Lower…Until his fingers hovered just beneath the place his mouth was devouring.

You gasped as two thick fingers dragged through your slick heat–teasing, testing, coated instantly in the arousal spilling from you in waves. And then, with the same aching care he’d used to undress you, Bob pushed them in slowly, curling slightly.

Your body jolted.

“Ah–fuck, Bob–!” Your hips lifted off the couch, back arching violently as the stretch filled you in a way nothing else had, in a way that made your head spin and your toes curl and your lungs seize on a sob.

Bob moaned against your clit like your voice alone could shatter him. His fingers stilled for just a moment, buried inside you, and then he pulled back slightly–just enough to look up, lips wet and swollen, chin slick with your arousal.

“Y-You like that?” He asked, breathless, his voice cracking at the end with the weight of it. “D-Does that feel good?”

You couldn’t even form words. You nodded hard, trembling, your hand fisting tighter in his hair.

His lips parted in a dazed smile. “G-Good. That’s… God, you’re so tight around me…” His fingers curled gently inside you, stroking the front of your walls in a slow, searching rhythm–testing, learning, worshipping.

And then he ducked his head again.

And sucked.

Your clit disappeared into the hot, wet seal of his mouth just as his fingers pumped into you again–this time firmer, faster, curling on every thrust. The pressure of his mouth matched the rhythm of his hand, and the combination sent lightning straight through your core.

Your thighs trembled on either side of his head, muscles spasming as you cried out, hips rocking in time with the rhythm he’d set.

His tongue flicked over your clit again–fast and tight and focused–and you keened. Loud. Desperate.

“B-Bob–please–don’t stop–”

He groaned in answer, the sound vibrating right against your nerves. He sucked harder, then released you with a pop and murmured hotly against your skin:

“S-Say it…”

You gasped, hips stuttering.

His fingers curled again. Slipped deeper. Rubbed just right.

“Say it,” He moaned. “T-Tell me how much you l-like it. Please. I-I need to hear it. Please–”

Your head fell back against the cushions, neck bared, eyes fluttering shut as your body began to unravel. You were so close. So, so close.

“I love it,” You sobbed, voice cracking. “God, Bob–I love it–I love the way you’re touching me, please don’t stop, I’m gonna–”

He moaned at your words like they were a blessing–his mouth sealing over your clit again, tongue lashing in tight circles, fingers thrusting in perfect time. He was desperate with it now–mouth and hand working together in a rhythm that shook you to your bones, each movement driving you closer and closer to the edge.

“J-Just like that,” He whispered raggedly between strokes. “W-Want you to come for me…W-Want to feel you break…”

And then he sucked again. Hard.

Your orgasm ripped through you like a wave crashing into the shore.

You cried out–raw, loud, trembling beneath him as your walls clenched around his fingers, your thighs shaking, back arching high off the couch as your climax tore through every nerve ending. He moaned against you, riding it out, never stopping–his tongue slower now, soothing, coaxing you through it as your body spasmed in his hold.

Even when your cries turned to gasps, then to broken sobs, Bob didn’t let go.

His movements stilled inside you, fingers curled as if holding your heartbeat in his palm.

And then, slowly he pulled his mouth away and looked up at you.

Your thighs were still shaking. Your chest was heaving. Your skin was flushed, dewed with sweat, lips parted, eyes glassy with the kind of bliss that rewrote memories.

Bob’s lips were red and swollen, and his chin was glistening with your arousal.

Bob’s chest was rising fast. His lips were swollen, chin slick with you, breath still uneven as he blinked up from between your thighs like he’d just emerged from a dream he never wanted to wake from. His fingers gently slipped from inside you, slow and careful, glistening with the aftermath of your release.

“I-I don’t know w-what you do to taste that good…” he murmured, voice hoarse and reverent. His eyes never left yours as he gently lowered your legs from his shoulders, his hands lingering on your thighs like he didn’t want to let go. “…B-But I’m going to want to t-taste you on a daily basis.”

Your breath caught.

The warmth of his words settled in your stomach like a second pulse. Your fingers flexed where they still clutched the couch cushions, your thighs trembling as he shifted upward, bracing one palm near your hip for balance.

But then…His eyes flicked down.

You followed them–lower, between your bodies–and saw it too.

The thick line of him, straining against his sweatpants. The dark, damp spot blooming near the waistband. The outline of his erection was impossible to miss, thick and long, twitching visibly beneath the soft fabric like he’d been trying to keep still and failing. Your breath hitched. It had been so long… and he was–

Bob saw where you were looking and stilled completely.

“I-I…w-we can stop here,” he said quickly, breath catching, voice laced with concern even as arousal made his cheeks flush a deeper red. “If you’re not ready, I–it’s okay, I swear.”

You looked up at him. The way he was shaking slightly. The way his hair fell messily across his forehead. The way his mouth was still wet with your pleasure.

And something inside you lit up.

“No,” You whispered.

You reached for him–slowly, reverently–your palm resting gently over the hard ridge in his sweatpants.

“I don’t want to stop,” You murmured, fingers curling slightly over the thick outline beneath the fabric. “Not even a little.”

Bob let out a soft, broken breath, but he didn’t move–not yet. You leaned up slowly, pressing your lips to his jaw, letting your voice brush across his skin like silk.

“I want you,” you whispered, softer now. “All of you. I want to feel you inside me. I want to be full of you. I want to fall apart with you.”

Bob made a low, ragged sound in his throat, like he’d been hit. The muscles in his stomach tightened as you continued, voice barely a breath now.

“I want to feel you lose control inside me, Bob. I want to know what it feels like when someone loves me that deeply.” His hesitation shattered.

He surged up and off the couch for only a moment, just enough to strip.

His sweatpants hit the floor, followed quickly by the soft cotton of his boxers.

And when he straightened again, you saw him.

Your breath caught. Your eyes widened. He was…Beautiful. And daunting.

Thick. Long. Flushed red at the tip and leaking, veined and curved with a weight that made your thighs clench in anticipation and awe. Even with how wet you were—how utterly undone you’d already been by his mouth and his fingers—it was clear this would be a stretch.

Bob followed your gaze and immediately blushed, a deep, flustered pink rising up his chest and staining his cheeks.

“A-Are you o-okay?” He asked gently,

“You’re just…Really big. And it’s been a while.” Bob’s brows furrowed slightly, gaze darting back to your face as he lowered himself between your legs again, careful, attentive, bracing one palm beside your shoulder.

You reached up to cradle the back of his neck, grounding him.

“You’re going to have to be a little gentle with me,” you said, your voice low, reverent. “I think I’m going to need to adjust to your size.”

Something in his expression broke–melted.

He looked down at himself, then back at you, and nodded. Slow. Careful. In awe.

“O-Okay,” He nodded, like it was a promise. “I-I’ll go slow. I s-swear.”

You leaned back, spreading your thighs open for him. Welcoming him in. His hands found your knees, slid slowly down to your hips, and he settled into the cradle of your body–bare skin to bare skin, heat meeting heat.

Then his mouth found yours again.

This kiss was different. Wet with the taste of your own release, it was heady, consuming. You could taste yourself on his lips–sweet and a little salty from the sweat of your skin–and the intimacy of it made you whimper into his mouth. Your hands slid up the warm lines of his back, curling over his shoulders as his tongue stroked yours in slow, languid passes.

He tasted like want. Like you, and like something ethereal.

When he pulled back, he kissed your jaw, your cheek, the soft spot beneath your ear, and then whispered:

“A-Are you ready?”

You nodded. Breathless. Eyes wide and glassy. His mouth pressed to your neck again with wet aching lips brushing just beneath your ear before trailing slowly down to the curve of your shoulder. You could feel the tremble in his breath, the way he lingered there, like he was gathering himself.

Then you felt his hand move between your bodies.

Careful. Gentle. Fingers trembling slightly as he reached down and took himself in hand, nudging gently between your thighs.

The weight of him settled against your entrance–hot and heavy, already slick from your arousal. You both gasped at the contact. Bob’s breath stuttered, his forehead pressing to yours for a moment as he adjusted, dragging the head slowly through your folds, coating himself in the evidence of how badly you wanted him.

“I-I just wanna m-make sure it’s easy…” he whispered, voice thin with restraint. He leaned back slightly on one arm, propping himself up so he could see you. His eyes flicked to your face, searching.

Terrified.

Like he was afraid you wouldn’t say anything even if it hurt.

And then slowly he moved his hips and started to push in.

The pressure bloomed instantly. It wasn’t painful, but there was a stretch, heat, and fullness that pulsed through you. You gasped, lips parting around a soft, unbidden sigh as the head of him slipped past that first resistance. Your hips shifted instinctively, your hands curling tighter into the muscle of his arm.

Bob froze immediately. “A-Are you okay?” He asked, his blue irises searching you, wide and worried.

You nodded, breath catching. “Y-Yeah,” You whispered, “I-It’s just a little overwhelming…” He exhaled shakily, chest shuddering, and leaned down to kiss your cheek. Then your nose. Then the corner of your mouth.

“S-Sorry,” He said softly, pressing another kiss just below your eye. “I–I’ll keep going s-slow, promise. Y-You’re doing so good…”

You moaned softly at the praise, your hand sliding up to his bicep again. It was taut beneath your palm, flexing slightly as he braced himself, inching deeper with agonizing care. You felt every centimeter. The stretch, the drag, the slow, steady push. And with each inch, the pressure grew–delicious and deep. He took your hand then–your free one–and brought it to his mouth. Kissed it. Soft and lingering. Then he laced your fingers together, his grip firm but tender as he pressed in deeper still.

“You feel so warm…” He moaned, “Y-You’re so p-perfect Y/N.” You pulsed around him, involuntarily, and he groaned–a low broken sound escaping his chest. He brought his hips forward just a little more, a sigh of relief coming from him, now that he was fully inside you.

Your hips adjusted slightly beneath him. You felt stretched open, filled completely, every inch of you claimed by the weight and warmth of his body, like he was blanketing you from the rest of the world. A whimper broke from your throat.

Bob’s face crumpled. He looked down at you like he was witnessing something sacred. His eyes were wide, glassy, blown dark with awe. You could feel the subtle twitch of his cock inside you–your sound had undone him.

“Y-You okay?” He asked, so softly it barely made it past your ear. You nodded, dazed by all the sensations that flooded your body.

“You…I’ve never felt this full be…Before…It’s just a lot.” You breathed. Bob swallowed hard. He ducked down, pressing his lips to yours with trembling reverence, and then shifted–slipping his arm carefully beneath your neck. He cradled you against him, drawing you closer so that your chests pressed together, your heartbeats stumbling in time.

“I-I’ll hold you,” He murmured. “I’ll kiss you the whole time. J-Just breathe, sweetheart…”

You nodded, lips brushing his, and then he moved.

Slowly. Gently. A careful pull back–just an inch–before he rocked forward again, his hips rolling in a rhythm so soft, so intimate, it felt like poetry being written in the space between your skin.

He kissed you through it.

With every thrust, he pressed a kiss somewhere new–your cheek, your jaw, the swell of your breast. His mouth never stopped. His praise never stopped.

“You’re s-so beautiful…”

“You’re doing s-so good for me…”

“Y-You feel…Incredible…”

His movements stayed slow. Reverent. Deep. You felt each one ripple through you, stretch you, soothe you. You gasped against his lips, moaning softly as he filled you again and again, each thrust brushing the deepest part of you with aching precision.

And every time you whimpered, every time your fingers squeezed his tighter–he whispered your name like it was the only thing that he knew or had in this world.

Bob leaned down and kissed you again.

Not like before.

Not with urgency or hunger or even the heat of building need.

This kiss was slow. Deep. A brush of mouths that didn’t ask, didn’t beg, didn’t even need to speak. It just…Was. The way lips pressed and parted, the way his breath filled your lungs between kisses, the way he moaned softly into you like kissing you was the only prayer he had left to give.

It was the kind of kiss that made time feel irrelevant. That made the ache of your bodies, the rhythm of your hips, the trembling of your hands–secondary to the fact that you were kissing. And that he was still here. Inside you. All around you. Filling every inch of your body and soul.

His forearm shifted beneath your neck, so he was able to cup the back of your head, cradling it, guiding you deeper into the kiss like you were the most fragile thing he was given to protect.

And all the while, he kept moving inside you.

Slow. Measured. So deep it felt like he was shaping himself into the spaces that had always longed for him.

You gasped into his mouth with each thrust, your hips beginning to rise now–slowly, instinctively–meeting his rhythm, chasing it, deepening it. Your thighs bracketed his hips with more urgency. Your walls fluttered around him, slick and desperate, and Bob’s body jolted at the sensation.

“Y-You’re… God, you’re getting even wetter for m-me…” He rasped. He rocked into you again–deep, slow, the drag of him catching every sensitive spot inside you–and you sobbed a sound against his mouth. Your arms wound tighter around him, clutching his back, feeling the muscles work beneath your palms as he moved.

“B-Bob…” You gasped, your voice cracking on his name.

He kissed you again. Tender, open-mouthed. Then down your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your lips.

You were trembling. Your hips rolled in time with his now, your breath stuttering every time he bottomed out.

And then, you said it.

“My God…Bob…” You moaned, voice thick with love and ache, “I fucking love you so much.”

Bob’s eyes fluttered closed for a beat, like the words physically hit him. When he looked at you again, he was smiling–soft and wrecked and full of light.

He kissed you like it broke him.

Then he rocked his hips faster.

Just a little.

Just enough.

You gasped. Your nails dug into his bicep, and your joined hands clenched tighter between your bodies as he began to thrust in a rhythm that built and burned and bloomed.

“You’re mine,” He whispered, breath hot against your mouth. “You’re mine, and I’m yours, and I’m never letting go.”

You broke.

Your walls clenched tight around him, pulsing as your orgasm overtook you–trembling beneath him, crying out his name, breath lost to the stars. Your nails carved crescents into his shoulder. Your thighs locked around his waist. You were unraveling in his arms, and Bob never stopped kissing you.

“Oh fuck–baby, I can feel you,” He groaned, voice strangled. “You’re so tight–so perfect–God, I c-can’t–”

He thrust deep, once. Twice. Then he gasped.

“I wanna cum inside you,” He whispered against your lips, voice low and desperate. “Wanna fill you up, sweetheart. W-Wanna give you all of me–everything I’ve been holding back–please, can I?”

Your breath hitched. You reached up with your free hand and cupped his cheek, eyes wide and full of nothing but love.

“I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

That was it.

He groaned–loud and broken–and buried himself deep as his release tore through him. His body trembled violently, forehead pressed to yours, and his hips bucked once, twice, then stilled as warmth spread inside you. You felt the heat of it–felt him pulse, empty, surrender.

And then–like the final vow of devotion–he bit your shoulder.

Gently. Carefully. A love mark. A claim. His lips soothed the skin after, kissing where his teeth had grazed, his arm wrapped tight around your body like he never wanted to let go.

You were both still breathing hard.

Bob’s body pressed to yours, skin warm and slick with sweat, his chest rising and falling in fast, shallow waves. His forehead was still resting gently against yours, his breath ghosting across your lips like it didn’t know how to stop being close. But eventually, he shifted–just slightly–and pulled back just enough to look at you.

His fingers slipped free from your tangled grip, moving up slowly to cup your cheek instead. He held your face in his palm like you were still fragile, like the weight of his love was something he didn’t want to accidentally bruise. Then he leaned down and kissed you again.

Just a peck this time.

Soft.

Lingering.

Like punctuation at the end of the most beautiful sentence he’d ever written with his body.

When he pulled back, he was smiling. Flushed and glowing.

“Y-You look so beautifully w-wrecked,” He whispered, voice still rough with what you’d just done. “I wish y-you could see h-how you look.”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound half-dazed and full of affection. Your cheeks burned immediately under the praise, your fingers brushing over the back of his hand where it held your face.

“That’s your doing,” You complimented, still breathless. “But my God… I think we should’ve considered where we did this…”

Bob blinked.

And then glanced down to the cushions beneath you.

His ears flushed even redder.

“I-I have a strange feeling,” You continued with a weak smile, “…That we stained the hell out of this couch.”

He looked horrified for all of half a second…And then shrugged, sheepish.

“W-We can always flip the c-cushions…” He mumbled. “I-I’m sure it’s…Able to be hidden.”

You both burst into soft laughter–warm and tangled and helpless. The kind that carried all the release and joy and post-orgasm euphoria you couldn’t put into words. His arms tightened around you again, pulling you in like the laughter had made something loosen in his chest, and then he kissed you.

Again.

And again.

Short, slow, breathless kisses against your mouth, your cheek, your jaw.

“I-I love you so much…” He admitted again, lips brushing your skin between words. “A-And I’m s-so glad you said something.”

Your hand curled over his shoulder. You could still feel him softening inside you, the warmth of him lingering where you were joined. You smiled as your lips found his again, soft and slow and sure.

“Me too,” You murmured into the kiss, with the taste of the beginning of something new lingering between the two of you.

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sticky-sugar · 11 months ago

Text

try it. (matsukawa issei x reader)

tags/cw: roommates to lovers, somnophilia, fingering, mattsun sends porn as a coping mechanism, size kink if you really squint

word count: 3.1k

“i’ve always wanted to try that.”

issei chokes on his beer when you speak. you point at the tv in explanation, as though he needs one. the scene playing has just started out with a couple in bed, spooning while they fuck. everything’s covered, but it’s easy to tell through the blanket that the woman’s leg is lifted, her back arching against the man’s chest while she cries out lewdly.

“never been fucked in the morning?” he jokes, keeping his eyes trained on the screen so he doesn’t have to look at you. his laugh sounds awkward even to him.

“mm-mm.” you shake your head, draining your wine glass, and he can’t tell if that’s a confirmation or a rejection of his guess. but he can tell that that wine bottle on the coffee table is empty, because you would never say these things to him sober.

“not that part,” you explain. frowning when you realize there’s no wine left, you rise from the couch, disappearing from the room and padding down the hall. issei sighs in relief at the moment alone, running his fingers through his hair and tugging hard.

“she’s drunk,” he whispers to himself, a reminder. “she’s drunk, and she’s your friend. and you can’t afford rent anywhere else, you stupid fuck.” that’ll do it. he’s broke as shit, and you’re a good friend. he can steel his nerves with those facts.

“she was asleep when he started,” you call from the kitchen.

fuck.

issei drops his head back, hitting it on the wall a few times with purpose. fuck, fuck, fuck.

you come back in, and he straightens, yanking the throw blanket over his lap. you’re too drunk to notice.

you’re too drunk to notice much of anything, really — including your own running mouth.

“she was asleep,” you say again. “and he fucked her anyway—“ you rush to explain yourself, holding a hand out when his eyes find yours, wide and uncertain. “consensually, obviously.”

that doesn’t help. he’d been assuming that, but you confirming it makes it worse.

somnophilia, his mind whispers, the word latching itself to you.

“i dunno,” you shrug, your refilled wine glass brought to your lips. “i think it’s hot, i guess. i’d try it.”

he really can’t afford rent anywhere else.

—

you’re scouring roommate ads in a hungover daze the next morning.

what is your problem?, you think, rolling over to groan into your pillow. you open your bank app, staring at the number in your checking account and wondering uselessly if it’s enough to afford a place on your own. one where you’ll never have to look mattsun in the face again.

why did you tell him that?

your brain flashes through two bottles of wine and drunk admissions, and you switch over to uber eats, deciding that cooking is simply not an option today. standing in that kitchen for more then four seconds and risking running into him is not an option.

you know why you told him that. you know exactly why you told him.

you told him because, despite every coping mechanism you’ve tried over the years of living with him, matsukawa issei persists in being the most attractive man you’ve ever met.

you told him because you wanted to test the waters. why you would ever test the waters with somnophilia, of all things, and not something standard and vanilla like ‘making out with a friend just happens sometimes’ or ‘drunk hookups aren’t so bad’, you will never know.

but you’d told him because you think about it. you think about him, doing things like that. things that aren’t standard or vanilla or easily explained or plausibly deniable.

you think about matsukawa issei fucking you while you sleep. and maybe it’s happened one too many times. maybe now it’s all you think about, enough that it comes up in your stupid, drunk admissions.

maybe — just maybe — you hope he might take you up on it, now that it’s out there in the open like that.

but that’s just a maybe. so you’re looking for another apartment, on the very real chance that he’s going to call you a freak and never speak to you again.

your phone buzzes in your hand.

it’s a text from him.

[10:17 AM]

mattsun: [link attached]

your face crumples into a frown. “what?” you murmur, jabbing a thumb on the link and hoping it’s not a virus.

your phone starts moaning at max volume.

you scream, slamming down on the side button to lower the volume as the video intro plays through. your eyes fly to the title.

milf fucked by son’s friend while she’s sleeping

there’s no fucking way he just did that.

[10:19 AM]

mattsun: smth like that?

“matsukawa!” you scream, rolling out of bed and storming out into the hall. he’s laughing loudly from his room, and you all but kick his door down. “what the fuck is your problem?!”

he’s in bed, cackling gleefully and covering his face with his blanket — but his eyes are anything but shy when he looks at you.

“just trying to ease the tension-“

“by sending me porn?!”

he shrugs and gestures to his phone. “im just saying, you’re not alone! at least—“ he glances down at the screen “—3.8 million other people are into it, too-“

you scream in frustration, turning and stomping back to your room. his laughter follows, echoing through your door even when you slam it.

he does it for two weeks straight. every few days, you wake up to a new link, each video titled something more obnoxious than the last.

guy takes step-sister while she takes a nap

mom wakes step-son up with a special surprise on his birthday

repairman finds sleeping beauty home alone

each one draws an irritated screech of his name and the echoing giggles of satisfaction from his room.

you could stop it. in fact, he’s asked you more than once if you want him to.

‘if you really want me to stop, i’ll stop, he’d said in your kitchen last week.

‘just say the word,’ he’d reminded you on his way out one morning.

‘i think you and i both know how important consent is,’ he’d murmured just two nights ago, leaning on your doorframe, his eyes hot on yours.

you’d shivered under his gaze and pretended to be engrossed in something on your phone. you’d hoped he couldn’t see the way you’d pressed your thighs together, but when you looked up, he was already staring down at them.

he’d met your eyes again and just hummed, flicking his dark eyebrows up at you before turning away. your phone had buzzed with a new link only seconds after his bedroom door had clicked shut.

you’re certain he knows why you haven’t told him to stop. that the truth is that you don’t want him to stop. you’re certain he’s testing the waters now, too.

because each video he sends you gets closer and closer to being about roommates.

your phone buzzes in your hands. you wonder if he knows that you watch each one, waiting for him to pull the trigger on the one that sits unspoken in the space between you.

he does, a week later.

—

you’ve caught him, issei realizes belatedly.

maybe he should have noticed after you started sitting closer to him on the couch. or maybe after you’d refused to tell him to stop sending you porn. or maybe even after he’d sent you something titled ‘roommate can’t help himself while she sleeps’ at 4 in the morning and you hadn’t called the cops on him.

maybe he should have realized you’d caught him after any one of those. but he doesn’t. he doesn’t realize it, not until this very moment, as you’re standing from the couch and bending over to clean the table of empty beer bottles before bed.

he doesn’t realize it until he realizes you’re not wearing any underwear.

he glances at you shamefully when you bend at the waist, hoping you don’t look back and catch him. and then he coughs violently, choking on his own spit and drawing your attention.

he waves you off, blushing furiously and not even bothering to stop his eyes from flying to your ass when you just shrug and bend over again. your pajama shorts have ridden up, but there’s no lacy edge on pink panties where there should be.

yes, he’d noticed years ago that these shorts tend to ride up and not mentioned it. yes, he knows what kind of panties you wear. yes, he has a favorite pair.

what are you gonna do if you find out, call him a pervert? he’d sent you roommate somnophilia porn and you’d made him coffee in the morning.

“‘kay, goodnight,” you mumble, and issei wonders if you’re shy about it or if he’s just hoping you are.

“g’night,” he breathes, eyes finding yours. you keep eye contact all the way out of the living room. your eyes drop to his lap at the last second, and he watches a grin stretch across your face just before you disappear from the room.

he looks down at his lap, and then he swears under his breath. he’s visibly hard in his sweatpants.

—

he feels like a pervert. he really feels like a pervert.

he stands in the hall outside your bedroom, one hand on the knob, feeling like a pervert. it’s 2 in the morning, and he feels like a pervert.

he sighs to himself and turns the knob slowly — ever so slowly, because he knows how it creaks, and he doesn’t want to wake you. he pushes the door open carefully, and then he finds you in the dark, moonlight spilling over your body.

you’re completely naked.

you’re on your stomach, blankets draped over your lower half and one knee bent out toward the wall. issei can see the expanse of your bare skin and the swell of your breast, but you’ve got your back slightly to him, so he can’t see everything.

but it’s enough.

he breathes hard, stepping into the room and shutting the door silently behind him. he runs his fingers through his hair, tugging hard and giving a soft sigh as he pads over to you.

when he lowers his knees to your mattress, it’s with his heart in his throat and his cock straining against his pants. you look so innocent, so sweet like this, even while he’s sliding the blankets off of your skin and exposing you in the moonlight.

is he really allowed to want this as badly as he does?

your breath is steady, only changing slightly when he braces himself behind you, propped up on one elbow. he scoots toward you, breath caught in his throat, and then slides his hand under the back of your knee. you shiver, probably because his fingers are ice cold, and he keeps his eyes locked on the side of your face.

when you don’t give any other sign of waking, he lifts your leg and hooks it backward over his knee, opening your body up for him.

he swears under his breath, staring down at you in the moonlight.

you shift, adjusting to the new angle of your body with a sigh. your back presses to his chest, and issei has to press his lips together so he doesn’t moan at the sight of you.

he keeps his eyes on your face when he slides his fingers along your inner thigh, watching you intensely as his icy fingertips dance close to the spot between your thighs that’s radiating heat.

when he cups your bare cunt, your skin breaks out in goosebumps, but you don’t move otherwise. issei moans now, because your body knows what he’s doing, but you don’t.

he’d had a feeling before — in the weeks between that moment on the couch and this moment right here — that he’d unlocked a new, previously untouched fantasy. that his reaction to your drunken admission might have been about more than just being attracted to you.

he sees it now. now, as he’s sliding two fingers between your folds and watching as you remain completely unaware, he realizes that you’ve done something to him. that you’ve made him want to do this to you, tonight and every night after.

it takes every ounce of his self-control not to shudder and moan in your ear when your pussy twitches under his fingers, reacting to him even when you don’t.

he drops his head to your chest, eyes locked on your face as he takes one of your nipples in his mouth. your lips part, and he freezes, but the sigh that falls out is nowhere near conscious, so he keeps going, sucking and licking and grazing his teeth over the bud while he massages your cunt with his now-warm fingers.

the first sign that you’re reacting is the growing ease with which he’s able to push his fingers against you. your entrance becomes slick, and he can’t help that he pushes his hips against your ass in response, seeking relief. he drops his touch lower and swipes the pads of his fingers through the mess there, spreading it all over your cunt.

when he circles your clit, slippery and warm now, your breathing changes, harder and rougher. the rise and fall of your chest pushes at his mouth, and he latches on with fresh fervor, watching your brows furrow and your lips twitch at the onslaught of sensations.

it shouldn’t be as easy as it is for him to push his middle finger past your entrance.

“fuck”, he whispers despite himself, mouth slipping off of you with a gentle pop and eyes rolling back in his head. your walls pulse around his finger, warm and velvety and wet beyond belief. his cock twitches hard in his pants as he slides his finger in and out of you, searching for that spongy spot that’ll wake you up.

he knows you might have wanted him to fuck you like this, but he can’t help himself anymore. he doesn’t have it in him to be careful anymore.

when his ring finger joins his middle, it’s with intent. the push is rough, bullying your cunt open with the size of his fingers, no doubt longer and fuller than you can get on your own.

you shift under him, a quiet noise of question leaving you, and he lifts his head, attaching his lips to the crook of your neck.

“y/n,” he whispers, more a moan than anything else. “need you.”

he sucks on the column of your throat while you come to, his fingers curling and spreading inside of you — his sloppy attempt to prepare you for him.

“h-huh-“ your head lifts slightly, and then you’re slamming it back against the pillow, your back arching. “oh, my god, mattsun-“

he almost comes in his pants when you say his name like that.

“couldn’t help myself,“ he starts, shaking his head and pushing his body against yours almost desperately. “you were so pretty.“ your cunt tightens around his fingers in response, and he files that away for later. keeps it in mind, the things that make you react like this. “need you so bad, y/n-“

“yes, god yes,” you breathe, a whine trapped in your throat. you turn your head, back still pressed against his chest, and drop your still-sleepy eyes to his lips.

the coil under issei’s navel tugs hard when he realizes how well he can read you.

he pushes his mouth against yours eagerly, moan unrestrained when your tongue slides against his. he wonders if you know how often he’s thought of this moment, years of wanting you and craving the feeling of you coming undone under his fingers.

“please,” you whisper against his lips, back arching when he pushes the pads of his fingers against that spongy spot that makes you whine. “more, mattsun.”

he groans, shivering when you pull his bottom lip between your teeth. “not yet — it’ll hurt,” he murmurs, leaning on every molecule of self-control.

“i can take it,” you just say, pushing your ass back against his aching cock. “promise.”

he never had that much self-control to begin with.

his moan comes out in a shuddered breath, overpowered by the sound of you whining when he slips his fingers out of you. he shoves his sweats down to his knees, meeting your eyes and seeing the urgency he feels reflected in your eyes.

when he slides his cock between your folds, it’s with a choked groan and a heaving pant in your ear.

“can i- are you sure-“ he stutters, already lining himself up at your entrance.

“please, please, please,” you babble, arching your back to make the angle easier on him.

you come around his cock before he’s even halfway in.

there are stars in his eyes by the time you’re done.

you cry out for him, shaking and clenching down hard, and he can’t do anything except bury his face in your hair and keep your leg lifted high with a trembling hand.

“fuck,” he breathes, voice tight. “fuck, y/n-“

“more, mattsun,” you sob. he thinks you might be the girl of his dreams.

pushing the rest of the way in, he shoves down his own orgasm, fighting and kicking and forcing it away so he can last more than thirty seconds inside of you.

he only manages a minute before he’s spilling into you with a stuttered moan of your name, face buried in your neck and head full of static.

you’re just slumped against him by the time he comes to his senses, breathing hard and synced with his.

“sorry,” he mumbles into your hair, ears burning with embarrassment. “i swear i usually last longer than that-“

you laugh, tired and still weak but bright all the same. “yeah — so do i.”

he snorts, pulling out slowly and letting your leg drop closed, trying his best not to moan at the feeling.

“are you sure that was okay?” he asks, a tiny inkling of doubt still seeded in his veins. you just giggle, whispering his name in fond exasperation.

“sorry, which part of me sleeping naked was a warning sign?”

“shut up,” he mutters, curling himself around you and feeling the beginnings of exhaustion start to drain his energy. “i’m staying here tonight. i don’t do one-night stands.”

you just turn in his arms and wrap your arms around his neck. “was i that good, mattsun? i was asleep for half of it.”

you’re gonna be the thing that kills him, he just knows it.

#banner by @/cafekitsune !!#matsukawa x reader #matsukawa issei #matsukawa smut #haikyuu smut #hq smut #hq x reader #haikyuu x reader

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xinganhao · 1 month ago

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this love shit sucks! 🎤 chan x reader.

(although he does say, "if we’re still single at thirty…" and doesn’t finish the sentence.) ⸻ ikaw mula noon anniversary series 🎵 pare ko, eraserheads

includes: friendship, romance; mentions of alcohol consumption, drinking buddy!chan, idiots in love, feelings realization/denial

Cocktail Recipe: The One You Call After Midnight

Ingredients:

1 overflowing cup of shared McDonald's fries (cold, soggy, mysteriously comforting, eaten out of the same crumpled paper bag like you're two raccoons in love denial)

2 and a half shots of bottom-shelf tequila (regret optional, bonding inevitable, courage-enhancing in small doses)

1 splash of "remember that time?" nostalgia, aged to perfection

3 heaping tablespoons of mutual exasperation with dating apps and the people who say "I love hiking" unironically

5 a.m. pancake runs (substitute with waffles during emotional emergencies, or hash browns when one of you is "definitely not crying")

A generous dash of your laugh when he's tipsy and trying to flirt with the bartender (badly, tragically, like watching a puppy chase a car)

1 cracked phone screen from a drunken fall, both of you insisting "it still works!" as you use it to take blurry selfies

4.5 late-night heart-to-hearts, stirred, not shaken, spilling over with half-truths and quiet hopes

Half a teaspoon of lingering eye contact that lingers too long to be innocent

A pinch of jealousy when he hears about your date with that guy who wears too much cologne and keeps calling you "babe"

One whole hoodie you "forgot" to return, now infused with your perfume and his growing confusion

1 emergency Uber ride where you fell asleep on his shoulder and he didn’t wake you

A fistful of inside jokes nobody else understands

A drizzle of the way he says your name when he's tipsy and a little too honest

Instructions:

In a dimly lit dive bar, begin with two and a half shots of tequila. Let the burn fuel a flurry of increasingly unhinged stories about failed Bumble dates, including the time you matched with someone who brought their mother to the first date. Laugh until your sides ache and your cheeks hurt, and then laugh some more when he accidentally spills salt all over his lap.

Fold in the McDonald's fries, ideally consumed while sitting on a questionable curb somewhere, his jacket over your shoulders, your eyeliner smudged but your sarcasm sharp as ever. Bonus points if someone honks at you and he flips them off in your honor.

Add the pancake run. This is not just food—this is sacred ritual. Let the syrupy comfort of carbs at ungodly hours soften the sarcasm into something suspiciously affectionate. Watch him butter your pancakes without asking. Pretend not to notice.

Slowly mix in mutual venting over dating apps. Grind in just enough existential dread to bond over, but not so much that you both give up and start a cult. (Although he does say, "If we’re still single at thirty..." and doesn’t finish the sentence.)

Pour in the eye contact. Let it simmer. Make it weird. Let it stretch one second longer than friendly. (He'll notice. You both will. You'll pretend not to.)

Sprinkle in the laughter that always bubbles up when one of you tries to flirt with someone else and fails miserably. Stir gently until the moment turns from teasing to strangely quiet. Add a drop of "I didn’t like seeing you with him" and swirl it around, but don’t speak it out loud.

Let sit overnight. Preferably on his couch, under a shared blanket that neither of you acknowledge. Feet brushing. Breaths syncing. You pretending to be asleep when he tucks a pillow under your head, his fingers brushing your hair for just a second too long.

Reheat the whole mixture the next morning over texts that begin with: "U alive?" and evolve into memes, in-jokes, and that picture of you both with fry grease on your cheeks. Serve alongside a hoodie that you definitely stole on purpose and are wearing as you text him back.

Optional garnish: One cracked phone screen, a symbol of the chaos you both embody. Neither of you has it together, but the fractures make it easier to see each other clearly. The love slips in through the cracks, doesn't it?

Finally, pour everything into a tall glass rimmed with realization and just a hint of fear. Drink slowly. Sip cautiously. Let the flavors settle as he watches you, mid-laugh, bathed in streetlight and absurdity, and thinks: God, I am so fucked.

Serving suggestion: Best enjoyed when you least expect it—possibly during a shared hangover on his couch, wrapped in a blanket that smells like comfort, old fries, and something that might just be love in disguise. May pair well with strong coffee, scrambled eggs, and the possibility of something more.

› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao

#lee chan x reader #chan x reader #dino x reader #seventeen x reader #svt x reader #svt imagines #seventeen imagines #dino fluff #dino imagines #dino smau #chan fluff #chan imagines #chan smau #── ᵎᵎ ✦ mine

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bugzzybabe · 11 days ago

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Social Media [Steve Rogers x Reader]

Summary: Reader teaches Steve how to use social media and he sees her more provocative pictures.

Authors Note: This was written with the intention of a second part so let me know by the end if that sounds appealing. Enjoy!

WC: 1.2k

Steve might have been over a hundred years old but he did his best to keep up with the times. Over the past two years of being with the Avengers, Steve and you had fallen into routine of you casually keeping him up to date with societal standards and routines. Whether it was explaining to him hookup culture or ubers, he was always attentive during your lessons.

You hadn't recognized it, but the past few months, Steve had been taking extra care to impress you. Listening and being there for you was something he took extra pride in as he wanted you to know that he cared.

Little did he know, you had also grown quite fond off the talks you would share. The way his shoulder would brush yours would send shocks down your spine as you tried to ignore any type of non platonic feelings. You truly believed he could never feel that way about you, so you did your best to maintain the friendship.

It was especially hard to keep this act up though when he was staring at you with those bright blue eyes that peered straight into your thumping heart, as he was doing now.

"Please teach me how to use the online medias. Tony won't stop posting pictures of my butt and posting them on the bird app calling it 'America's Ass'." Steve shuttered as he recounted the memes the team would make of him when he wasn't looking. Tony did have a secret spam that he would use to often make fun of the team in a loving way. Everyone assumed it was Peter's doing until you walked in one day on Tony snickering while posting a photo of Clint having fallen asleep in one of the vents.

Looking back at the tall and brutally handsome man in front of you, you sighed and patted the seat on the couch next to you. Steve gave you that faint worthy smile as he politely sat within arms reach of you. The body heat he gave off made you want to melt but you brushed it off and gestured for his phone.

"Oh right!" He fumbled as he patted his pockets down for the phone under Stark Technologies. Steve was one of the only people who denied all the updates Tony would provide for all the team's tech. You always felt bad as using technology for Steve was hard enough without all the constant updates of flashy nonsense.

"So first I'm going to go to the app store and download some of the more common social media apps like Twitter and Instagram." You gently explained as Steve watched you maneuver throughout his phone. He was always left in awe of how natural it all came to you.

"And I don't have to pay for it?" He questioned as you shook your head.

"Nope! Some apps cost money but most don't. Either way, Tony probably would cover it no problem." You stated as the apps downloaded.

Once they were loaded, you opened Instagram and began to sign Steve up. Since there was already an account for Captain America, run by the team's press, there was no need to create a professional one.

"Now I'm gonna make you an account just for your personal use, not to promote any avengers things. Just for Steve!" He nodded along as you rambled, just in awe of you. Honestly you could say anything and he would probably go along with it.

"You can use this account to post or not post whatever. Some people use it for aesthetic pictures they take, photos of friends and family or just selfies of themselves."

"What do you post?" Steve asked as your rambling was cut short. You should've expected this question but you never thought your crush/friend/coworker would ever see your feed (seeing as Steve is clueless when it comes to the internet).

You blushed and stammered to answer, "Well I post pictures of my friends, food I really liked or photos that I look good in I guess..." You mumble the last part and internally beg he wouldn't request to see it. The reason for this being that you had a couple bikini pictures up that usually weren't a problem or shameful secret, but you just didn't want Steve seeing them.

"Can I follow you?" Steve asks with a soft look in his eyes. Your heart fluttered as you pretended to be chill and shrugged looking back at his phone. You proceeded to look up your account and followed it before quickly exiting before he had a chance to see anything.

Steve smiled at you before continuing the conversation, "Thank you for helping me with all this. I didn't want to ask the others and have them make fun of me." He shyly stated as you looked at the man with wide eyes. You didn't realize how comfortable he felt around you until you realized you were the person he came to for help with all of this.

"Oh Steve, it's no problem at all! Plus you're such a fast learner that it's no big deal." Plus you loved being around him so that made it easy. You weren't gonna tell him that last part though...

After another hour of explaining how social media worked, Steve gave you another genuine smile and excused himself to go finish up a last minute report. The second he left the room you let out an exhausted sigh and sunk back into the couch.

Everytime Steve was around you, you got so in your own head that he basically consumed your mind. Little did you know you had the same effect on Steve. The second he stepped into his office, he let out a sigh he didn't realize he was holding. The only real reason he wanted to get on social media was to see all the photos you always seemed to be posting. He saw one of your photos on Natashas phone the other day when she left it out and had never felt so compelled to steal something before.

Within the privacy of his office, Steve finally brought his phone back out and opened Instagram. Going to his following page like you taught him, he opened your account and almost passed out. Right there on your third latest post was a picture of you and Wanda from a hike you had gone on a couple days prior.

Looking at the blissful smile on your face, Steve felt himself falling even harder for you. He continued to scroll through your account until he landed on one of your posts from a couple months ago. You had gone with the girls on a beach trip (funded by Tony) and had a mini photoshoot at the beach. Steve's face flushed bright red as he tried not to look too hard at the photo. He couldn't help but admire the red one piece you were wearing and how it hugged each of your curves in a way that left his mouth watering.

Fumbling to exit out of the photo before he continued to think the lewd thoughts forming in his mind, Steve accidentally hit the like button. Actively trying to not mess up further, Steve threw his phone across the room, hoping it would turn off. Digging his nails into the desk, he took deep breaths as to try and erase the image of you looking so breathtakingly stunning in his mind.

Hesitantly going to pick back up his phone, Steve noticed a new message from you. He quickly opened it up to find a text that made his breath catch, "Come meet me in my room in 10". Holy shit.

Authors Note: Comment if you want a part 2 with smut ;)

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wordsofwhimsy · 23 days ago

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ᗷEᗩᑕᕼ ᗪᗩY ᗷᒪᑌEᔕ

Pairing: Main!Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: It’s suggested that Mark’s got a boner at the end but that’s it lmao, also you kinda start to touch yourself but it’s literally only a sentence or two

Tags: Fluff, romcom, hero-friend-Mark coming to the rescue, slow burn, makeout sesh later on, Mark’s a dork who doesn’t know how to express his feelings (as usual)

Word Count: 5,314

Synopsis: A nice solo day at the beach turns sour when some creep of a man starts trying to follow you home. You manage to lose him but are now stranded on the other side of town. And the only person who’s available to come save you is the guy who does that for a living. Who would’ve figured?

a/n: this turned out sooo much longer than i intended lmao it do be like that sometimes tho

The sun is still warm on your skin as you leave the beach, flip-flops smacking softly against the pavement. Your hair’s damp with saltwater, strands still sticking to your forehead. Your tote bag—sandy, half-zipped, overflowing with a towel, a half-read book, and an empty soda can—swings against your hip as you head for the bus stop on the corner.

You’re smiling to yourself, pleasantly buzzed from sun and sea, when a voice behind you cuts rudely through the calm.

"Hey there, pretty thing. Where you headed?"

You don’t flinch, but your steps slow.

He’s maybe mid-thirties, wearing a faded tank top and gas station sunglasses. Too confident. Too close. He grins like you’re already in on some joke you never agreed to.

"Just headed home," you say, even and polite, eyes fixed straight ahead.

He steps closer. "This stop? What a coincidence, that’s where I’m going too."

Sure it is.

You shift your tote to the other shoulder, as if to put some kind of buffer between you. By some miracle the bus starts pulling into view.

He keeps talking—something about how wild it is that you’re both here, what are the odds, ha ha—but you’re already tuning him out. The second the doors hiss open, you climb on, flash your card, and slip into a window seat midway down.

He follows.

You feel him settle in a row behind you. Not next to you, but near. Close enough to talk. Close enough to make it weird.

Nope.

Just before the doors close, you stand up, walk past him without a word, and step right back off.

The bus pulls away with him on it, and you don’t bother to look back until you’re safely half a block down. When you do, he’s craning his neck to look through the window.

You don’t wave. You don’t smirk. You just turn the corner and duck behind a tree, pulling out your phone with fingers still trembling from the slow burn of adrenaline.

You scroll through your contacts.

First you try your roommate. Straight to voicemail.

Then your cousin. She picks up, but she’s out of town. You tell her it’s fine. Just a weird thing with a guy. No big deal.

You try your best friend. No answer.

With a frustrated sigh, you switch to your banking app. There’s a buffering wheel for a second, then your checking account balance loads: $4.82.

You feel a vein pulse in your head. Refresh the screen.

Still $4.82.

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. Looks like Uber wasn’t an option.

You close the app and rest your forehead against the tree trunk for a second, just… reevaluating your life choices.

Figures.

You go back to your contacts, scanning names. You scroll past his name once. Twice. Hover over it. Keep going.

You feel dumb. Guilty. Mark’s probably in the middle of saving a school bus full of kids or punching a kaiju or talking to that mysterious government shadow figure about interplanetary security… something serious. And you’re over here like, "Heeelp, I had to miss the bus."

Still.

You flick back to his name.

Mark 🚀

Your thumbs fly before you can overthink it:

You: hey, any chance ur free? got myself in a v dumb situation lol You: not an emergency, just mildly stranded and a lil freaked out 😅

You lock your phone. Wait.

Not even a minute passes before it buzzes.

Mark 🚀: where are you?

You smile.

He always answers.

You: Beachside Blvd near the old surf shop

You hesitate for half a second, then snap a picture of the little corner where you’re hiding—tree trunk, sand-crusted sidewalk, the closed-down surf rental shack in the background with its sun-bleached paint peeling in soft curls.

You add a caption: don’t judge me for this hiding spot. i panicked.

Then hit send.

Almost immediately you get a reply.

Mark 🚀: lol. on my way. five minutes tops.

You exhale, tension releasing in slow waves like the tide.

And yeah. Maybe your face is hot. Maybe your heart’s still thudding a little too hard in your chest. But it’s already starting to settle.

Mark’s coming.

You straighten up, brushing the bark dust off your thighs and stepping out into the fading sunlight. The sea breeze is gentler now, cooler, and you roll up your sleeves a bit higher on your white button-down—still damp from the beach, clinging a little in places. Your bikini’s peeking out underneath, lilac and tied at the sides. Not exactly full coverage. But hey, you weren’t planning to be stranded on the sidewalk when you put it on.

A guy walking his dog glances over, eyebrows briefly lifting before he looks away. You offer him a breezy, nonchalant smile.

“Don’t mind me,” you call out. “Just waiting on a friend.”

He nods slowly, clearly unconvinced, and keeps walking.

You check your phone. Two minutes.

You shift your weight to one foot, trying not to look too awkward. The heat from earlier was starting to fade off your skin, leaving a faint chill in the breeze. You hug your arms around yourself, half for warmth, half just to feel less exposed.

Then you hear it.

The soft whoosh of air pressure, the subtle thud of sneakers against pavement.

You glance behind you, and there he is.

Mark Grayson, a little windblown, a little flushed from the speed of getting here, standing there in all his superhero glory—minus the suit. Just joggers and a blue t-shirt, but still very much Invincible.

Relief crashes over you.

“God, thank you,” you exhale, stepping forward and wrapping your arms around him. “I owe you big time.”

You feel him tense a little, and for a second, your heart drops.

Oh no. Is he annoyed? Did you really just pull him away from something important for... this?

You let your arms fall away from him, brows drawing together. “Hey, I’m sorry—this was so dumb, I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s not dumb,” he cuts in, quick and quiet. “Seriously. I’m glad you called me.”

His voice is warm, but his eyes are still everywhere but on you—off to the side, up at the sky, back toward the sidewalk.

And that’s when it clicks.

He’s avoiding looking at you.

Like, really avoiding.

You glance down and—yep. Cover up still unbuttoned. Still damp. Still clinging in places you’d really prefer it not be clinging. Your bikini bottoms peek out like they’re trying to steal the show, and your chest is just… there.

And now you’re the one going pink.

You don’t say anything. Just quietly start buttoning up the top, fingers fumbling a little as your eyes do a full tour of the sidewalk, the streetlamp, a very interesting patch of grass—anything that isn’t Mark.

Because okay. Maybe standing here like this wasn’t your finest moment.

He clears his throat and takes a step closer, flashing that crooked, boyish grin—the one that always seems to surface when he’s nervous and trying to look unaffected. "Okay," he says, a little too upbeat, rubbing the back of his neck, "guess I’m your ride today. You’ll have to remind me how to get to your place—I always mess up that last turn near the park."

He’s absolutely trying to play it cool.

And absolutely failing.

Not that you’re much better, your stare drifting up toward the rooftops as you squint like there’s something up there you just gotta see. "So... how exactly are we doing this?"

Mark glances down at you, then off to the side, then very obviously not at your bare legs or the way your damp shirt is hugging places that have him struggling to maintain eye contact. "I mean, I usually just—" he makes a vague scooping gesture. "—pick people up and go."

"Bridal style?" you deadpan.

He hesitates. "I mean, yeah. It’s kind of the classic."

You shift your weight to one leg, then the other. "Okay, I guess… Let's see it."

Mark nods, like he’s steeling himself for battle, then steps forward and slides one arm behind your back, the other under your knees. In one smooth motion, you’re weightless in his arms.

And also very much pressed into his chest.

His forearm is sturdy beneath your bare thighs, one of his fingers accidentally grazing the string of your bikini bottom. You shift slightly, trying to adjust how you're being held without actually... touching him more. Your knee bumps his hip. Your hand slides awkwardly off his shoulder and straight into the space between your bodies that really feels like a dead zone.

"Okay, is it just me," you mutter, your face all but buried in the valley of his chest, "or is this weirdly... a lot?"

Mark tilts his head, accidentally brushing his jaw against the top of your head. "I mean—no, it’s not just you. Definitely not just you."

There’s a beat as you both try to recalibrate.

He shifts his grip again. One of his hands ends up cradling the underside of your thigh in a way that feels far too close to romantic territory.

"Alright—abort. Abort mission," you say quickly, arms flailing a little as you try to push off him.

"Copy that," Mark replies, instantly lowering you to the ground with a delicacy that said he really was trying to be respectful.

He exhales, hands on his hips, staring into the middle distance. "Okay. Plan B."

"Which is?"

He perks up, like he just solved world peace. "Fireman carry. That’s how professionals do it, right? First responders and stuff. Feels efficient."

And yeah—you nod, starting to agree. "Honestly, yeah. That makes sense. Sturdy. Tactical."

You forget, for a crucial second, that a fireman carry involves being slung.

He moves without hesitation, grabbing your legs and hoisting you up onto his shoulder like he’s carrying a sandbag in a training montage.

Your stomach lurches.

"Mark—MARK—"

Too late.

Your thighs smack against his chest, your hips curve over his collarbone, and your entire lower half is just... present. Right in his face. Right there.

His movement stutters. One hand instinctively locks onto the back of your bare thigh—just to steady you, logically—but you feel his entire soul leave his body.

He wheezes. "Okay. Okay, nope. Bad idea. I can’t—this is not—"

"PUT ME DOWN," you screech, hair dangling in your mouth, boobs threatening to stage a full escape from your top.

He drops to his knee quick, letting you awkwardly slide down off his shoulder under your own power.

The moment your feet hit the ground, you turn away from him without a word, yanking your shirt forward and subtly readjusting where your boobs have clearly gone rogue.

Mark won’t even look at you. He rubs the back of his neck, muttering something that sounds like “that was a lot of ass.”

You clear your throat. "Okay, okay. What about... shoulders? Like when dads carry their kids at Disney?"

Mark looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. "You want to sit on my shoulders?"

You shrug. "Seems high up. Good visibility. Hands-free."

His brow twitches, and maybe there’s something itching at his lips too. "You do realize where your thighs will be."

"Yes, Mark. I'm not an idiot."

"Okay, just making sure, because—"

"Do it before I change my mind."

He crouches slightly and you climb on, settling your legs over his shoulders like you’re eight years old and waiting for the fireworks to start.

And that’s when you both realize: this might be the worst one yet.

Your thighs are clamped around the sides of his face. Your swimsuit bottoms are pressed to the back of his neck.

Mark’s hands hover just above your knees like he’s afraid to even think about where to hold.

"So this is a no?" you say weakly.

His voice is strangled. "Yeah. Gonna go ahead and call this a hard no."

He ducks, and you slide off him in a clumsy, tangled dismount, nearly tripping over your own feet as you land.

You both stand there, flushed and winded, like you just lost a round on a game show.

Finally, you sigh. "Just... gimme your back."

He doesn’t argue, turning around and kneeling slightly. You hop on, arms around his neck, legs around his waist. The regret is instantaneous.

Your chest squishes against his shoulder blades. Your entire front half is molded to his back. Your bikini bottoms felt like they were holding on for dear life—barely doing their only job.

You try not to breathe too deeply. Or move. Or exist.

"You good?" he asks, voice tight.

"I’ve never been less good."

He shifts slightly. Your boobs shift with him.

You groan. "Oh my god. This is still bad."

Then it hits you—a bright, stupid little lightbulb moment. "Wait," you say, sitting up straighter on his back. "What if I sit on your arm instead? Like a throne."

Mark turns just enough to give you a side-eye so dry it could start a brush fire. "You want to perch on my arm. Like royalty."

"Yes! Like a princess on a parade float," you say, already sliding down and gesturing enthusiastically. "You’re strong, right? Just hold me like—like I’m light and majestic."

He stares at you for a long moment. Then, sighing like this is somehow the least weird idea you’ve had all day, he crouches and offers his arm.

You climb on carefully, settling along his bicep like it's a bench seat, one arm lazily looped around the back of his neck while your legs dangle off the front side. You wiggle into position until your balance feels right, then look at him expectantly.

Mark adjusts his hold—carefully, deliberately—his free hand braced under your knees like he’s steadying a priceless antique. "Good?"

You grin, already settling in like you really are royalty. "Honestly? This might be my best idea yet. I should travel like this more often."

Mark adjusts his grip with visible reluctance, his brow furrowing slightly. "Why do I feel like I’m being... used?" He muttered. Still, his arm stayed steady as he rose into the air.

The ground drops away, the wind picks up, and you lift one arm in a full pageant wave. "People of Earth! I bring good vibes and sunburns!"

"Please stop," Mark groans, voice tight. "Someone might actually see us."

"Let them! Let them witness my reign!"

"I'm serious," he says, suppressing a laugh with something heavy in his voice. "If anyone sees me flying around like this without the suit... it's kind of a problem. Secret identity and all."

You sigh with dramatic flair and lean sideways, resting your cheek against the top of his head like it’s the armrest of a throne. "Alright, alright," you murmur, voice muffled against his hair. "I’ll behave. Keep it lowkey for your secret superhero lifestyle." Your fingers flutter lazily in a final regal wave. "But just so you know, you’re absolutely wasting a peak aesthetic moment."

He doesn’t respond this time—just exhales through his nose and banks slightly west.

The flight is… longer than expected.

Turns out, giving aerial directions is kind of a nightmare. Everything looks different from up here. Your usual landmarks—corner stores, that one pizza place with the terrifying mascot, your neighbor’s weirdly aggressive lawn gnome—either vanish from view or blur together like a watercolor painting.

"Wait—go back. That might’ve been it," you call, pointing down at a clump of rooftops that look vaguely familiar.

Mark slows, glancing down. "That’s a hardware store."

You squint. "Oh. Right. Never mind."

He doesn’t say anything, but his jaw tics slightly as he adjusts altitude again. The sun’s lower now, bleeding soft gold and pink across the sky. Your hair is whipped every which way by the wind.

"Okay, that’s definitely the park," you announce suddenly. "We’re close. Like, actually close."

"That’s what you said twenty minutes ago."

"Yeah, well, it felt true then."

By the time your house finally comes into view—weathered siding, cracked sidewalk, and all—the sun is just starting to dip below the rooftops. Mark begins his descent, slow and controlled.

You say nothing. But you do raise your hand in one final, dramatic wave to absolutely no one.

Mark sets you down with all the care you’ve come to know and expect from him. You wobble slightly, windblown and flushed, and smooth your hair out of your face with a laugh.

"Really," you say, more sincere now, "thank you. For coming to get me. And for not judging how stupid this all was."

He shrugs, smiling softly. "Didn’t seem stupid. You needed help."

There’s a pause. Then he glances over, just a hint if curiosity in his eyes. "Wait—you never told me what the dumb situation was. Don’t you normally take the bus around?"

You blink. "Oh. Right. Yeah, uh... just some creep. Guy at the stop wouldn’t back off. He said he was getting on the bus too, so I got off last minute. Didn’t want him following me."

Mark straightens a little. The easy look on his face vanishes.

"Was he touching you? Harassing you?"

"No, nothing like that," you say quickly, waving a hand. "Just... too much. Gave me a weird vibe."

Mark’s jaw tenses. He looks over his shoulder like he’s hoping the guy is still lurking somewhere within fighting distance.

You nudge his arm gently. "Hey. It’s fine. I got out of there, called my personal airlift, and survived to tell the tale."

He doesn’t quite relax, but he nods. "Still. Next time someone gives you a weird vibe, call me earlier."

You grin. "What, so you can launch them into low orbit?"

"Only if they deserve it," he says, and it’s barely a joke.

You just roll your eyes, and there’s a moment of quiet after that. You shift your weight a little and glance at him sideways, a smirk tugging at your mouth.

"I’d say goodbye with a hug," you murmur, brushing a wind-whipped strand of hair behind your ear, "but I feel like we already pushed the limits of physical contact today."

Mark lets out a breath that’s a half laugh as he scratches the back of his neck. "Yeah, we might’ve hit the quota."

You flash him a peace sign instead, two fingers wiggling with lazy flair. "Night, Grayson."

He nods, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Yeah, goodnight. Get inside safe."

You turn and head up the porch steps, the boards creaking softly under your feet. And even though your back’s to him now, you swear you can still feel him watching.

—

Later that night, long after the sun’s gone down and the neighborhood’s turned quiet, you lie awake in bed staring at the ceiling fan spinning shadows across your walls.

You’d changed into pajamas hours ago. Washed off the salt. Pulled your hair up. Brushed your teeth. Did all the things that were supposed to settle your body down into rest.

And yet.

You couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Not Mark-the-friend. Not Mark, the guy you send dumb memes to or banter with about pizza toppings.

No, this was Mark’s body.

His arms. His shoulders. The impossible way he held you like you weighed nothing. How your thighs had wrapped around his waist like it was muscle memory you didn’t know you had.

You’d never really thought about him like that before. Not seriously. Not in a way that stuck around longer than a fleeting joke.

But now? Now you couldn’t stop replaying how warm his body was. How big his hands were when he adjusted his grip. The unintentional intimacy of it all.

In the moment it just felt awkward, but now looking back on it? It felt electric.

Your fingers slip beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts almost without thought. Just enough to feel the edge of sensation, the tension that’s been building in your stomach all evening. Your breath stutters. One gentle graze turns into another, your eyes fluttering almost shut, lips parting—

"M—Ma—aark?!"

It starts low, breathy, nearly reverent—but the moment your half-lidded eyes catch the silhouette outside your window, the tone snaps mid-name into something much higher and far less composed.

You jolt upright with a gasp, yanking your hand free and throwing the blanket over your lap like it’s a crime scene.

There he is.

Hovering.

Mark.

In daylight, you might’ve brushed it off as a joke, but at this hour, with the moon casting soft light over his hair and the way his eyes blink in surprise—it feels way too intimate.

He raises a hand and knocks lightly against the glass like maybe he really didn’t just witness the most unhinged thing imaginable.

You’re pretty sure your soul has left your body.

You scramble out of bed, nearly tripping over the blanket, heart hammering as you fumble to unlock the window. Every molecule of your being is praying he didn’t hear anything. Didn’t see anything. You plaster on what you hope is a casual, non-horny smile as you shove the pane open.

"Hey," you whisper, breathless. "Uh. What are you doing here?"

Mark floats in a little closer, still hovering just outside the sill, arms crossed, looking vaguely sheepish. "I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about earlier. About you."

Your eyes went dry. That was... not the answer you were expecting.

He keeps going. "I don’t know, I just... didn’t like the idea of you almost having to walk home alone. That creep could’ve followed you, and the fact that you didn’t even feel comfortable calling me right away? I don’t like that."

Your throat tightens a little, but you try to keep the mood light. "Well, next time I’ll just hit up my personal superhero hotline immediately."

He huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s something more serious under it. "I mean it. I’ve been thinking—and maybe it would just... make more sense if I was around more. For safety. Like, logistics."

"Logistics," you repeat, raising a brow.

"Yeah," he says, floundering now, rubbing the back of his neck. "Like, if we were together—not just like that, I mean, not just for that—but like, technically, it would be easier to make sure you’re okay. And it’d be easier for you to call me. And I wouldn’t have to hover outside your window at midnight like a weirdo."

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

"…Are you… proposing we date for security reasons?"

His throat bobs. "...Yes?"

Your lips twitch.

"That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard."

"I just mean—it’s not like it has to be a big thing. I already worry about you. You already call me for weird stuff. And if we were—y'know, together—it wouldn’t be weird for me to show up when you need me. It’d be normal. Expected. Practical."

You sigh, dragging your hands down your face. "Get in here before one of my neighbors calls the cops."

He climbs in through the window with the kind of silent grace that somehow makes it worse—like he does this all the time, like being in your bedroom in the middle of the night isn’t absolutely deranged. You close the window behind him, lock it, then turn around to find him standing awkwardly in the middle of your room, hands in the pockets of his joggers.

You cross your arms, still half-reeling. "Okay. Back up. Explain to me again how dating me is supposed to be a logical safety plan."

He doesn’t flinch, which is honestly impressive. "Because it is logical," he says. "If we were together, I wouldn’t have to wait for you to ask me for help. I’d just know to be there. I already worry about you. This just... cuts out the weird in-between."

You stare. "You’re talking about eliminating emotional bureaucracy."

Mark hesitates. "...Yeah?"

You groan and throw yourself backward onto the bed, staring at the ceiling with what felt like dead eyes. "Wow. Incredible. I can really only get a guy to ask me out if it doubles as a protective services contract."

Mark looks like he wants to argue but doesn’t say anything.

You sit up halfway, shooting him a look. "We literally couldn’t even hug goodbye earlier without it being a thing. And now you think we should just be together? For efficiency? Like we’re a fuckin’ Excel spreadsheet or something?"

"Okay, no, not like a spreadsheet. And in my defense that hug got complicated really fast."

You level him with a flat, skeptical expression. "Complicated?"

He looks everywhere but at you again. "You were in a bikini. And a wet shirt. And you smelled good. And you looked—like—soft. I didn’t want to be weird."

You scoff, bringing one arm over your chest subconsciously. “Right. Because hugging your friend goodbye would’ve been weird—but showing up at her window at midnight to pitch a bodyguard boyfriend arrangement? Totally normal.”

Mark doesn’t even try to deny it. He shrugs helplessly, a lopsided smile tugging at his mouth. “Okay… maybe not totally normal. But at least it got me in the door.”

You give him a look, half-exasperated and half-amused. “That’s the bar now?”

He lets out a soft laugh, then finally moves to join you on the bed. The mattress dips slightly under his weight as you move to sit up beside him at the edge, his knee bumping gently against yours. The room feels smaller now, quieter.

You glance sideways, noticing how his hands rest on his thighs, fingers twitching slightly like he wants to reach for something but doesn’t know what.

Neither of you speaks right away.

After some time, you hear him say softly, “I wanted to hug you.” Something flutters in your stomach. He keeps his eyes ahead, voice low. “I didn’t want to leave like that. But you were the one who said we ‘already pushed the limits of physical contact’.”

You feel your ears warm. “Yeah, well. I was trying to keep it together. Not...” You trail off, not wanting to finish where that thought was going.

That makes him look at you, and suddenly the space between you feels thinner than air.

His voice is soft. Careful. “Do I get another chance?”

Your lips part, trembling, but no sound leaves your throat. Instead you just nod.

And then you’re leaning into him, and he’s leaning into you, and it’s not even a decision so much as a reaction. Like this was something the two of you were always going to do.

His lips brush yours. Soft. Testing. Then it deepens.

His hand slides up to the back of your neck, holding you steady as he tilts his head, kissing you fuller. His tongue slips past your lips, teasing and deliberate, coaxing you into something hot and slow. His tongue explores your mouth with languid, fluid strokes—a slick, pink muscle dragging against yours, tasting you like he’s been thinking about this for a while. He doesn’t rush. He lingers, savoring the way you open up for him, the way your breath catches when he slides his tongue along the roof of your mouth.

His other hand settles at your waist, fingers spreading possessively. He pulls you closer, his palm sliding beneath your shirt just enough to brush over your skin. You can feel the way his chest rises and falls against yours, how his lips part and seal over and over again, mapping every curve of your mouth.

He nudges you gently, repositioning his legs and shifting you with him until you’re straddling his thighs. One arm slides fully around your waist, hugging you closer into the warmth of him, while the hand at your neck loosens just enough to drift up into your hair. He kisses you deeper, tongue curling just a little more greedily now, like he can’t get enough of the way you taste.

Your fingers flex against his chest, bracing yourself. The heat between you builds fast—sharp, undeniable. He groans into your mouth, a sound low and unfiltered that sends heat straight into your lower belly.

You’re the one who finally breaks the kiss, gasping a little as you pull back—because if you didn’t, you’re pretty sure he’d never stop. Mark chases you instinctively, lips brushing the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw. He noses at your neck, presses a kiss just beneath your ear.

“This is not why I came here,” he murmurs against you, breath hot and trembling.

You laugh softly, breathless and flushed. “Yeah, sure. Midnight pop-ins are just your love language now, huh?”

He lifts his head slightly, eyes half-lidded but earnest. “I mean it. I just… I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About what could’ve happened. About how weird you felt calling me. I hated that.”

You brushed your nose against his. “And kissing me senseless was the solution?”

He grins, and before he can answer, you pull him back in.

Your mouths crash together again, hotter now—messier. His hands are everywhere: one in your hair, one gripping your hip, sliding under your shirt for the second time like he needs to feel every inch of you. You roll your hips without thinking, and he groans once more into your mouth, the sound vibrating down your spine.

Then he pulls back, panting slightly. “Wait… what were you doing when I showed up, anyway?”

You freeze.

Your eyes dart away. “Nothing.”

His brow lifts. “Nothing?”

You chew your lip. “Just… thinking about stuff.”

He leans in, a little smirk playing at his lips. “Stuff like… me?”

Suddenly you’re jolting upright like you’ve been electrocuted. "Okay! Wow! Y’know what? It is definitely way too late for you to be in a girl’s bedroom. Like, aggressively past curfew. So! I think it’s time you go, Mr. Grayson. Please and thank you."

“What—?”

You stand up, gesturing toward the window with mock formality. “Thank you for your service, please fly responsibly. Goodnight.”

Mark just blinks at you, still sitting. You raise a brow. "Uh. That's your cue, flight boy."

He shifts, clears his throat—but makes no move to stand.

You squint. "Why aren't you getting up?"

He grimaces slightly, suddenly very interested in a speck of dust on your floor. "I'm working on it."

One of your brows quirk as your line-of-sight drops.

Oh.

Your eyes go wide.

“Oh my God—” You whip around sharply on the balls of your feet. “Never mind! Take your time! Or don’t! I-I don’t even know!”

Behind you, Mark clears his throat, shifting like he's just settling in more comfortably. "I just—uh—need a second to make sure your mattress isn’t… you know. Lopsided or anything. Structural integrity check. Nothing weird."

You nod rapidly, still facing away. "Right. Mattress stability is important."

You march over to the window and start fiddling with the lock like it suddenly needs adjusting. You give it two twists, then a shake, then check it again just to be safe.

Across the room, Mark continues to sit very still, facing the opposite wall like it's a meditation exercise. Neither of you speak.

The silence stretches.

This is fine. Totally normal.

Just a standard, extremely platonic, post-makeout building inspection.

No one's aroused. No one's flustered. No one is internally screaming into the void.

You clear your throat.

Mark clears his throat.

Another ten seconds pass.

"...Think it's safe for me to stand yet?" he mutters.

You nearly jump out of your skin. "Only if you're done verifying the mattress's—structural reliability."

"Almost there."

You nod like that makes perfect sense.

Absolutely perfect.

You both sit in silence for another thirty seconds.

You are never going to survive this night.

#invincible #invincible fanfic #mark grayson #mark grayson x reader #invincible x reader #mark grayson fanfic #mark grayson x you #mark grayson x y/n #fem reader

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rafedarling · 3 months ago

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𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐲

pairing: drew starkey x fem!reader

summary: a headache sends you reaching for drew, but his phone goes unanswered as you struggle to get to the hospital alone. at the pharmacy, you find him there with odessa.

warning(s): english is not my native language. angst, mild language, jealousy and mistrust, mention of health a scare.

au: like, reblog and feedback are much appreciated. discussion can be send through my ask box, please feel free to send in anything. ⭐️ taglist | tagging: @rubixgsworld @rafeyslamb @bisexualcvnt @tracymbcm @maybankslover @anamiad00msday @stuffyownswrld @httpsdrewstarkey @mileyraes @enjoymyloves @akobx @noobmazter69 @victwrvale @xoxohoneymoongirl @xoxosblogsblog @wearemadeofstardust0 @saviorcomplexrry @percysley @littlelamy @winniemoe @emberaurora @issabellec7 @alexxavicry

notes: i actually write the reader’s emotions and behavior based on how i personally react when i’m mad. i tend to have this i don’t give a fuck attitude. hope all you drew!angsty hoes out there love this one-shot! goodnight :).

“Hey, Drew, it’s me again,” you say into the phone, voice strained as you clutch it to your ear.

Your head’s pounding, a vicious ache that’s got your vision blurring at the edges, and you’re pacing the living room, waiting for him to answer.

It rings, then cuts to voicemail. Again.

“My head’s killing me, and I need to get to the hospital. Please call me back.”

You hang up, staring at the blank screen, willing it to light up. Nothing.

The pain surges, and you wince, pressing a hand to your temple. You’d wanted Drew to drive you, to be there, but he’s MIA. With a shaky breath, you open the Uber app, fumbling to book a ride. The hospital’s close, but every minute feels like torture when your skull’s splitting open.

The driver doesn’t talk, and you’re grateful, slumping against the cool window as the streets slip by. You try Drew once more, just in case.

Voicemail.

“Whatever,” you mutter, shoving the phone into your bag.

You’re on your own.

At the hospital, the ER’s a chaos of noise and weary faces, but they see you fast. The doctor’s steady, jotting notes as you describe the headache, sudden, brutal, unlike anything before. Tests and a scan later, he calls it a stress migraine, writes a prescription for pain meds, and tells you to rest. It’s something, but the relief’s overshadowed by the sting of Drew’s absence.

You’re still unsteady when the Uber drops you at the pharmacy. The bright lights inside jab at your eyes as you head to the counter, prescription in hand. That’s when you see him, Drew. He’s by the cold medicine aisle, smiling faintly at Odessa, who’s holding a basket and saying something that makes him nod. They look comfortable, like this is normal.

Your chest tightens, a mix of exhaustion and something sharper. You don’t move until he notices you, his eyes widening slightly.

“Y/N, what are you doing here?” Drew asks, stepping toward you, his tone surprised but soft.

Odessa lingers behind, watching with mild curiosity.

You don’t answer, just hand the prescription to the pharmacist, your fingers trembling a little. The silence hangs heavy, and Drew shifts closer, frowning.

“Are you okay?” he tries again, voice laced with concern now.

“Almost died,” you say, clipped and cold, avoiding his gaze as you wait for the pills. It’s an exaggeration, but it’s how it felt, and you’re not in the mood to sugarcoat it.

He goes quiet, then exhales. “What happened?”

You turn, meeting his eyes briefly.

“Bad headache. Called you a bunch. You didn’t pick up. Took an Uber to the hospital instead.”

Your words are flat, matter-of-fact, but they land hard.

His face shifts, guilt flickering there.

“I didn’t know, babe. My phone was in the car. I was…”

He glances at Odessa, who’s now pretending to study a box of tissues.

“Helping Dess with something.”

You nod, just once, and grab the bag from the pharmacist with a muttered thanks.

“I need to go,” you say, heading for the door.

Drew hesitates, then follows, leaving Odessa behind.

“Let me drive you home,” he says, catching up outside. His voice is gentle, almost pleading.

You’re too tired to fight, so you shrug, letting him lead you to his car.

The ride’s silent.

You stare out the window, the pharmacy bag crinkling in your lap, the headache dulled but still gnawing. Drew grips the wheel, glancing at you every few seconds, but you don’t give him anything.

No words,

No looks.

Just the hum of the engine and the weight of what’s unsaid.

When you get home, you kick off your shoes by the door and head straight for the kitchen. Drew trails behind, closing the front door softly. You grab a glass from the cabinet, fill it with water from the sink, and pop the pill bottle open, all without a word. The pill slides down your throat, bitter and cold, and you set the glass down, staring at the counter.

“Y/N,”

Drew starts, his voice low as he leans against the doorway.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you hanging like that.”

You don’t look at him, tracing a scratch on the counter with your finger.

“You weren’t there,” you say simply, and it’s not loud, but it cuts.

“I know,” he says, stepping closer.

“I should’ve had my phone. I didn’t think… I didn’t know you needed me.”

You turn then, eyes meeting his, and the hurt spills out before you can stop it.

“Why is it always her, Drew? Why’s Odessa always around, and I’m the one who can’t reach you?”

He blinks, caught off guard.

“She’s just a friend. She needed a ride to the clinic today, that’s all.”

You laugh, short and sharp.

“A friend. Right. She’s always needing something, and you’re always there. Meanwhile, I’m calling you, scared out of my mind, and your phone’s in the car because of her.”

He rubs the back of his neck, looking down.

“It’s not like that. You’re my priority, Y/N. I swear.”

“Then why doesn’t it feel like it?” Your voice rises, trembling a little.

“I needed you today, Drew. Not her. Me. And you weren’t there.”

He steps closer, hands out like he wants to fix it.

“I messed up. I get it. I’ll keep my phone on me, I’ll be there next time. Just… tell me how to make this okay.”

You shake your head, turning back to the counter, gripping the edge.

“I don’t know if you can. It’s not just today. It’s every time she’s around, every time I feel like I’m second.”

“She’s not more important than you,” he says, voice firm but quiet.

“You’re my girl. I’ll talk to her, set some distance. I didn’t see how much this was getting to you.”

You don’t respond, just stand there, the pill kicking in, numbing the ache in your head but not your chest. Drew waits, shifting his weight, like he’s hoping you’ll turn around, say something to close the gap. But you don’t. You grab the glass, rinse it out, and set it in the sink, moving past him to the living room.

“Y/N,” he calls softly, following a step behind. “Please.”

You pause, half-turning, but your eyes don’t meet his.

“I’m tired, Drew. I just need to lie down.”

He nods, slow and uncertain, hands dropping to his sides.

“Okay. I’ll be here if you need me.”

You head for the couch, curling up with a throw pillow, and he lingers by the doorway, watching. You close your eyes, pretending to rest, he doesn’t push. He just stays there, a shadow in the corner, and you’re not sure if he’s close enough to reach or too far to try.

#drew starkey #drew starkey imagine #drew starkey imagines #drew starkey x y/n #drew starkey x you #drew starkey fanfiction #drew starkey fanfic #drew starkey angst #drew starkey fluff #drew starkey one shot #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey x fem!reader #drew x reader #drew

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sangvishtechnologies · 1 year ago

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Full Stack Car Wash App Development with Uber for Car Wash

Convenience is essential in our fast-paced, modern lives. We all want solutions that fit seamlessly into our loaded schedules. This is most visible in the field of car care. Offering a feature-rich car wash app that functions as "Uber for Car Wash" can revolutionize the market and benefit both car wash businesses and their customers.

What is an Uber for Car Wash App?

Uber for Car Wash App is a robust mobile app that helps both car owners and car wash operators. It is normally made up of three basic components:

Customer App: Customers can use this nice interface to:

Find car wash places or request on-demand mobile car washes.

Schedule appointments or request quick services.

Select from several wash packages and detailing choices.

View real-time wait times for in-person car washes.

Pay securely using the app.

Provide ratings and reviews for car washes.

Car Wash Provider App: This Uber clone for car wash app enables car wash firms to:

Coordinate service schedules and staff availability.

Accept and monitor requests for car washes (both in-person and via mobile).

Provide promotions and loyalty programs.

Accept payments digitally.

Access customer information and reviews.

Admin Panel: This web-based interface offers comprehensive management over the app ecosystem, enabling:

User management for customers and car washes.

Content management for wash packages and service descriptions.

Analytics and reporting for consumption and income.

Full-Stack Development for Your Car Wash App:

Creating a reliable on-demand car wash app needs a full-stack strategy. This involves:

Front-End Development: Creating an easy-to-use and intuitive interface for both clients and car wash vendors.

Back-End Development: Building the app's basic functionality, which includes booking administration, payment processing, and data storage.

Mobile App Development: Creating native apps for iOS and Android platforms to offer the best user experience.

API Integration: integrating payment gateways and mapping services for smooth operation.

Benefits of an Uber for Car Wash App

For Customers:

Unmatched Convenience: They can arrange for mobile detailing or schedule washes with their fingers.

Time Savings: Avoid waiting in queue at car washes.

Transparency: View prices, service choices, and current wait times.

Secure Payments: Pay conveniently using the app.

Improved Car Care: Regular washing and detailing services help increase a vehicle’s life.

For Car Wash Businesses:

Increased Customer Base: Reach a larger audience with the Uber for car service app's platform.

Improved Operational Efficiency: Manage appointments, workers, and resources efficiently.

Enhanced Revenue Streams: Provide a wider selection of services and promotions

Valuable Customer Data: Gain insight into client preferences to improve marketing campaigns.

Conclusion

Both car owners and car wash businesses profit from this technology since it provides unrivaled convenience and streamlined operations. If you want to modernize your car wash business or provide a unique auto care service, creating a full-stack car wash app is a wise investment for the future.

Sangvish offers the ultimate solution for car wash services with its innovative app. Transform your car wash business and thrive globally with ease. Exclusively tailored for our esteemed customers, Sangvish presents a unique package that includes a year of complimentary technical support and a fully customizable, scalable script to meet all your business requirements. Contact us today to arrange a meeting and kickstart your global venture!

Check our live demo: https://sangvish.com/uber-for-car-wash/

Website: https://sangvish.com/

Skype: @sangvishtech

Mobile: +91 8300505021

Email: [email protected]

Blog: https://sangvish.com/blog/

#uber for car wash #uber for car wash app #uber clone for car wash #uber clone for x #uber for x #on demand script #car wash app development #on demand car wash app #on demand car wash app development #sangvish

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adaaliyajohn · 1 year ago

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Complete Guide for Launching an On-Demand Multi-Service Application for Your Company

On-demand online service businesses in the current era have increased with new startups in various industry fields. In which the on-demand multi-services startup in recent days is highly attracted entrepreneurs cuz of its mass expansion among the users.

According to a survey, 41.5M U.S. people who use the Uber for X business model utilized the platform progressively between the past years of 2016–2017. And it is now estimated by the experts to reach 56M users by 2022. Following, we are going to discuss a full guide to launch your business in the achievable online market.

Are you an entrepreneur or searching for a better business idea? If yes, then this blog will be completely useful for you. So, let’s get it started.

What is Uber for X?

Before we get into the topic, knowing what is Uber for X app script actually makes you understand why we talk about the specific Uber for X script in this blog.

Uber for X script is a readymade app development source available in the global market. As well, it possesses all the advanced features and options for a quick app development completion.

As an entrepreneur, one can smartly customize the pre-made script as per his own business model and idea. It spaces the owner to build his/her new mobile app directly from their own creative thoughts.

And primarily, the Uber for X app script is so affordable for your investment. Whatever the scale is, whether a small or a big size business project, it comfortably fits into all the business and its market requirements.

What Are All the Services Offered by On-demand MultiService?

Uber for X business model is for the on-demand multi-services startup online. From the use of this innovative script, several different online service industries could combine their individual sectors into a single platform.

As a result, it provides the customers a comfortable zone to access all the services following one-time logs-on.

Below, you could find the list of what are all the trendy services that could be offered via a new on-demand multi-services app in 2022.

Handyman Booking

Roadside Assistance

Automotive Care

Laundry Service

Beauty & Spa

Home Services Booking

Tutors Booking

Car Wash Booking

Travel & Tourism Services

Petcare Services

Babysitter Booking

Security Guard Service Bookings, and a lot more.

Get Free Demo — WhatsApp | Skype

Why Are Entrepreneurs Interested In Developing On-demand MultiService?

As we discussed, the main 3 reasons why entrepreneurs today are interested in building their new on-demand multi-service app from the Uber for X script are it is adaptable, cost-effective, and enhanced. On that, we could find some in-depth information in the following.

Updated Business Services

Your app from the powerful Uber for X app script offers upgraded operational functionality online. It has the updated features as in-built itself by default. They are

Smart Registration

Assignment Scheduling

Attractive Profile Creation

Real-time Service Handlers Tracking

On/off Toggle for Availability

SMS and Push Notification Alerts

Multi-lingual

Different Currency

Dedicated Analytics

Committed Business Details

Smart Dashboard

Simple User Control

Along with the majors, there have been several build-in characteristics you could find with the Uber for X app script accordingly.

What Makes Spotnrides On-demand MultiService App the Best for Your Business?

Considering the latest market demands and the multi-services business model evolution online, SpotnRides regularly works on the Uber for X script for mobile app creations. On that, the below mentioned are the recent, as well as the major updates of the ready-made multi-services app.

Fast Brand Visibility

Your new multi-services app from SpotnRides Uber for X script holds some upgraded in-app promotional solutions. They are

In-app banner advertisements

Discount announcements

Coupon and promo codes

User referral programming

Premium membership option

By the use of the components, available in your multi-services business app, your brand visibility will increase among the targeted audience shortly.

Easy ROI

From its cost-effectiveness to its advanced traits, everything makes your business compactly fit into a budget investment. It highly assists you to get your huge return of investment in a short period of time right from your very fresh business launching online.

Smart Admin Management

And, for your overall business management purposes online, as a service provider, you obtain a smart admin panel from the Uber for X app script from SpotnRides. It provides you with multi-angle business-flow reports. Through that, you can make all-powerful decisions regarding business improvements.

Notable Development Support

Above all, you can sketch your new multi-services business model plan and app development requirements with SpotnRides experts. We offer you such support and guidance for your business project in the present market area.

So, you can easily prepare your business plan to stay out of competitors in your targeted business area.

In Conclusion

Developing a new application for business is always a key source for achievements. So, your new on-demand multi-services app building from SpotnRides Uber for X app script naturally acquires the major advantages that flexibility, scalability, affordability, and enhanced capability.

These would assist you to effectively launch your business in real-time in contemporary times. As a consequence, you can smartly initiate and run your business online by offering a standout performance in the marketplace among rivals.

To contact our team for more discussions, send your details to [email protected]. Our experts will talk to you back shortly.

#uber clone app #uber for x #uber for X script #uber clone script #spotnrides

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pucksandpower · 10 months ago

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Like … for Uber?

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: maybe you should have been a bit more specific when you told your parents that your boyfriend drives for a living

The aroma of roast chicken and freshly baked rolls wafts through the air as you nervously adjust the centerpiece on the dining room table. Your parents and younger brother are due home any minute, and you’ve spent the afternoon preparing for this pivotal family dinner. Tonight, they’ll finally meet your boyfriend.

The doorbell chimes, sending a jolt through your body. You hurry to the entrance, smoothing down your dress before opening the door. Max stands there, a bouquet of flowers in hand and an easy smile on his face.

“Hey,” he says, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “These are for your mother.”

“Thanks, you didn’t have to do that,” you reply, taking the flowers. “Come on in. My family should be here soon.”

As you lead Max into the living room, you can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt. You haven’t exactly been forthcoming about Max’s career, telling your family only that he’s “a driver.” It wasn’t a lie, per se, but you knew they assumed he worked for a ride-sharing service or delivery company.

“Nice place,” Max comments, looking around. “Very ... homey.”

You laugh. “Is that a polite way of saying it’s nothing like your fancy Monaco apartment?”

“No, I mean it,” he insists, pulling you close. “It feels lived-in. Comfortable.”

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway interrupts your moment. “That’ll be them,” you say, your stomach doing somersaults. “Ready?”

Max squeezes your hand. “Always.”

Your parents burst through the door, arms laden with grocery bags. Your mother’s face lights up when she spots Max.

“Oh, you must be the boyfriend!” She exclaims, setting down her bags to give him a hug. “You’re even more handsome than Y/N said.”

Your father steps forward, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you, son. Heard a lot about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” Max replies with a chuckle.

As introductions are made, you can’t help but notice your parents exchanging curious glances. You know they’re dying to ask about Max’s job, but they’re too polite to broach the subject right away.

“Dinner smells amazing,” your father says, sniffing the air appreciatively. “Shall we sit down?”

Everyone gathers around the table, and you begin to serve the food. The conversation flows easily at first, with your parents asking Max about his family and where he grew up. But as the main course is cleared away, you can sense the questions they’re itching to ask.

Your mother finally breaks. “So, Max, how long have you been driving?”

Max looks momentarily confused. “Uh, professionally? Since I was 17, I guess.”

Your father’s eyebrows shoot up. “Seventeen? Isn’t that a bit young to start with Uber?”

“Uber?” Max repeats, bewildered. “I don’t-”

You quickly interject, “Dad, Max doesn’t work for Uber.”

“Oh, my mistake,” your father says, looking embarrassed. “Lyft, then?”

Max turns to you, a mix of amusement and confusion on his face. “Schatje, I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

Before you can explain, your mother chimes in. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, dear. Driving for those apps is honest work. We’re just curious about what it’s like.”

Max opens his mouth to respond, but you cut him off. “Mom, Dad, I think I need to clarify something. When I said Max was a driver, I didn’t mean-”

The sound of the front door slamming interrupts you. Your younger brother, Tommy, comes barreling into the dining room, out of breath and wide-eyed.

“Sorry I’m late, I was at practice and-” He stops short, his jaw dropping as he spots Max. “Holy shit! You’re Max Verstappen!”

The room falls silent. Your parents look from Tommy to Max, then back to Tommy, confusion etched on their faces.

“Language, Tommy,” your mother scolds automatically, before adding, “Wait, what did you say?”

Tommy is practically vibrating with excitement. “That’s Max Verstappen! He’s not just any driver, he’s a Formula 1 World Champion!”

Your father turns to Max, his expression a mix of shock and disbelief. “Is this true?”

Max nods, looking slightly sheepish. “Yes, sir. I’m a Formula 1 driver for Red Bull Racing.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Your mother is the first to recover, letting out a nervous laugh. “Oh my, and here we were asking you about Uber! We must look so foolish.”

“Not at all,” Max assures her, his smile warm and genuine. “It’s actually quite refreshing. Most people I meet already know everything about me.”

Your father leans forward, his interest piqued. “So, Formula 1 ... that’s the racing with the really fast cars, right?”

Max nods, launching into an explanation of the sport. As he talks, you can see your parents becoming more and more fascinated. Tommy, meanwhile, is peppering Max with questions about his latest races and rival drivers.

“I can’t believe my sister is dating Max Verstappen,” Tommy says for the third time, shaking his head in disbelief.

You feel a blush creeping up your neck. “Tommy, please ...”

Max reaches under the table to squeeze your hand. “It’s alright, liefje. I’m just glad they know now. No more secrets, yeah?”

Your mother stands up suddenly. “Oh, goodness! I completely forgot about dessert. I’ll just go fetch it.”

As she hurries to the kitchen, your father clears his throat. “So, Max, I have to ask ... is it dangerous? All that racing, I mean.”

Max considers the question carefully. “There are, of course, risks. But the cars are incredibly safe these days, and we take every precaution possible.”

Your mother returns with a homemade apple pie, setting it down in the center of the table. “I hope you like pie, Max. It’s an old family recipe.”

“It looks delicious,” Max says sincerely. “Thank you for going to all this trouble.”

As your mother serves the pie, the conversation shifts to more casual topics. You find yourself relaxing, relieved that the truth is finally out and that your family seems to be taking it well.

“So, how did you two meet?” Your father asks, between bites of pie.

You and Max exchange a glance, both smiling at the memory. “It was at a charity event in London,” you begin.

Max jumps in, “She spilled her drink all over my shoes.”

“Max!” You exclaim, swatting his arm playfully. “I did not spill it, you bumped into me!”

He laughs, holding up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Maybe we bumped into each other. Either way, I’m glad it happened.”

Your mother sighs contentedly. “That’s so romantic. And now look at you two, so happy together.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “Gross, Mom. Can we talk about racing again?”

The rest of the evening passes in a blur of laughter and conversation. As the night winds down, you find yourself in the kitchen with your mother, washing dishes while Max chats with your father and Tommy in the living room.

“He’s a lovely boy,” your mother says softly, handing you a plate to dry. “I can see why you like him so much.”

You smile, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “Thanks, Mom. I’m sorry I wasn’t more upfront about his job. I just ... I wanted you to get to know him as a person first, you know?”

Your mother nods understandingly. “I get it, sweetheart. It must be hard, dating someone so famous. But from what I’ve seen tonight, he seems very down-to-earth.”

“He is,” you agree, glancing towards the living room where you can hear Max’s laughter mingling with your father’s. “He’s just Max to me.”

As you finish up in the kitchen, Max appears in the doorway. “Need any help?”

Your mother shoos him away. “Absolutely not, you’re our guest. Go relax.”

Max insists on helping anyway, drying the last few dishes as you and your mother put them away. The domesticity of the moment strikes you, and you find yourself imagining a future where scenes like this are commonplace.

Later, as you walk Max to his car, the cool night air nips at your skin. He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close.

“That went well, I think,” he says, a hint of relief in his voice.

You nod, leaning into him. “Better than I expected. Sorry about the Uber mix-up.”

Max laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Don’t be. It was kind of fun, actually. Your family is great, by the way.”

“They liked you too,” you assure him. “Even before they knew you were famous.”

He stops at his car, turning to face you. His eyes are soft in the moonlight as he cups your face in his hands. “That’s all that matters to me. That they like me for who I am, not what I do.”

You lean in, pressing your lips to his in a gentle kiss. “I love you, Max Verstappen, Uber driver extraordinaire.”

He grins against your lips. “And I love you, Y/N Y/L/N, girl who definitely did not spill her drink on my shoes.”

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vanteguccir · 4 months ago

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤNOT AN UBER DRIVER * MATT STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　where a very much drunk Y/N, glasses-less, and leaving a party, hops into what she thinks is her Uber, only to be greeted by Matt, a cute guy who is definitely not her Uber driver.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　no.

WARNINGS　::　being drunk, feeling sick.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

The bass thumped through the pavement, the kind of deep, rolling sound that reverberated in her bones and made the ground feel unsteady beneath her feet.

Or maybe that was just the tequila. Hard to tell.

Either way, the party was starting to blur together, flashes of neon lights, the distant echo of laughter, the lingering scent of something vaguely sweet and smoky in the air.

Y/N blinked, trying to focus on her phone screen. The tiny glowing numbers refused to sit still, swimming in and out of focus as she squinted at them.

Where the hell were her glasses?

Right. In her purse. Or maybe on someone’s table. Or maybe gone forever. It didn’t really matter at this point. What mattered was that her Uber was here.

Probably.

The app had just pinged her, and that was her cue to leave.

With the kind of confidence only a drunk girl could have, she swiped a hand through her hair, straightened her posture like that would somehow make her seem more composed, and made her way toward the line of parked cars outside the mansion. The LA air was cooler out here, crisp against her flushed skin.

She hummed to herself, stumbling slightly as she approached the row of black and silver vehicles. Was it the black Honda? Or the black SUV? Or-

Whatever, doesn’t matter.

Uber drivers always had those tiny stickers on the window, right? Not that she could see them without her glasses.

So, with absolutely no hesitation, Y/N reached for the handle of a random car and slid into the passenger seat like she did this every day. The leather was warm from sitting under the LA heat, the faint scent of something salty and familiar lingering in the air.

She barely had time to register the fact that the driver hadn’t greeted her before she clicked her seatbelt into place and sighed.

"Hey, Uber driver who I don’t know the name of because I don’t have my glasses with me." She said, head lolling slightly to the side as she glanced toward the figure beside her.

Matt Sturniolo was staring at her like he had just witnessed a crime.

His fingers hovered frozen over the fast-food bag in his lap, his wide blue eyes reflecting pure, unfiltered what the actual fuck energy. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just sat there, his grip tightening ever so slightly around a lone onion ring.

Y/N, oblivious to the sheer level of distress she had just caused, frowned at him. Weirdly quiet guy.

Then, without missing a beat, Matt cleared his throat, glanced at his onion ring, and started talking.

"Hey... uh. Do you want an onion ring?"

Y/N blinked at him. Processing.

Then, after too many seconds, she shrugged.

"Sure, why not."

And just like that, she took the onion ring from his fingers - that was already bitten -, popped it into her mouth, and chewed.

The onion ring was good. Like, really good. Crispy, salty, the kind of satisfying crunch that felt almost poetic in the moment. Or maybe that was just her messy taste buds. Either way, Y/N sat there, chewing thoughtfully, completely unfazed by the fact that the guy next to her - her supposed Uber driver - had yet to say much beyond offering her fast food.

She swallowed, then licked a bit of salt off her lip before shifting in her seat. It was only then that she noticed something was... off.

They weren’t moving.

The car was still in park, engine humming softly, headlights illuminating the empty stretch of road ahead.

She furrowed her brows, glancing at him.

"Hey, I’m all good to go!" She announced, clapping her hands together like this was some kind of Uber check-in process. "You can start driving now."

Matt, still mildly stunned and feeling lost, blinked at her. Then, after a pause, he cleared his throat, preparing himself to make her leave his KIA.

"Miss, I'm not-" Matt stopped himself, jaw tensing.

He could think she was insane and reckless all he wanted, but he sure wasn’t about to let a drunk girl figure out how to get home alone. Not in this city. Not when she could barely stand straight without swaying like a damn cartoon character.

He let out a slow exhale, cleaning his dirty fingers on the napkin laying above the car console.

"You know what? What’s the address?"

Oh. Right. Addresses.

Y/N blinked at him, then at her phone, the glowing letters on the screen looking like they were written in an ancient, forbidden language that her brain had no capacity to decipher right now. She squinted hard, her mouth moving in a silent test run before she finally read them aloud, not even realizing that the Uber app would’ve already handled this for her. If he was her Uber driver at all.

Matt just nodded, turning to his GPS and tapping in the location like this was just another casual night.

But just as he finished, a text notification popped up on the screen.

Nick: We’re leaving in 10. U there?

Matt glanced at it for half a second.

And then?

He ignored it.

His fingers hovered over the screen, but instead of bothering to answer, he just drove his attention to the road, shifted gears, and put his car in motion.

The engine hummed smoothly, the low rumble cutting through the quiet night as the car rolled onto the road, the distant echoes of the party fading into the background.

Y/N exhaled dramatically, sinking further into the passenger seat, trying to focus on the soft hum of the car rather than the growing ache in her head.

After a beat, she glanced over at Matt - really looked at him for the first time. His dark shirt, the way his fingers decorated with silver rings drummed lightly on the steering wheel, the faint glow of streetlights casting sharp angles across his bearded face making his features pop in the kind of way that made her want to run a hand through her hair and pretend she wasn’t so clearly out of it.

He was cute. Like, annoyingly cute.

"Are all Ubers that work past midnight this pretty?" She asked, her words dripping with playful sincerity.

Matt’s eyes widened, his grip on the wheel tightening just a little as his mouth opened, and then, realizing he wasn’t choking on anything, he did exactly that, choked on nothing. For a split second, he glanced at her, looking like a deer caught in headlights before snapping his gaze back to the road.

"What?" He asked, his voice going a little higher than usual, almost like a weird, adorable squeak.

Y/N raised her eyebrows, tilting her head like she was explaining the weather.

"I mean, it’s a fair question, right? I feel like this must be an exclusive, midnight-only service you’ve got going here."

Matt’s eyes flicked over to her again, his face a mixture of confusion, shock, and something a lot like embarrassment. He cleared his throat as if it would somehow help him regain some composure, but it only made the situation more awkward, and infinitely more endearing.

"... I... I’m not-" He atarted, though his voice was barely a whisper as he struggled to keep his attention on the road.

"Wait." She interrupted him abruptly, turning fully toward him now, gasping softly. "Are you one of those cool Uber drivers?"

Matt let out a breathy, shocked laugh through his nose, shaking his head with the sudden change of humor.

"What- what do you mean ‘cool Uber driver’?"

"You know." She gestured vaguely. "The ones who let me blast my music and give me free snacks."

Matt hummed, tilting his head in mock consideration.

"I don’t know. What kind of music are we talking?"

Y/N gasped, clutching her chest.

"As if that’s even a question. The best kind, duh."

Matt raised a brow. For him, the best kind was Mac Miller.

"Which is...?"

She grinned, already reaching for his aux cord like it was her car.

"I could tell you, but I’d rather show you."

Matt didn’t stop her. He just exhaled another amused breath through his nose, watching through the corner of his eye as she scrolled furiously through her playlists, her brows furrowing in deep concentration. Then, with a triumphant little hum, she hit play.

The car instantly filled with the unmistakable opening notes of Tik Tok by Kesha.

Matt’s grip on the steering wheel twitched. Y/N, completely unbothered, turned to him with the most serious expression possible.

"This is non-negotiable. You must sing."

Matt scoffed.

"I must?"

"It’s a legally binding agreement the second Kesha starts playing." She said matter-of-factly.

Matt shook his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips despite himself.

"I don’t think that’s how the law works."

"You think the law has power over Kesha?" She gasped. "Over me?"

Matt laughed. A real laugh this time. Low and warm and easy.

Nick would've loved her.

Y/N, taking this as a win, nodded firmly before dramatically belting out the lyrics, all while drumming her hands against her thighs like this was a full-on concert.

"BEFORE I LEAVE BRUSH MY TEETH WITH A BOTTLE OF JACK-"

Matt winced.

"Jesus Christ."

"- CAUSE WHEN I LEAVE FOR THE NIGHT, I AIN'T COMING BACK!"

Matt, to his credit, didn’t crash the car. He just huffed out another laugh, shaking his head as he reached into the Burger King bag and held out another onion ring.

"Here. Please, for the love of God, chew."

Y/N gasped again, snatching the onion ring dramatically.

"Are you trying to silence me?"

"A little bit."

She narrowed her eyes, biting into it slowly, all while maintaining intense eye contact.

"You fear my talent."

Matt let out a small chuckle, adjusting his grip on the wheel.

"I fear for my eardrums."

Y/N rolled her eyes dramatically, taking another bite of the onion ring. She chewed happily for a few seconds, but then, suddenly, her jaw slowed.

A weird, unsettling feeling rolled through her stomach like a warning siren, and before she could process it, nausea hit her like a wave. Everything inside her flipped, her stomach twisting unpleasantly. She swallowed thickly, her throat tightening, her whole body stilling.

Matt noticed instantly.

"Hey, hey, hey." He said, his voice dipping into something soft, immediately catching onto her discomfort.

His reaction was so quick that before she could even think, he had already taken one hand off the wheel, reaching toward her. His fingers brushed against hers, gently but firmly taking the half-eaten onion ring from her grasp, tossing it effortlessly back into the bag.

And then, without a moment's hesitation, he paused the song and rolled down her window.

The cool night air rushed inside, hitting her face in a gentle, relieving gust, playing with the strands of her hair and making them dance in the wind, cooling down her warm face.

Matt's hand went back to the wheel, but his eyes flicked toward her every couple of seconds.

"You good? Want me to pull over?"

Y/N closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in the fresh air like it was her lifeline. Her fingers gripped the side of the seat, her head tilting slightly toward the breeze, trying to ground herself.

"Ugh, no, no, I'm fine." She muttered, still a little off-balance. "It just hit me weird. I think my stomach was like, 'Oh, cool, fried food after a night of drinking? Let's ruin this bitch'."

Matt huffed a small laugh.

"Yeah, well, if your stomach starts a full-on rebellion, let me know before it declares war all over my car."

"Don't be mean about it, Uber driver."

Y/N’s voice came out small and pouty, her bottom lip jutting out dramatically as she turned toward him, blinking slowly to ward off the dizziness that followed the nausea.

Matt glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, trying so hard not to laugh at the ridiculous, genuinely heartbroken expression on her face.

"I wasn’t being mean-"

"Yes, you were."

"I was just-"

"So mean."

Her voice wobbled just slightly, and suddenly Matt’s stomach dropped.

Oh, shit.

She was about to cry.

Matt had never dealt with a drunk, emotional person before, and definitely not a stranger one. His brain scrambled for literally anything to do, anything at all, before full-on tears started spilling down her cheeks.

"Hey, no. Don't cry, sweetheart."

The second the pet name left his lips, Y/N’s entire demeanor shifted.

Her tears stopped, and her face softened, lips slightly parted, like she had just witnessed a miracle.

"Sweetheart?"

Matt froze.

Oh, fuck.

Matt glanced around, suddenly feeling too warm, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel like it was his lifeline. His heart was pounding, and she was still staring at him, blinking up at him like he had just given her the most precious gift in the world.

And he needed to fix this immediately.

Without another word, he reached for the smart screen, his fingers quickly tapping it to press play on the song he had paused minutes before.

The second the sound of Kesha's voice blasted through the car again, Y/N’s mood did a complete 180°. Her face lit up, eyes widening as if she had just been brought back to life.

"Oh, shit- KESHA!"

And just like that, everything was gone.

The near-tears were gone, the heartbreak about his comment had vanished, and she was singing again, full volume, completely unapologetic, her hands moving wildly as she danced in her seat.

Matt let out a slow breath, his heart still beating too fast.

Between a 2000's song here and drunk comments there about how she ended up taking way too many jello shots with a dude named Brad who refused to say what he actually did for life or how she ended up getting locked in a bathroom because some drunk couple mistook the stall for a VIP lounge, the car slowed, turning onto a familiar street.

Matt glanced at his GPS, then out the window, before finally shifting into park. He reached for the smart screen, lowering the volume to a minimum before looking at her, voice soft.

"Alright, this is you."

Y/N blinked, then turned her head to look outside.

And- oh.

It was her place.

Huh.

For a second, she just... stared at it. The streetlights, the familiar shape of her front door, the welcome mat that she’d impulsively bought months ago because it said "Hot Girls Live Here".

She chewed on her lip, hesitating for half a second before sighing dramatically.

"Welp. Bye bye, mister Uber driver."

Matt hummed, nodding, but didn’t say anything. So she grabbed her purse and reached for the door handle.

The second she swung it open and stepped out, however, the ground tilted.

Okay, not literally, but it sure as hell felt like it. Her legs wobbled, the world spinning ever so slightly, and before she could even blink, a warm hand wrapped around her arm, steadying her.

"Whoa, hey."

Y/N blinked down at him, her vision slightly wobbly, her brain playing catch-up.

Matt was still in his seat, halfway over the center console, one arm stretched out to keep her from completely face-planting onto the pavement. His fingers curled securely around her forearm, firm but careful, like she was a newborn deer that had just taken its first, very questionable, steps.

"Damn, got two left feet there, huh?" He muttered, lips twitching. "You good?"

Y/N laughed way too hard than any sober person would. Like, actual tears in her eyes hard. And then, as if to prove just how not good she was, she swayed again before flopping back onto the seat with a little bounce.

Matt raised a brow, biting back his own chuckle. It wasn’t even a good joke.

Still giggling, Y/N reached out blindly, pressing a palm to his arm.

"You’re so funny."

However, her face falls shortly after, her brows knitting together, laced with a curious gaze as she slides her fingers around his skin in search of the swallows inked onto his whole arm.

Matt tensed slightly, watching her fingertips skate across the ink on his forearm, brushing over lines and shading with gentle curiosity.

"Having fun there?" He wet his lips.

"Yeah." She nodded enthusiastically - too enthusiastically, because a second later, she froze as dizziness smacked into her like a truck for the second time.

Matt swore internally. His skin was heating way too much for a guy who had a fully intoxicated girl petting his arm like it was a damn artifact.

Okay. Time to move.

"Alright!" His voice came out way louder than he intended, and he immediately regretted it. He cleared his throat again, slowly untangling his arm from her grasp. "Stay right there."

And before she could even attempt a protest, he was already moving.

Y/N blinked as she watched him step out, rounding the front of the car in a few easy strides. His shirt riding up slightly, his keys jingling from his belt loop, his hair shifting slightly with the breeze.

And then, suddenly, he was right in front of her.

Without hesitation, he reached for her purse on the ground, slinging it over his own shoulder, and held out a hand.

"C’mon."

Y/N just stared at him. Then at his hand. Then at his very serious expression. Her brain took a moment before her arm finally moved.

The moment Matt’s fingers wrapped around Y/N’s hand, his skin was all she could feel.

His palm was warm, the kind of warmth that felt steadying. But it wasn’t just that. It was smooth, too, except for the slightly rougher patches right at the base of his fingers - the callouses from years of drumming.

Her drunken brain latched onto the detail immediately.

"Oh, wow." She blurted out, squeezing his hand. "Your hands are so soft. Like silk."

Matt blinked, looking at their joined hands for a second before glancing back up at her, his lips twitching.

"First time anyone’s ever told me they feel like silk. I’m flattered."

Y/N hummed dramatically, still holding onto him.

"You should be. It’s a big deal."

Matt let out a small chuckle before giving her fingers a quick, firm squeeze back.

With a giggle, Y/N finally let herself be pulled up, swaying a little too much in the process, but before she could even stumble, Matt moved, gently grabbing her arm, pulling it over his shoulder as he wrapped an arm around her waist.

And wow.

Wow.

He was warm. And solid. And smelled like onion rings and rich cologne and some kind of softness that made her stomach flip in ways she refused to unpack right now.

"Watch your feet."

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

Matt had no idea what time it was when they finally reached her porch, but it was definitely late. The kind of late that made the streetlights buzz a little louder, the air feel a little colder, and his patience with this drunk, ridiculous girl stretch dangerously thin.

Not that he actually minded.

If anything, it was insanely cute how she was just sitting there now, slumped in the wooden chair like some kind of defeated heroine. Her arms were dangling off the armrests, legs stretched out in front of her, head tilted back dramatically, and mascara forming black trails below her eyes.

Matt sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I said stay still."

Y/N let out a deep, theatrical sigh, still moving her legs like a swing.

"I am still."

Matt exhaled through his nose.

"No, you’re not. You’re-" He gestured vaguely toward her. "You'll fall from there."

She waved a limp hand in his direction.

"Whatever."

Matt groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. He had the idea that trying to argue with a drunk person was a lost cause, so instead of wasting his breath, he turned to the front door.

And then realized the next problem.

She wasn’t going to open it.

Because she was currently treating that wooden chair like it was a swing and she was a kid after school time.

Matt turned back to her, eyebrows raised.

"You got your keys?"

Y/N, still dramatically draped over the chair, gave him a lazy thumbs-up.

"Yup."

Matt stared at her expectantly.

She didn’t move.

Matt sighed.

"Okay. Where?"

Y/N blinked up at him. Then, as if the idea had just occurred to her, she pointed toward the black purse still dangling off his shoulder.

Matt stared at it, then back at her.

"Can I open it?"

Y/N, without even lifting her head, simply flicked her wrist in a dismissive gesture.

Matt huffed out a laugh, shaking his head.

"That’s not an answer."

She made the motion again, this time more dramatic.

Matt rolled his eyes but obeyed, carefully pulling the purse to the front of him and unzipping it. He was quick in the way he searched, making sure not to look too closely at whatever chaos was inside.

Luckily, it didn’t take long.

After just a few seconds, his fingers closed around a set of keys, the keychain a glittery pink monstrosity.

Matt smirked.

Shaking his head, he straightened up and moved to the front door, unlocking it with ease before turning back toward her.

And then came the next problem.

Because the second he reached out to help her stand, he realized just how much of a mess this was about to be.

Y/N, for all her earlier confidence, was absolutely useless on her feet now.

Like, actually useless.

The moment he pulled her up, she practically folded against him, her entire body weight leaning into his chest like she had no bones whatsoever.

"Jesus, dude." Matt barely had time to adjust, his arms scrambling to keep her upright. "You gotta help me here."

Y/N, her cheek now fully pressed against his shoulder, let out a content sigh.

"Mmm, comfy."

Matt let out a silent scream into the night.

This was impossible.

He couldn’t just drag her inside like some kind of caveman, and carrying her? Not happening. He wasn't the weakest, sure, but she was a whole human person.

So, instead, he opted for shuffling.

Painfully.

Slowly.

Awkwardly.

It was a process, but eventually, after what felt like an entire century, he managed to get her through the front door.

And the moment they stepped inside, he was hit with her world.

From the soft, warm lighting to the overflowing bookshelf in the corner to the cozy, mismatched cushions draped over the couch to the little Polaroid pictures stuck to the fridge.

It was lived-in, personal, comforting.

Matt blinked, taking it in for half a second before remembering the deadweight in his arms.

With a final exhale, he maneuvered them toward the big couch, practically collapsing with her as he eased her down, making sure she didn’t just flop like a ragdoll.

Once she was settled, he knelt beside her, hesitating before brushing some stray hair from her eyes.

"You good?"

Y/N, blinking sleepily up at him, nodded.

"Mhm."

Matt sighed, patting her knee.

"You should lay down."

Y/N huffed, but obliged, shifting so she could stretch out across the cushions.

Matt watched her for a second, waiting.

"You comfortable?"

Y/N, eyes half-lidded, gave him a slow, lazy grin.

"I would be more comfortable if you cuddled me, blue eyes."

Matt froze.

Yeah, okay. He should definitely go.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

The unforgiving brightness of the sun pierced through Y/N’s closed eyelids, an intrusive, blaring light that made her face scrunch in discomfort.

Weird.

Her room had blackout curtains, ones she had spent way too much money on to ensure that early mornings wouldn’t include the added torture of daylight exposure.

Her brows knit together, confusion settling in before she even opened her eyes.

And then, slowly, she did.

Only to be met with the wrong ceiling.

Y/N blinked, her brain sluggishly catching up to the fact that this was not her bedroom.

Then, she registered other things; her body feeling heavy under too many layers of clothes, the sticky sensation of dried makeup clinging to her skin, and, worst of all, the absolute tragedy happening inside her mouth.

She groaned, twisting her face in pure disgust. It tasted like something had died on her tongue, and she vaguely remembered drinking... tequila? And maybe some kind of mystery cocktail that some random stranger shoved at her, saying it was a "game changer".

A game changer in what? Making her suffer?

Y/N sat up, immediately regretting it as a sharp, pounding pain erupted behind her eyes. Jesus Christ.

She squeezed her eyes shut, hands pressing against her temples in an attempt to soothe the pain, but nothing helped. It was the kind of deep, bone-vibrating headache that made every movement feel like an earthquake inside her skull.

After a minute - or maybe five - she finally forced herself to function.

She opened her eyes again, and this time, she really looked around.

Oh.

She was in her living room.

The TV. The coffee table. The faint scent of her vanilla-scented candle that had long since burned out.

Right.

Her mind buzzed, trying to connect the blurry pieces of last night.

The party. The drinks. The decision to go home.

And then... the Uber driver.

Y/N frowned, blinking slowly.

Her eyes drifted downward, and that’s when she noticed the glass of water and the bottle of painkillers sitting neatly on the table.

Her brows lifted in surprise.

Wow.

So, not only did the Uber driver make sure she got home safely, but he also took care of her after the fact?

Because she knows her drunk version, and she couldn't even sit straight.

That was... suspiciously thoughtful.

Y/N shrugged to herself, grabbing the glass and the medicine without question, tossing the pill against her tongue and gulping down the water like her life depended on it. And, honestly? It kind of did. The cool liquid washed away the awful taste in her mouth, making her sigh in relief.

And then-

BRRRRRRING.

Y/N flinched, eyes snapping toward the sudden noise.

Her phone.

Where the hell was it?

She groaned, rummaging around the blanket that was still wrapped around her before realizing. Her purse.

She reached over, dragging it toward herself, and as soon as she dug inside, her fingers wrapped around her phone.

She unlocked it immediately, her eyebrows furrowing as she scanned the recent notifications.

And that’s when she saw it.

A string of messages from her Uber app.

Her actual Uber driver.

UBER: Your driver has arrived.

UBER: Your driver is waiting.

UBER: Your driver is still waiting.

UBER: Your driver will be leaving soon.

UBER: Your driver has canceled your ride.

Oh.

Her brain stuttered, slowly putting the pieces together.

So... she didn’t get into her Uber last night.

She left the poor guy stranded outside the party, probably cursing her existence, while she happily hopped into some random car.

Shit.

Y/N blinked down at her screen, processing the absolute chaos of her life choices when something caught her eye.

A small, folded note - clearly from her very much old notebook above her TV table - sitting neatly beside her purse, right below her hands.

Her brows lifted again.

She reached for it, flipping it open while glancing back at her phone, her brain still half-focused on her Uber driver’s angry messages.

And then, as she read the words, her heart did a weird little thing in her chest.

"Call me whenever you need a cool Uber driver again. Or, y’know, if you just wanna talk."

- Matt

Y/N stared at the note.

Then back at her phone.

Then back at the note.

And finally, it clicked.

She hadn’t just gotten into a random car last night.

She had gotten into a random guy’s car.

A very cute, very cool random guy’s car.

And instead of kidnapping her or doing something worse, he drove her home, tucked her in, left her water and medicine, and even gave her his number?

Y/N stared at the note for a long second, brain short-circuiting.

Then, she let out a laugh - soft and disbelieving - before grinning to herself.

Well.

This was definitely going to be interesting.

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