⭑ Things I Love: American Horror Story - The Office - Gilmore Girls (Team Jess) - Lana Del Rey - Evan Peters - crystals - Pinterest - daydreaming - true crime - books - Formula 1 - superhero’s - anything nerdy - Supernatural - Smallville
⭑ Music: Conan Gray, Fleetwood Mac, Cavetown, The Neighbourhood, Deftones, Arctic Monkeys, Isabel LaRosa, The Beatles, The Smiths, Cigarettes after Sex, 2pac
⭑ Literal Favourite Books Ever : A Good Girl’s Guide To Murder - Good Girl, Bad Blood, As Good As Dead - Solitaire - One Of Us Is Lying - The Princess Bride - Girl in Pieces - The Silent Patient - If He Had Been With Me - A Little Life - 1984
On this blog I post rants or random shit, playlist/music recs or reblog fanfics. Asks/Inbox is open to talk
Summary : One comment soon leads to another, and before you know it Jobe Bellingham always has something to say in your comments. Insisting that it’s nothing other than playful flirting banter..
Part : 1 , 2 , 3 , 4
Warnings : cursing, slightly suggestive
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
Yournameasauser
The beef has been squashed people !!
Liked by JobeBellingham, yourbestfriend, JudeBellingham and 477,898 others
JobeBellingham : oh wow I look fantastic in this xxxxxxx
Liked by creator
↳ Yournameasauser : you don’t xxx
↳ JobeBellingham : what??
User47484& : woahhh???
User839 : she liked his comment???????!!!!!
Yourbestfriend : he still ruins the vibe.
Liked by creator
↳ user4748 : no seriously get him OUTTT 😭
JudeBellingham : aww is that my little baby brother 🩷
Liked by creator
↳ Yournameasauser : yes ❤️
↳ JobeBellingham : dude delete this comment please.
benoftheweek : woah since when did we have beef 🥩😭
↳ Yournameasauser : a while but luckily it’s in the past 🫡
User4488 : Woahhh his comment got liked this time???
↳ user4637393837 : ikkk?!!!!
User474748484848 : come to England babe!!!
↳ user473848 : yessss she needs to
User473748844884848 : the picture I’m dead 😭😭
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
Authors note : thanks for all the support loves 🩷 this lwk rushed sorry 😞
Summary : One comment soon leads to another, and before you know it Jobe Bellingham always has something to say in your comments. Insisting that it’s nothing other than playful flirting banter..
Part : 1, 2, 3, 4
Warnings : none ! 🩷
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
Yournameasauser
little flea market haul
Liked by yourbestfriend, JobeBellingham, quenblackwell and 489,576 others
JudeBellingham : 👍
↳ Yournameasauser : ??? 😭
Yourbestfriend : oh emm gee those purses on the last slide 😫
Liked by creator
↳ Yournameasauser : Dw I bought them ALL 😌
↳ JobeBellingham : wow no wonder you don’t have any money
↳ yourbestfriend : go back to playing soccer 😒
Liked by creator
User5947 : okay Jobe is here yet again, I think it they’re flirting…
↳ user3736 : no fr tho
quenblackwell : wait mail me some peaches 👀
Liked by creator
↳ Yournameasauser : just dropped some off at UPS 🫡
JobeBellingham : how many candles did you buy?
↳ Yournameasauser : none? 🤨
↳ JobeBellingham : I’m shocked. Wow 😮
Ashlyncastro : we got to go together one day 😙
↳ Yournameasauser : yesss 🤞
User483 : girl are you friends with everyone?? 😭😭
User8 : wow. Jobe is here yet again
thatmartinkid : sick
Liked by creator
↳ Yournameasauser : slide me a phone case 👀
benoftheweek : waitwait is this NY??
Liked by creator
↳ Yournameasauser : wait I think…🧐
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
Jobes pov :
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
JobeBellingham
Dump.
Liked by Yournameasauser, JudeBellingham, ashlyncastro and 674,574 others
JudeBellingham : a dump 😱😱
User100 : wait what???
Yournameasauser : you were doing great until the last slide.
↳ JobeBellingham : it’s the best one. What do you mean??
↳ Yournameasauser : according to who exactly?
↳ JobeBellingham : me duh.
User783 : hottie.
↳ user647 : this is so weird. Ur 25….
Ashlyncastro : oh wow. Shocking.
↳ JobeBellingham : thanks.
User463 : aww his mom is so pretty
↳ users473 : ikr??!
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
Yournameasauser
unexpected Erewhon hangouts??
Liked by yourbestfriend, quenblackwell, JobeBellingham and 478,437 others
User3738 : who’s with her tho??
↳ user474 : seriously. This is getting sus…
Yourbestfriend : was it good tho??
Liked by creator
↳ Yournameasauser : I think I’m going to have dreams about it for the next year.
thatmartinkid : too bad I’m Canadian.
Liked by creator
↳ Yournameasauser : this is your sign to come to LA then 👀👀
↳ user5748 : martinnnn
User4747 : I was just at Erewhon 💔
Liked by creator
↳ user8 : waittt me too we could have met herrrr
JobeBellingham : isn’t this your 100th post about food?
↳ Yournameasauser : so what??
↳ JobeBellingham : your money will be gone in a flash x 🩷
↳ Yournameasauser : is that a threat??!!
User473 :
User362 : mouth watering 🤤
↳ user4736 : her or the food?
↳ user47488999 : 😭😭
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
Authors note: idk if these are good 😪 but third post!!!!!
summary : One comment soon leads to another, and before you know it Jobe Bellingham always has something to say in your comments. Insisting that it’s nothing other than playful flirting banter…
Part : 1, 2, 3, 4
Warnings : cuss words
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
Yournameasauser
they said one drink. oopsies..?
Liked by yourbestfriend, quenblackwell, ashlyncastro and 575,456 others
yourbestfriend : same time next week?
Liked by creator
↳ yournameasauser : of course!? Same place 👀
User2345 : my fav niche influencer
Liked by creator
User4566 : same girl same
JobeBellingham so how many was it?
↳ yournameasauser : that’s non of your business?
↳ JobeBellingham : tells me everything I need to know.
Quenblackwell : blessing my eyes yet again
Liked by creator
↳ yournameasauser : come and hang out with me 💔💔
User2737 : Jobe in the comments ?? 😭
User57574 : wait omg I think I’ve been at that place before
Liked by creator
User23 : wtf why is Jobe here? 🥀😭
User464 : petition for Quen to hang out with y/n !!
Liked by creator
↳ user677: seriously
↳ user674747: no fr
↳ user8989: they need to make another video together 😵💫
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
Yournameasauser
someone take my card away…
Liked by JobeBellingham, yourbestfriend, QuenBlackwell and 350,456 others
Quenblackwell : WE need a haul
Liked by creator
↳ Yournameasauser : wait lowkey 👀
Yourbestfriend : where was my invite? 💔
↳ Yournameasauser : it got lost in the mail I think..
↳ yourbestfriend : you think?
JobeBellingham : I’ll gladly take it
↳ Yournameasauser : no thanks ❤️
User5747 : Jobe again??
Ashlyncastro : same girl
Liked by creator
User6758: someone tell Jobe to leave please…
↳ user45: seriously… 😒
User2353: I ship 🚢
↳ user4849: wtf?? Ts is so weird…
↳ user8984 : let’s not…
User56336: ur so cool
Liked by creator
User3738: yes please a haul
Liked by creator
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
Authors note : first time I’ve made an smau, feeling nervous…
Summary : One comment soon leads to another, and before you know it Jobe Bellingham always has something to say in your comments. Insisting that it’s nothing other than playful flirting…
Part: 1, 2, 3, 4
Warnings : cussing, suggestive
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
Yournameasauser
carbs don’t count when they’re pretty x
Liked by quenblackwell, yourbestfriend, JobeBellingham and 475,689 others
Ashlyncastro : so real. Croissants are too good to pass 😫
Liked by creator
↳ Yournameasauser : and those damn cheese danishes 😮💨
↳ ashlyncastro : you get me!!!
Liked by creator
Yourbestfriend : save me one… 👀
Liked by creator
↳ Yournameasauser : so about that…
↳ yourbestfriend : wow. dttm
JobeBellingham : thats not how science works x
↳ Yournameasauser : says who? x
↳ JobeBellingham : I legit said science x research it x
↳ Yournameasauser : well i said what i said x
User5637: Sooo why is Jobe hating on my girl 🤨
quenblackwell : still waiting on that haul btw…
Liked by creator
↳ Yournameasauser : hold up it’s currently being edited…
User6 : this is the third post he’s ruined smh..
User7 : never met a girl so real like y/n x ❤️
Liked by creator
JudeBellingham : you should get me coffee. Yk to be generous??
Liked by creator
↳ Yournameasauser : sigh. At least let Ashlyn hang with me for a bit and then we’ll have a deal 😌😗
↳ JudeBellingham : easier said then done
Liked by creator
User9 : I’m dead the Bellingham siblings are flooding y/ns post 💔
synopsis — after spending his whole life watching the world choose his older brother first, jobe never expected to meet someone who would make him feel seen. when he and y/n quickly grow inseparable after meeting at a party, he quietly begins to believe that, for once, he might be someone’s first choice. but after seeing her laughing with jude, he convinces himself history is repeating itself. instead of risking another heartbreak, he slowly pushes her away, only to discover that the person she’d been choosing all along was him.
# warnings: faint angst, fluff, hurt/comfort.
# wc: 3,7k
# mia’s note: reqs are closed!!! with sooo much love, mia.
part one. part two.
masterlist
jobe hated every second of it.
every ignored message, every cancelled plan, every short reply. because every time he did it, he pictured the expression she’d probably make reading it.
the little crease that appeared between her eyebrows whenever she was trying to understand something.
he knew she was confused. he knew she was probably wondering if she’d done something wrong.
and he hated himself for allowing her to think that, but he couldn’t stop. just like y/n, he was protecting himself from what he was convinced will damn him for life, coming second to his older brother.
because every time he imagined seeing her again, he also imagined seeing her look at jude the way she’d looked at him on the patio.
warm, comfortable. interested.
he’d spent his entire life watching people choose his brother first. teachers remembered jude’s name before they remembered his.
coaches compared them, reporters asked about jude before asking about him.
fans wanted photographs with jude. brands wanted jude.
everyone wanted jude. he’d learned to live with it, he really had.
because none of those things had ever belonged to him in the first place.
but y/n was different. she was the first thing he’d quietly allowed himself to hope might actually become his.
not in a possessive way, just someone who had chosen him first. someone who looked around crowded rooms and instinctively smiled when she found him.
if she chose jude too, he wasn’t sure he’d know how to survive hearing, “it’s not your fault, jobe.”
because he’d heard versions of that sentence his whole life.
“you’re just different.”
“don’t compare yourself.”
“people can’t help it.”
he knew they meant well. and it never hurt any less.
a week later, training finished early. the weather had turned grey, thin rain drifting lazily across the city.
jobe decided to grab a coffee before driving home.
as he turned onto the high street, his footsteps slowed.
across the road, through the rain speckled window of a small café, he saw them.
jude and y/n.
they were sitting opposite each other, with two mugs between them. she was talking with both hands, animated in the way she always became whenever she forgot to be self conscious.
jude listened carefully before laughing.
she laughed too. then shook her head, smiling as though she was teasing him.
from where jobe stood behind the rain, they looked easy. comfortable like they belonged there.
he didn’t know, couldn’t possibly know, that she’d asked jude to meet because she was worried. that she’d wanted to ask if he’d noticed something different about jobe.
that she’d spent nearly the entire conversation anxiously wondering whether she’d accidentally hurt him.
all he saw was the one image he’d been trying desperately to convince himself wasn’t real. his brother, and the girl he’d fallen hopelessly in love with, choosing each other’s company.
he stood there for several long seconds, the rain slowly dampened the shoulders of his jacket.
he felt so defeated. it wasn’t jealousy, he was just so hurt, because life had been so unfair to him.
y/n never belonged to him, but she was the closest thing he ever had to being his. what he had prayed to keep.
inside the café, neither of them looked toward the window, neither of them saw him.
he lowered his head, turned around, and walked away.
he didn’t feel like he’d been left behind, he felt replaced.
it lasted another five days.
five days of pretending nothing was wrong. five days of checking her messages without replying straight away.
five days of rehearsing conversations in his head that never happened. five days of missing her so badly it almost became physical.
he still reached for his phone whenever something reminded him of her. he still instinctively looked for the black jacket she always wore whenever he walked into cafés.
he still caught himself turning to say something before remembering she wasn’t beside him anymore.
every habit he’d built around her remained, only she was gone from them. or rather he’d removed her himself.
and that made it worse. because every lonely evening, every quiet drive home, every meal eaten alone wasn’t something fate had handed him, he had chosen it.
he kept telling himself it was better this way. better to disappear now than stand there and watch her slowly realize she’d rather have jude.
he’d survive leaving before she could leave him.
that thought comforted him for about five minutes at a time, then he’d remember the look on her face the last time they’d properly laughed together. the way she’d smiled whenever she’d managed to make him blush.
the cinnamon pastry.
and he’d wonder if he’d just thrown away the happiest thing that had happened to him in years.
y/n had reached the end of guessing. she’d replayed every conversation, every message, every moment at the party.
she’d asked herself whether she’d accidentally embarrassed him or said something insensitive.
whether she’d become too much. whether he’d simply stopped liking her.
none of the answers fit, because none of it matched the boy she’d gotten to know.
jobe wasn’t someone who disappeared. if something bothered him, he usually went quiet, but never cruel. but this silence felt deliberate, which hurt far more than anger ever could have.
anger, at least, came with an explanation. silence left too much room for imagination.
she found herself standing outside the training ground before she’d fully decided she was going there. the autumn air had turned crisp enough that every breath lingered white for a second before disappearing.
players were beginning to filter out through the gates in little groups.
she spotted jude first, and he noticed her almost immediately.
his smile appeared automatically before fading into something more puzzled. “y/n?”
she offered a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.“hi.”
“everything alright?”
she hesitated. “have you seen jobe?”
jude glanced over his shoulder toward the building. “he’ll be out in a minute.”
his gaze drifted back to her to he study her face for another second. “what happened?”
she looked away. a slow breath left her lungs. “i don’t know.”
those three words sounded far smaller spoken aloud than they’d felt inside her head.
“he just…” she swallowed. “…he won’t talk to me anymore.”
the confusion on jude’s face deepened. “what?”
“i don’t know what i’ve done.”
“you haven’t done anything.”
“how do you know?”
“because he’d have told me.”
she let out a humourless little laugh. “apparently he doesn’t tell anyone.”
before jude could answer the doors opened again and jobe stepped outside. training bag slung over one shoulder, head lowered as he zipped up his jacket against the cold.
he almost walked straight past them. almost.
then he looked up, and everything inside him stopped.
for a second none of them moved. engines started and doors slammed. but it all sounded strangely distant, because all jobe could see was her.
she looked tired. there were faint shadows beneath her eyes.
she’d tucked her hands into the sleeves of her jumper the way she always did whenever she felt awkward.
she looked sad. and he knew, with sickening certainty, he’d put that expression there.
jude looked between the two of them once. “i’m gonna leave you two to it.”
neither of them answered, and he walked away anyway.
the silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. months of easy conversation had somehow become impossibly difficult.
jobe shifted his weight from one foot to the other. his grip tightened around the strap of his training bag.
“hi,” her eyes searched his face.
“hi,” his voice sounded unfamiliar. rough.
she noticed. he hadn’t been sleeping well. she could see it, his jaw looked tighter. his shoulders more tense.
even the smile he tried giving her looked tired.
she hated how relieved she felt just hearing him speak, but that relief quickly gave way to frustration.
“can we talk?”
he nodded almost immediately. “yeah.”
they ended up walking without deciding where, the training ground disappeared behind them.
neither of them seemed in any hurry to fill the silence.
for weeks, she’d imagined this conversation, rehearsed dozens of openings.
none of them seemed right anymore. but finally, she stopped walking.
he did too.
there was a small park beside the road, nearly empty except for rain dark benches and leaves scattered across the paths.
she turned to face him fully. “i need you to tell me what’s happened,” her voice wasn’t angry. “because i’ve spent weeks wondering if i hurt you,” she looked down at the pavement for a moment before meeting his eyes again. “and i can’t keep inventing reasons.”
jobe felt something inside his chest crack.
she’d been carrying this too. while he’d been trying to protect himself, he’d forgotten she’d been hurting as well.
he looked away. towards anywhere but her.
“you didn’t.”
“then what was it?”
he stayed silent. and she waited, but he still didn’t answer.
her shoulders dropped as she whispered, “please,” barely louder than the wind. “don’t make me guess anymore.”
he closed his eyes. he’d spent years swallowing this feeling, years pretending it didn’t exist.
years telling everyone,including himself, that he didn’t care. because admitting it felt unfair.
it wasn’t jude’s fault. it wasn’t anybody’s fault. but that didn’t stop it from hurting.
his voice came out almost as a whisper. “i saw you.”
she frowned slightly. “what?”
“at the party,” his throat tightened. “with jude.”
she blinked. “oh.”
“then…” he laughed quietly, without any humour in it. “…i saw you again,” he looked down at his shoes. “…at the café.”
he rubbed one hand across the back of his neck, buying himself another few seconds because suddenly breathing felt difficult.
“…and i just…” his voice wavered just enough that the last word came out uneven. “…i thought…”
he couldn’t finish.
y/n stared at him confused. “…thought what?”
he squeezed his eyes shut.
and for the first time ever, he said the thing he’d never let himself say aloud.
“…i thought you’d chosen him.”
the words hung between them. settling deep in between them.
he kept talking before he could lose the courage. “everyone always does. it’s always jude,” he shook his head quickly.“not because he’s done anything wrong. he’s—he’s my brother.”
his eyes had begun to sting. “i love him. he’s never tried to take anything from me. he never would.”
another breath. “…people just…” his voice barely carried. “…they always look at him first.”
his shoulders slumped as though something heavy had finally slipped off them. “my whole life…” he stared at the wet pavement. “…i’ve always come second.”
there was no bitterness. only exhaustion that came from carrying something for years.
“and then i met you.”
his eyes finally lifted to hers. they were red around the edges, vulnerable in a way she’d never seen before.
his expression held no pride anymore. no attempt to appear unaffected. “you were the first person…” his voice trembled. “…who looked for me.”
his throat tightened again. “…who remembered things about me… who chose to spend time with me.”
he smiled sadly. “…i didn’t even realize how much i’d started hoping,” another shaky breath. “then i saw you with him.”
his gaze fell again. “…and i just… thought history had caught up with me.”
his fingers curled tighter around the strap of his bag.
“i liked you so much,” the confession was barely audible. “more than i’ve ever liked anyone.”
he smiled through the hurt. “and i knew…” his eyes closed again. “…if you chose him… i don’t think i would’ve survived standing there and watching it happen.”
the silence afterwards felt endless, because everything he’d spent a lifetime hiding was finally out in the open.
jobe looked less like a footballer people admired, and more like the little brother who had spent years wondering what it felt like to be chosen first.
for a long moment y/n couldn’t speak.
the world carried on around them as though nothing extraordinary had happened, and in the middle of all of it stood a boy who had just handed her the most fragile part of himself with both hands, trusting she wouldn’t drop it.
she looked at him. at the boy underneath all of it. the one who had spent years convincing himself he didn’t mind standing in someone else’s shadow.
the one who had smiled every time someone introduced him as jude’s little brother.
the one who had learned to make peace with being overlooked.
until he’d met her.
her chest tightened painfully. she’d never realized how lonely he’d been. how he felt.
the person she had grown to feel so fond of was hurting and she had no idea.
“jobe.”
his name came out softer than she’d intended.
he still couldn’t quite meet her eyes. as though saying all of that aloud had exhausted whatever courage he’d been holding onto.
his shoulders looked strangely small now. the tension that had kept his posture straight for weeks had disappeared, leaving only quiet defeat.
he genuinely believed he’d lost her. he genuinely believed she’d chosen someone else.
what hurt most was realizing he’d accepted that as inevitable. as if it wasn’t even something worth fighting for.
she took a few slow steps toward him until barely half a metre separated them.
“look at me,” there wasn’t an ounce of anger in her voice, only tenderness.
he hesitated before finally lifting his head. his eyes were still glassy.
he looked frightened. not of her, of whatever answer she was about to give.
y/n felt her heart crack. “you’ve spent weeks convincing yourself of something that was never true.”
he frowned ever so slightly.
she could almost see him preparing himself for rejection anyway.
for the gentle but…
the apology. the explanation.
she smiled sadly. “do you know what jude and i were talking about at that party?”
he shook his head.
“he was telling me the story about how you tried to teach him to bake when you were younger.”
confusion flickered across his face. “what?”
“a mutual friend mentioned you’d nearly set the smoke alarm off,” the corner of her mouth lifted. “apparently neither of you knew you had to grease the tin.”
he blinked. “that’s…”
“…embarrassing?”
“…yeah. it really is.”
she watched his expression carefully, confusion slowly replace heartbreak. “that was it. we’d met a couple of times before at parties. i already knew who he was.”
she shrugged lightly. “he’s your brother. of course we’d spoken,” she paused. “but i wasn’t standing there because i wanted to get to know him,” her voice softened even further. “i was standing there because i wanted stories about you. i liked hearing about little jobe.”
his eyebrows pulled together. “what?”
“the one who cried because he accidentally stepped on a snail.”
his eyes widened. “he told you that?”
“he seemed very proud of it.”
“i was six.”
a tiny, helpless sound escaped him. somewhere between a laugh and complete disbelief.
she took another small step. close enough now that she could see the tiny freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose.
close enough to notice how tired he looked. how much weight he’d seemed to carry these past weeks.
“and the café?”
he didn’t think she owed him any explanations, but he had been so vulnerable already, and he really wanted to know.
she continued. “i asked jude to meet me.”
his face fell again for a second and she immediately reached for his hand. threading her fingers around his because she couldn’t bear the thought of him retreating back into his own head.
his hand was cold. hers tightened gently.
“because i thought you’d stopped liking me.”
he looked up so quickly she almost smiled.
“i wanted to know if you’d said something to him. if training had been difficult or if something had happened that you hadn’t wanted to tell me.”
she let out a quiet breath. “i spent almost an hour asking your brother if he’d noticed you seemed… sad.”
she laughed softly to herself, though there wasn’t much humour in it. “and all that time…” she looked down at their joined hands. “…you thought i was on a date with him.”
the silence that followed felt completely different from the one before.
jobe’s mouth parted slightly. he looked almost dazed.
“you…” his voice was rough. “…you were asking about me?”
she looked at him as though the answer couldn’t possibly be anything else. “who else would i have been asking about?”
he swallowed hard. she watched the movement in his throat. watched his eyes search her face over and over again, as though he was trying to find the hidden catch.
the part where she changed her mind. the part where she admitted she’d been trying to spare his feelings.
there wasn’t one. she could see him struggling to believe it.
years of being second weren’t undone by one conversation, they had become instinct. an old wound didn’t stop hurting because someone finally bandaged it.
so she didn’t rush him.
she stayed there, holding his hand, and waiting.
after a long while, he whispered. “why me?”
it was such a quiet question that someone walking past would’ve missed it entirely.
every ounce of disbelief tucked inside those two words.
not do you like me?
not are you sure?
“because you’re you.”
he looked unconvinced. she expected that.
“you listen. you notice when i’m cold before i do. you always walk closest to the road.”
his eyes dropped to the ground for a second.
she continued. “you blush every single time someone compliments you and you smile like you’re trying not to.”
“you make room for everyone else before yourself. and…” her voice became almost a whisper. “…i’ve never once spent time with you and wished i was talking to somebody else.”
she stepped even closer until there was barely any space left between them.
“i didn’t choose jude. i never would. i chose you the first night you stood there defending plain water like it was a personality trait.”
a laugh escaped him. he rubbed one hand across his face in embarrassment. “i’ve been such an idiot.”
she shook her head immediately. “no you haven’t.”
“i’ve been scared.”
he closed his eyes.
“yeah. i know.”
she lifted her free hand slowly and carefully. giving him every opportunity to pull away if he wanted.
he leaned into it before he’d even realized he was doing it.
her palm settled against his cheek warm and gentle.
the roughness of faint stubble brushed against her skin.
he let out the smallest breath. weeks of tension seemed to leave him all at once.
“you know what hurt me most?” she whispered.
he looked at her.
“you didn’t think i liked your brother.”
“i can understand why you were afraid, but you thought you had to lose me by yourself.”
his eyes closed again. a tiny crease appeared between his brows. “i’m sorry. i’m so, so sorry.”
she smiled. then, without another word, she leaned forward the final inch.
she gave him every chance to stop her.
he didn’t.
he watched her coming closer, his eyes searching hers one last time, almost as though he still couldn’t quite believe she was here. that she hadn’t walked away after everything he’d confessed.
their foreheads brushed first. a feather light touch.
she felt the shaky breath leave him, warm against her face, and for a brief second they stayed there, noses almost touching, sharing the same quiet air.
“can i?” she whispered.
he answered with the smallest nod. so small it was almost imperceptible.
when their lips finally met, it wasn’t hurried.
it was impossibly gentle. a soft, lingering press, tentative enough that it felt like both of them were still asking permission even after the kiss had begun.
jobe froze for the briefest heartbeat. he’d imagined this moment so many times that reality almost felt unreal.
then, slowly, he kissed her back. carefully like she was something precious.
his hand lifted from his side with obvious hesitation before settling lightly against her waist, fingertips barely resting there, afraid that holding her too tightly might somehow break the moment.
y/n smiled against his lips.
she could actually feel the nervous little exhale that escaped him. it made her heart ache.
her fingers slipped gently from his cheek into the soft curls at the nape of his neck, not pulling him closer, just resting there, reassuring him without words that she wasn’t going anywhere.
the kiss deepened only by time. not by urgency. it lingered because neither of them seemed ready to be the first one to let go.
because after weeks of distance, of misunderstandings and lonely nights spent believing the other had slipped away, this felt like finding home again.
when they finally drew apart, it wasn’t by much.
their noses still brushed. she could still feel the warmth of his breath.
his eyes remained closed for another second before opening slowly.
there was something wonderfully unguarded about the way he looked at her now. like the walls he’d spent years building had quietly crumbled away.
his forehead found hers again almost instinctively.
a shaky laugh escaped him. “i’ve wanted to do that since the second coffee.”
she laughed quietly. “second?”
“i was trying to be realistic. i’d already decided after the first.”
she realized then, this was the first time since they’d met that he wasn’t carrying the weight of comparison on his shoulders.
for the first time in his life, someone had looked at both brothers, known them both, spent time with both, and still chosen him.
as they walked back toward the training ground together, their hands remained intertwined almost shyly, their fingers fitting together as though they’d been searching for each other all along.
halfway there, jobe glanced down at their joined hands before looking back at her. “so…”
“hm?”
“does this mean they’re dates now?”
she looked up at him with a grin that reached all the way to her eyes. “i think we’ve been about six weeks late to that conversation.”
he laughed again.
then, without thinking, he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed the softest kiss against her knuckles.
no hesitation. no fear. just quiet certainty. because jobe wasn’t shy, he just didn’t know if he was allowed to take up space in her life.
now, jobe bellingham didn’t feel like somebody’s little brother. he felt like someone’s first choice, and he was selfish enough to now feel like she belonged to him.
synopsis — after spending his whole life watching the world choose his older brother first, jobe never expected to meet someone who would make him feel seen. when he and y/n quickly grow inseparable after meeting at a party, he quietly begins to believe that, for once, he might be someone’s first choice. but after seeing her laughing with jude, he convinces himself history is repeating itself. instead of risking another heartbreak, he slowly pushes her away, only to discover that the person she’d been choosing all along was him.
# warnings: faint angst, fluff, hurt/comfort
# wc: 3,4k
# mia’s note: last draft i’m posting before working on requests. reqs are now closed while i finish up the ones that i’m working on right now. this is inspired by the countless interviews i’ve watched of jobe because he’s such a sweetie pie and he holds such a dear place in my heart. with sooo much love, mia.
part one. part two.
masterlist
there wasn’t a moment in jobe’s life where he hadn’t known who his brother was. people made sure of it.
not just jude. the jude. the boy who had become everyone’s answer before anyone had even asked the question. from the outside looking in, people assumed it must’ve been miserable growing up beside someone like him.
it wasn’t. at least not at home.
their parents had never treated one son as more important than the other. dinner was dinner, birthdays were birthdays, victories were celebrated the same, losses comforted the same. if anything, they worked twice as hard to make sure jobe never felt forgotten.
but families were small while the rest of the world wasn’t.
the rest of the world always had opinions.
every youth tournament. every interview. every headline.
every conversation that somehow drifted back to “you’re jude’s little brother, right?”
never “you’re jobe.”
always “jude’s brother.”
people didn’t mean it cruelly. they’d smile when they said it, grin like they were making conversation.
“got the talent running in the family.”
“reckon you’ll end up just like him.”
“big boots to fill.”
he’d laugh politely every time. then he’d go home and kick a football against the back fence until the sun disappeared.
because what else could he do? he loved football and he loved his brother. those two things had always existed together.
it wasn’t jude’s fault people looked at him first. it wasn’t jude’s fault reporters crowded around him.
it wasn’t jude’s fault coaches remembered his name before jobe’s.
that made the feeling harder to be angry at. there wasn’t anyone to blame.
just an ache that sat somewhere deep in his ribs whenever he walked into a room already knowing who everyone would notice first.
the funny thing was jude hated it.
“stop apologizing,” jobe had laughed one afternoon after training when jude noticed people asking him for photos instead.
jude rubbed the back of his neck. “i’m not apologizing.”
“you just said sorry.”
“did i?”
“yeah.”
“huh.”
they both laughed. because jude genuinely didn’t understand it. he never leaned into the attention. never expected it.
if anything, he usually tried pulling jobe into conversations.
“this is my brother.”
“he’s class.”
“you should watch him.”
he tried. he really did. it just never seemed to change anything.
months later, one of both jude and jobe’s friends decided it was finally time everyone got together again.
someone had rented out the upstairs floor of a little warehouse venue that overlooked the river.
nothing extravagant. music loud enough that conversations had to happen close together. strings of warm lights crisscrossed the ceiling.
people leaned against brick walls with drinks in hand while others danced without caring whether they looked ridiculous.
it felt lived in. comfortable. the kind of party people actually stayed at because they wanted to, not because they felt forced.
jobe hadn’t even planned on coming. training had left his legs aching and his social battery was practically nonexistent.
but one of his friends had dragged him anyway.
“you spend too much time at home.”
“i like home.”
“you’re twenty.”
“exactly.”
“that’s not helping your case.”
by the time he arrived, jude was already surrounded. of course he was.
someone had recognized him almost immediately. not their friends, but mutuals.
a few more people joined. then a few more.
like magnets. jobe watched from the doorway for a second before smiling to himself.
same as always.
he wasn’t bitter. not tonight. tonight he just slipped away unnoticed toward the drinks table instead.
someone bumped his shoulder.
“sorry.”
“you’re alright,” he grabbed a bottle of water instead of anything stronger.
training tomorrow. habit.
he leaned against the counter, watching people laugh across the room.
jobe had never been shy. he was actually pretty funny too. just that no one had made the effort to get to that part of him. there was comfort in observing. he’d always preferred listening over speaking anyway.
then he heard. “you know, that’s the most boring drink anyone’s picked up all night.”
he turned and found himself looking at someone he’d never seen before.
a girl. pretty. dressed well without screaming for attention. a simple outfit, one eyebrow raised in amusement as she looked pointedly at the water bottle in his hand.
he looked down at it. “it keeps me hydrated.”
she nodded thoughtfully. “fair,” a beat. “still boring.”
he laughed. not politely but an actual laugh.
she noticed and her smile widened just a little.
“wow.”
“what?”
“you looked like you hadn’t smiled in at least forty five minutes.”
“that specific?”
“i’m estimating.”
“dangerous hobby.”
“i know,” she extended her hand. “i’m y/n.”
he looked at it for half a second before shaking it. “jobe.”
“nice to meet you, jobe.”
it felt refreshing. she didn’t squint as if she might’ve recognized him, or tilted her head while she asked “wait… bellingham?”
to her, at least for now, he was just jobe.
they ended up talking because neither of them seemed particularly interested in joining the louder groups.
it started with harmless things.
music. food. why warehouse parties somehow always smelled faintly of dust no matter how expensive they looked.
she admitted she’d gotten lost trying to find the venue. he admitted he’d nearly turned around and gone home.
“seriously?”
“i’m not massively into parties.”
“then why are you here?”
“peer pressure.”
hours blurred strangely around her. people came and went. songs changed. someone accidentally knocked over a speaker. another person nearly fell trying to dance on a chair.
yet they stayed in the same little corner by the windows. just talking. she asked questions that actually sounded like she wanted answers.
and he answered without thinking. without carefully measuring every sentence.
for a moment he forgot to be quiet. to be reserved and to watch himself. he even caught himself talking with his hands, something he almost never did.
across the room, jude noticed. he’d escaped his own conversation long enough to grab another drink.
his eyes found jobe almost immediately.
found him smiling. head tipped back slightly as y/n animatedly attempted to explain something to him.
jude couldn’t help smiling to himself. and it wasn’t obvious in the loud, cinematic way people usually noticed attraction. it was quieter.
the way jobe instinctively angled his body toward her, how he listened before answering.
the way he looked relaxed. like he’d forgotten anyone else existed.
“he’s finished.”
around midnight people started leaving in little groups.
phones came out.
jobe glanced toward the entrance. “you getting home alright?”
“probably.”
“probably?”
“i’ll either find my friends or wander the streets looking pretty.”
“that’s one option.”
“is it a bad one?”
“slightly.”
she smiled. “i’ll survive.”
there was a tiny pause. neither of you seemed particularly eager to leave.
“there’s a café near the training grounds,” she said casually.
“yeah?”
“i’ve been wanting to try it.”
he looked at her.
she looked back. “apparently their pastries are really good.”
he nodded. “that’s what i’ve heard.”
he wasn’t stupid. he knew what she was asking. he just wasn’t used to people asking him.
“i…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “…i could come.”
her smile softened. “good.”
“strictly for research.”
“obviously.”
“not a date.”
“absolutely not. wouldn’t dream of it.”
“me neither.”
they both smiled, because neither of them believed that for a second.
over the following weeks they developed a habit. many habits really.
coffee that became lunch. lunch that became walking through the city until sunset. messages that started with one question and ended three hours later.
they never called them dates.
never acknowledged the way they always sat beside each other. or how she started stealing fries from his plate without asking. or how he’d started remembering tiny things she’d mentioned weeks earlier. or how they knew the password to both of their phones.
they kept choosing each other. again and again and again.
jobe walked into rooms without wondering who everyone else was looking at. because every time he arrived, her eyes found him first.
if someone had asked jobe when exactly he started looking for her first, he wouldn’t have had an answer. there hadn’t been one defining afternoon. no dramatic realization. no moment where music swelled and everything suddenly made sense.
it happened so gradually that he barely noticed it happening at all. one coffee became another. another became a walk because neither of them felt like going home yet. a walk became dinner because they’d wandered long enough for the sky to turn orange.
before long, he couldn’t remember the last week she hadn’t been a part of. it settled into his life with such quiet certainty that it felt less like something new and more like something that had always belonged there.
he wasn’t used to that. he’d spent most of his life moving around other people’s schedules. training sessions. recovery. travelling. interviews. everything planned weeks in advance.
and yet he found himself unconsciously planning around her.
if he passed a café they’d talked about, he made a mental note to bring her next time. if he saw something ridiculous, a dog carrying an entire baguette through the park, someone nearly falling into a fountain trying to take a selfie, it became something he’d save to tell her later.
she had quietly become the person his thoughts drifted toward. and she never seemed to realize she had.
their conversations never felt rushed. that surprised him most. normally, talking to new people always felt like work. finding the right thing to say, wondering whether he sounded awkward, trying to keep conversations alive.
with y/n silences weren’t uncomfortable. sometimes they’d sit outside a café long after their drinks had gone cold, simply watching people pass by.
she’d point out little things he would’ve never noticed.
“that man has walked past this café three times.”
“maybe he’s lost.”
“or maybe he’s trying to impress someone.”
“by walking in circles?”
she nodded with complete seriousness. “confidence is attractive.”
he looked at her. “i’m not convinced.”
she smiled into the rim of her coffee cup. “you don’t have much imagination.”
he let out a quiet laugh, lowering his gaze as he absentmindedly traced the condensation around his glass with his thumb.
there was never any pressure to fill every second. sometimes she’d be reading something on her phone while he watched cyclists weave through the street.
sometimes he’d tell her about training. sometimes she’d tell him ridiculous stories from work that somehow always involved someone making spectacularly bad decisions.
they shared space well. the kind of comfort that couldn’t be forced.
she learned him in ways he didn’t think anyone else really had. she noticed that he almost always let other people choose where they ate, that he’d quietly move to the outside of the pavement whenever they walked beside traffic without even thinking about it, that he always opened doors, not because he expected praise for it, but because it genuinely never crossed his mind not to.
she noticed the tiny crease that appeared between his eyebrows whenever he was concentrating. the way he’d rub the back of his neck whenever someone complimented him. how every “thank you” sounded slightly embarrassed, as though praise fit awkwardly across his shoulders.
one afternoon she’d looked at him for several seconds before smiling.
“you know…”
he glanced up from the menu. “what?”
“you’re really bad at accepting compliments.”
he frowned. “am i?”
“mhm.”
“don’t think i am.”
she nodded. “your hair looks nice today.”
he blinked. “oh.”
“see?”
“what?”
“you panicked.”
“i didn’t.”
“you did.”
he could feel warmth climbing into his face. “i just didn’t know what to say.”
“exactly,” she laughed softly. it made the corners of her eyes crease. “you’re cute.”
he looked down almost immediately. the menu had suddenly become fascinating.
he couldn’t answer.
he just smiled into his drink, trying—and failing—to hide it.
across the table, y/n’s own smile softened. she’d never seen someone blush so quietly.
it wasn’t just him, she changed around him too. she became less guarded. she stopped apologizing for talking too much whenever she got excited about something.
everyone else noticed before they did. or perhaps before they admitted it.
friends had stopped asking whether one of them was coming. instead, they assumed both would.
if y/n arrived first, “where’s jobe?”
if jobe walked in alone, “thought y/n was with you.”
they’d exchange amused looks before giving the same answer every time.
“we’re not together.”
people never argued, they’d just smile in that irritating way people did when they thought they knew something you didn’t.
it should’ve embarrassed him, but instead he found himself secretly hoping one day the answer would stop being a correction.
the realization came on a completely ordinary afternoon.
there wasn’t anything romantic about it. he was standing alone in a supermarket, staring blankly at two identical boxes of pasta because he’d forgotten which one he’d come to buy.
his phone vibrated.
y/n
walked past that bakery
another message appeared almost immediately.
they still had those cinnamon pastries you like
he smiled before he’d even finished reading.
she’d remembered. out of everything they’d talked about over the past month, she’d remembered something as insignificant as his favourite pastry.
his chest tightened with a warmth he couldn’t quite explain.
another message.
i bought you one before they sold out ☀️
he stood there in the middle of the aisle, staring at the screen. the supermarket dissolved into background noise, because all he could think was how she had thought about him while he wasn’t there.
his thumb hovered over the keyboard.
you’re bribing me
her reply came almost instantly.
maybe
is it working?
he laughed quietly to himself.
yeah
definitely working
he locked his phone and rubbed a hand across his face before shaking his head at himself. this wasn’t just a crush anymore.
somewhere between the coffees, the late night conversations, the stolen chips, and the pastry she’d bought simply because she’d remembered, he’d fallen.
completely. and that terrified him a little.
because wanting someone that much meant they suddenly had the ability to hurt you. he just didn’t know yet how much they would.
the conversation on the patio should have meant nothing.
jobe knew that. he told himself as much on the drive home.
people knew people, it wasn’t unusual.
they’d all been at enough gatherings over the past few months that friendships had naturally formed. y/n had met his teammates. she’d spoken to coaches. she’d laughed with people he’d grown up around.
of course she’d eventually talk to jude. it would’ve been stranger if she hadn’t.
he repeated those thoughts over and over again, almost rhythmically, as his hands rested loosely on the steering wheel.
the motorway stretched ahead of him beneath rows of amber streetlights, each one slipping across the windscreen before disappearing behind him.
everything should’ve settled. instead the image refused to leave.
y/n standing with her back against the patio railing. jude opposite her.
both of them laughing. she’d nudged his shoulder after he’d apparently said something stupid.
jude had rolled his eyes in that dramatic way he always did before laughing too.
they looked comfortable. not like two people introducing themselves, like two people continuing a conversation like they knew each other for years.
he hadn’t even realized they had conversations.
the next morning, his phone buzzed before he’d even gotten out of bed.
y/n
hope you got home okay 🤍
another message arrived while he was still looking at the first.
sophie’s feeling much better this morning
thank you for asking yesterday
he stared, his thumb hovering over the keyboard.
normally, she’d never have to wait. he liked replying to her. sometimes he’d answer before he’d even opened both eyes in the morning.
he’d become embarrassingly predictable like that.
but today his fingers refused to move.
there was nothing wrong with her messages. they were exactly the sort of texts she’d always send.
gentle, thoughtful, the ones that made him feel looked after.
and yet that same voice whispered quietly in the back of his mind.
she looked happy talking to jude too.
his chest tightened and he locked the phone instead.
just for now. he’d answer after training.
except training was awful.
he’d trained well. his passes were sharp, his first touch clean.
his fitness coach even clapped him on the shoulder afterwards.
“good session.”
he smiled. “cheers.”
he couldn’t remember a single drill they’d done.
every water break, his mind wandered somewhere else.
he found himself looking across the pitch toward jude more than once. his older brother was laughing with two teammates after a drill, gesturing animatedly while telling some story.
everyone around him laughed.
jobe smiled despite himself.
jude had always been like that. easy. people gravitated toward him without effort. they always had.
there wasn’t a jealous bone in jobe’s body when it came to his brother.
only a quiet sadness that he’d never managed to inspire that same effortless pull in other people.
he looked away before jude noticed him staring.
he finally replied to y/n that evening. over nine hours late.
jobe
sorry
long day
three little dots appeared almost immediately.
she’d been online. waiting.
his stomach twisted.
don’t apologise
i figured you’d be busy
how was training?
he read the message.
what was wrong with him?
nothing had happened. absolutely nothing.
and every conversation suddenly felt strangely fragile. like if he reached for it too quickly it would break.
jobe
good
that was all he sent. one word.
he stared at it after pressing send, because it looked cold. distant and absolutely nothing like him.
he regretted it almost immediately, but he didn’t send anything else.
y/n frowned at her phone.
she was sitting cross legged on the sofa, television playing quietly in the background even though she hadn’t been watching it.
his message looked wrong.
not rude because jobe was never rude. he was a gentleman in the sweetest way possible.
she scrolled upwards, weeks of conversations filled the screen.
photos of food, voice notes of him laughing after she’d accidentally frightened herself with a pigeon. screenshots. inside jokes. long paragraphs.
and then they gradually became shorter.
she hadn’t noticed it happening. only now, looking backwards, could she see the distance growing one day at a time.
she chewed gently on the inside of her cheek. had she done something? said something maybe? but she couldn’t think of anything.
she replayed the party in her head.
the conversations, the music, taking sophie home.
coming back, she hadn’t even really seen him before leaving.
her fingers hovered over the screen. she wanted to ask. she didn’t like that uncomfortable feeling of incompletion that lingered on her chest at his messages.
but instead she just liked his message with a little heart, hoping tomorrow would feel normal again.
it didn’t.
their coffee became next week. next week became “i’ll let you know.”
he always sounded apologetic, always believable.
training had run over. recovery. sponsor commitments. family dinner.
he never forgot to apologise, in that soft, sweet, jobe way, which made it impossible to be angry.
only confused because he’d never cancelled before. not once.
one rainy afternoon she found herself walking past the little bakery where she’d bought him the cinnamon pastry.
without thinking, she stepped inside. the warm smell of butter and sugar wrapped around her immediately.
the woman behind the counter smiled. “the usual?”
she blinked. “sorry?”
“the cinnamon one for your boyfriend.”
heat rushed to her face. and a warmth that was both uncomfortable and welcoming spread across her chest.
oh how she wished jobe was her boyfriend. how she wished she could kiss him whenever, and feel his touch at all time without it being foreign.
“he’s…” she stopped herself. “…he isn’t my boyfriend.”
she stared at the screen, and this time, she felt truly sad.
all her life, she’d shielded herself claiming she’d never grow attached to something she knew wasn’t hers. but jobe had been so sweet, so gentle and kind to her, that she never thought he would just disappear this way. hurt what she so carefully protected.
the pastry suddenly didn’t taste very sweet anymore.
pairing: owen brompton x fem!reader
summary: after one disastrous date too many, Owen decides he needs honest feedback—and somehow convinces you, his closest friend, to take him on a practice date. What begins as an awkward evening of supermarket pasta, handwritten assessments, and painfully earnest flirting quickly turns into a kissing lesson neither of you is prepared to treat as pretend.
wc: 8.4k
a/n: i sailed the seven seas last week to watch finding emily since it doesn’t release in the us until august 28th, but i’ll still be catching it in theaters when it does. i missed writing for spike so much—he’s literally why i made this blog, hence the username—and i’m so glad his beautiful, kissable face will be back on the big screen next month. owen was awkward, earnest, hopelessly romantic, and painfully lovable, and spike was easily the best part of the film. i’m usually not a rom-com girlie because they can be too cheesy, but this one balanced the comedy and heart pretty well. i def plan on writing a few fics for my pathetic wet cat bf <333 now i just have to hold out until 4 Kids Walk Into a Bank, where he plays a bottle blonde bank robber, which is going to make me lose my mind. not beta read.
warnings: explicit sexual content, piv, oral (f!receiving), fingering, handjob (sorta), multiple orgasms, condom use, dirty talk, praise kink, nipple play, messy kissing, light biting, marking, risk of getting caught, first time together, eager to please!Owen, alcohol consumption, friends to lovers, mutual pining, practice date, love confession, getting together, fluff
MASTERLIST
Owen Brompton had been back from his date for exactly eleven minutes before deciding it’d been a catastrophe.
This was impressive, considering he’d spent the first six of those minutes insisting it had gone “reasonably well, actually” while pacing the narrow stretch of carpet between the sofa and the telly with his coat still on. The remaining five had been dedicated to tearing that claim apart in such painful detail that you suspected he’d started preparing the postmortem before the woman had even finished saying goodnight.
“She didn’t laugh.”
You looked up from your corner of the sofa, where you’d been waiting with two cans of cider and an increasingly cold box of chips balanced across your knees. Matt had let you in twenty minutes ago, taken one look at the food in your lap, and announced that Owen had apparently arranged his own emergency response team. He and Freya had disappeared upstairs not long after that, though you’d heard Matt laughing through the ceiling when Owen came stumbling through the front door with the expression of a man returning from war.
“At anything?” you asked.
“She laughed twice.”
“Then she did laugh.”
“Not properly.” Owen stopped pacing long enough to look genuinely offended that you couldn’t understand the distinction. His hair had caught the rain on the walk home, leaving the ends damp and curling around his forehead. “One of them was more of an exhale.”
“That still counts.”
“It absolutely doesn’t. People exhale all the time.”
“They’d die otherwise.”
“That’s not the point.”
He started pacing again.
The front room was small enough that three strides took him from the secondhand sofa to the cluttered shelf where Freya kept framed photos, candles and a ceramic dish full of loose change. Owen’s guitar leaned against the radiator beside one of the speakers he’d spent an entire Sunday repositioning, despite Matt repeatedly threatening to throw both of them into the street. Sheet music and unopened post had spread across the coffee table, and a single sock had somehow ended up on top of Owen’s battered amp.
The ceiling light was off, leaving the room lit by the amber lamp beside you and the blue standby glow from his equipment. Rain ticked faintly against the front window. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaked, followed by Matt’s muffled voice and Freya telling him to leave Owen alone.
Owen pushed both hands through his hair.
“I asked too many questions.”
“You were on a date. Questions are usually encouraged.”
“Not in the manner of a police interview.”
“What did you ask her?”
“What sort of childhood she had.”
You stared at him.
Owen’s shoulders dropped. “It were relevant at the time.”
“To what?”
“We were talking about crisps.”
A laugh escaped before you could swallow it.
His expression sharpened with vindication rather than embarrassment. “See? You’re laughing now. That’s what’s meant to happen.”
“I’m laughing because you somehow interrogated a woman about her formative years over a packet of salt and vinegar.”
“She said she didn’t like them.”
“And that concerned you?”
“It suggested a sheltered upbringing.”
You moved the chips before you spilled them. “Owen.”
“I panicked.”
“I can tell.”
He finally shrugged out of his wet coat and tossed it toward the armchair. It hit the back, slid off and landed in a heap beside the leg. Owen looked at it, seemed to consider picking it up, then apparently decided his romantic failures needed his attention more urgently.
“She was lovely,” he said. “That’s the worst part.”
“How’s that the worst part?”
“Because if she’d been horrible, I could blame her.”
“You can still blame her. I won’t tell anyone.”
“I’m trying to grow.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
Owen dropped onto the sofa beside you. The cushions dipped beneath his weight, nudging your thigh against his, and the damp chill clinging to him came with the smell of rain, lager and whatever cologne he’d put far too much of on before leaving. You’d taken the piss out of him for it when he’d come downstairs earlier, and Freya had agreed with you while Matt stood behind Owen pretending to choke.
Now it had faded into something softer beneath the warmth of his skin.
He reached for one of the ciders and pressed the cold can to his forehead.
“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”
“You decide you’re in love before the starters arrive.”
“I didn’t decide I was in love.”
“You sent me a message from the toilet saying she had soulful eyes.”
“That was an observation.”
“You’d known her forty minutes.”
“Some things are immediately apparent.”
You pulled the can away from his face before he could freeze his brain and cracked it open for him. Owen accepted it with a mumbled thanks, still looking personally wounded by the entire concept of dating.
The problem was that you knew he meant it. Owen might dramatize every awkward silence and attach ridiculous significance to minor details, but he never treated affection carelessly. Every crush became a possibility. Every possibility became a whole story he could already hear playing beneath the rest of his life, complete with swelling strings, a key change and the perfect final chorus.
Then reality failed to follow the arrangement, and he came home confused.
“You need practice,” you said.
Owen looked at you over the rim of the can. “I’ve been on dates.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“I know how dates work.”
“You asked a woman what emotional damage led to her crisp preferences.”
“I didn’t phrase it like that.”
“That somehow makes it worse.”
He nudged your knee with his. “All right, then. Dating expert. What do you suggest?”
“You need someone to tell you when you’re being weird.”
“You already do that constantly.”
“Someone who can do it during the date.”
Owen lowered the cider.
His attention sharpened in a way that made you suddenly aware of how closely you were sitting, your legs still touching because neither of you had bothered to move.
You’d known him long enough to recognize the exact second an idea took hold. It appeared first in his eyes, then gathered behind his mouth while he tested the wording. Usually, this process ended with him suggesting something unnecessarily complicated and insisting it was the obvious solution.
“You could,” he said.
You blinked. “I could what?”
“Go on a date with me.”
The words settled between you.
Owen immediately started waving one hand, trying to physically rearrange them into something less dangerous.
“Not a real date.”
“Obviously.”
“A practice one.”
“Right.”
“So you can observe.”
“You make it sound like a wildlife documentary.”
“You know what I mean.”
Unfortunately, you did.
The suggestion should’ve been ridiculous. It should’ve joined the long list of Owen’s ideas that only sounded reasonable after midnight, alongside buying a smoke machine for his bedroom and trying to write an entire song using nothing but things he found in Matt and Freya’s kitchen.
Instead, your stomach tightened.
You covered it with a laugh. “You want me to grade you?”
“Not grade. Just offer constructive feedback.”
“I’m giving you a failing mark already.”
“We haven’t started.”
“You’re arguing with your instructor.”
“I thought you were my date.”
“You can’t afford my rates.”
Owen’s smile appeared slowly, crooked at one corner and far more charming than anything he’d probably attempted across the table that evening. “Come on. It’ll help.”
The ease of his expression didn’t quite hide the way his thumb kept rubbing against the side of the can. Owen was nervous. He was trying not to look it, but you’d spent too many evenings beside him not to notice the little signs: the restless fingers, the slight tilt of his head, the way he filled every silence before it got the chance to reject him first.
You should’ve said no.
Instead, you leaned back against the cushions and pretended to think about it.
“We’d need rules.”
“Course.”
“We pretend we’ve never met.”
“Fine.”
“I’m allowed to stop you whenever you say something embarrassing.”
“That seems unnecessarily broad.”
“You asked for my help.”
“Carry on.”
“You don’t argue with the feedback.”
Owen opened his mouth.
You pointed at him.
He shut it again.
“And nothing that happens during the date counts.”
Something unreadable moved across his face before he nodded. “Because it’s practice.”
“Exactly.”
“Right.”
You held out your hand. “Deal?”
Owen looked at it, then at you.
His palm was warm when he took yours. His fingers closed firmly, lingering a beat longer than a handshake needed to.
“Deal.”
For a man who claimed to need emergency romantic intervention, Owen took the practice date alarmingly seriously.
Matt and Freya were going out on Saturday, which meant Owen had the house to himself for most of the evening. This information arrived in a string of messages that began with Matt and Freya won’t be here and was followed, less than thirty seconds later, by Not that I arranged that and Don’t make it weird.
You arrived just after seven to find the usual clutter from the front room stacked in precarious towers beside the stairs. Owen’s guitar had been moved into the corner. The sock had disappeared from the amp, though you suspected he’d hidden it rather than washed it, and two candles burned inside mismatched glass holders beside plates of supermarket pasta.
Owen had put on a clean shirt.
It was dark green, slightly wrinkled and buttoned incorrectly.
You stood on the front step staring at the uneven collar.
He followed your gaze and looked down.
“Fuck.”
“That’s our first note.”
“The date hasn’t started.”
“You opened the door.”
“Wait there.”
“Owen.”
He shut it in your face.
Movement thudded through the hall, followed by a muffled curse and the unmistakable sound of something being knocked off the little table by the stairs. Less than a minute later, the door opened again.
His shirt was fixed. His cheeks were pink.
“Hello,” he said with painful formality. “You must be…”
“You know my name.”
“We’re pretending.”
“You’re terrible at pretending.”
“Can we start again?”
“You’ve already used your restart.”
“You never said there was only one.”
“This is why people need contracts.”
Owen glanced past you towards the empty pavement before stepping aside. “D’you want to come in?”
You crossed the threshold, and he closed the door behind you.
The candles were excessive for a practice date. So was the bottle of wine waiting in a metal bowl full of rapidly melting ice. A tiny vase stood between the plates with a single flower inside it.
You touched one of the petals.
It was made of fabric.
“Did you buy this?”
Owen pulled out your chair. “It was already here.”
“Why did you own one fake flower?”
“I don’t. Freya does.”
“Does Freya know you stole her fake flower?”
“She said I could borrow it.”
“Did she know what for?”
Owen looked away. “Eventually.”
You could already imagine that conversation.
You sat down, mostly because the tips of his ears had turned red. Owen pushed your chair in with more force than necessary, nearly trapping you against the table, then hurried around to the opposite side. He paused before sitting, apparently trying to remember what people who’d just met were meant to say.
You waited.
He waited.
The candle flame leaned in the draft.
“So,” Owen began, “what sort of childhood did you have?”
You burst out laughing.
His composure broke with a grin. “All right. Had to get it out of the way.”
“That would’ve ended the date immediately.”
“You’re still here.”
“Only because I know where Matt keeps the wine.”
“That’s my wine.”
“Then why did he tell me not to let you open the expensive bottle?”
Owen’s eyes shifted towards the kitchen. “He’s a liar.”
He poured you a glass, briefly missing the rim and splashing a little across the table. You watched him blot it with a tea towel while muttering that this part would be edited out of the official assessment.
Once the initial performance wore off, the evening became surprisingly convincing.
Owen asked normal questions.
Mostly.
He wanted to know which place you’d return to for a single afternoon if distance didn’t matter, what album you wished you could hear for the first time again and whether you thought people were more honest in the dark. The questions were still unmistakably his, too earnest and specific for polite conversation, but they pulled answers from you that he hadn’t heard before.
You’d known Owen for nearly a year. You’d watched him fall asleep against your shoulder during a film and wake up with the seam of your shirt imprinted across his cheek. You’d sat on the floor of his bedroom while he played half-finished melodies and watched your expression before deciding whether he liked them. You knew he hated mushrooms, loved the hum of old amplifiers warming up and pretended not to care when people forgot his birthday.
You also knew he never talked about his mum for long. Her absence still sat quietly throughout the house, in the photographs Freya dusted and the way Matt’s jokes sometimes stopped too suddenly. Owen could turn almost anything into a love story, but grief was one of the few things he couldn’t arrange into music and make sense of.
Still, he surprised you.
Owen listened differently when he imagined he only had one evening to learn you.
His gaze stayed on your face, soft but steady. He didn’t interrupt unless excitement got the better of him, and even then, he always remembered where you’d stopped. He brought up details you’d mentioned months ago and disguised them as guesses, smiling whenever he got one right.
“You’re cheating,” you said eventually.
Owen paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “How?”
“You already know me.”
“You know me too.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“Seems relevant.”
“You’re using prior knowledge to impress your date.”
“That’s called preparation.”
“No, it’s called fraud.”
He leaned back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself. Candlelight caught in his eyes and warmed the damp curls near his forehead.
“Are you impressed?”
You took a drink instead of answering.
Owen’s smile deepened.
“That’s not a no.”
“Your pasta’s overcooked.”
“I didn’t ask about the pasta.”
“You should. It’s the main issue currently facing us.”
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“You’re getting cocky.”
“Is that bad?”
“It can be.”
Owen rested his forearms on the table. “D’you like it?”
Your pulse stumbled.
He asked it lightly, but his attention had changed. The room felt smaller than it had a second ago. Rain whispered against the window, quieter than the other night, and the music playing through Owen’s speakers had reached the space between songs.
You looked down at your wine.
“Your date shouldn’t have to reassure you constantly.”
“That wasn’t feedback.”
“It is now.”
“I think you’re abusing your authority.”
“You asked me to evaluate you.”
“And you’ve been very thorough.”
His voice had lowered.
You lifted your eyes again.
Owen was still smiling, but the nervousness had returned beneath it. You could see it in the tension around his mouth and the way his fingers curled against the table. For all the ridiculous confidence he could find when he was performing, he was waiting for you to decide whether he’d crossed a line.
You could’ve backpedaled.
Instead, you said, “You’re leaning.”
“So are you.”
You realized with some irritation that he was right.
You sat back.
Owen laughed under his breath.
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m receiving mixed feedback.”
“You were doing better before you started congratulating yourself.”
He took another drink, but the glass didn’t hide his smile.
After dinner, Owen cleared the plates while you inspected the handwritten card he’d left beside your place setting.
PRACTICE DATE ASSESSMENT, it read across the top.
Beneath it, he’d drawn several categories with boxes ranging from poor to exceptional.
Conversation.
Table manners.
Emotional availability.
General romantic intrigue.
Kissing.
You held up the card when he came back from the kitchen.
“Kissing?”
Owen nearly dropped the plates.
“It’s a standard category.”
“According to who?”
“Everyone.”
“You made this.”
“Based on accepted criteria.”
“You left all the boxes blank.”
“I assumed you’d fill it in afterwards.”
“You assumed a lot.”
He set the plates down and wiped his hands on his trousers. “You said it was meant to be a full assessment.”
“Dinner. Wine. Candles. Luring me into some elaborate kissing evaluation.”
“I haven’t lured anyone.”
“You shut the door behind me.”
“That’s generally what doors are for.”
“Owen.”
He lowered himself onto the sofa, leaving a very deliberate stretch of cushion between you.
His knee started bouncing.
“It was just a category,” he said.
“You could cross it out.”
“I could.”
Neither of you moved.
The music continued at a low volume. A guitar line drifted through the room, soft enough that you could hear the faint electrical hum beneath it. The candles had burned lower, wax spilling unevenly down the glass holders.
Owen stared at the assessment card in your hand.
Then he said, “I do think it’s relevant.”
“Of course you do.”
“What if that’s what’s going wrong?”
“You think women are rejecting you because of your kissing?”
“I don’t know. No one sends a detailed exit survey.”
“Maybe you should add a link after the next date.”
“I’m being serious.”
That softened you despite your better judgment.
Owen turned towards you, one arm stretched along the back of the sofa. “You said I think too much.”
“You do.”
“So I’m asking.”
“Asking what?”
“Whether you’d let me kiss you.”
The humor left the room so quietly that you almost didn’t notice until it was gone.
Owen’s face had gone very still. His knee had stopped bouncing. Whatever answer he expected, he’d committed himself to hearing it.
You looked at his mouth.
That was your first mistake.
The second was imagining it.
You’d done that before, though never anywhere Owen might see it happening. You’d wondered during late nights when his shoulder pressed against yours, during gigs when the stage lights sharpened every line of him, during conversations that drifted dangerously close to confession before one of you ruined them with a joke.
Wondering had always felt safe because it belonged to you alone.
This didn’t.
“One kiss,” you said.
Owen swallowed.
“For practice.”
“For practice,” he repeated.
“You’re not allowed to make it weird afterwards.”
“I never make things weird.”
“You once apologized to a chair after walking into it.”
“It were someone else’s chair.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
He moved closer.
Not much. Barely the width of your hand. Still, you felt the shift through the sofa before his thigh touched yours.
Owen looked at you as though he was waiting for another rule.
You should’ve given him one.
Instead, you said, “Well?”
His hand rose towards your face, hesitated for a second, then settled lightly beside your jaw. His fingers were warm. The careful touch sent a far stronger reaction through you than it had any right to.
He leaned in slowly enough for you to stop him.
You didn’t.
Owen kissed you.
It was soft. Almost painfully so.
His mouth brushed yours with cautious pressure, lingering for only a few seconds before he pulled away. His fingertips stayed against your skin. He was close enough that his breath warmed your lips, but his eyes had already opened, searching your expression.
“Well?” he whispered.
You hated how unsteady your voice sounded.
“You were too careful.”
Owen blinked. “Too careful?”
“You asked for feedback.”
“I know. I just…” His gaze dropped to your mouth again. “Wasn’t expecting that.”
“What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know. More technical language.”
“You barely kissed me.”
“I was being respectful.”
“You looked like you were defusing a bomb.”
His eyebrows lifted. “That bad?”
“I didn’t say bad.”
Owen’s thumb moved once along the edge of your jaw.
“No,” he said quietly. “You didn’t.”
The second kiss was different.
He closed the distance before you could make another joke, one hand sliding behind your neck as his mouth found yours with enough certainty to steal the breath you’d drawn. The caution hadn’t disappeared, but it’d changed into control, his attention sharpened by permission.
Your fingers caught in the front of his shirt.
Owen made a low sound against your mouth.
It broke whatever was left of the exercise.
He kissed you again before the last one had properly ended, mouth still warm and damp against yours as he tilted his head and pulled you in until your knees pressed hard against his thigh. His hand slid around your waist, fingers spreading against the small of your back to hold you there while his tongue traced slowly across your lower lip, teasing once before slipping into your mouth the second you opened for him. The taste of wine lingered on him, sharp and sweet beneath the heat of his breath, and the low sound that caught in his throat seemed to vibrate straight through you when your tongue met his. After that, whatever restraint he’d been clinging to disappeared. He kissed you deeper, wetter, his tongue stroking against yours with a hungry, almost desperate rhythm while his grip tightened at your waist and dragged you closer until there wasn’t any space left between your body and his.
Instead, Owen kissed the same way he listened to music: completely, intensely, with his whole attention fixed on every tiny change in rhythm.
By the time you pulled back, your grip had wrinkled his shirt.
Owen’s lips were flushed. His eyes stayed on yours.
“Better?”
The hint of smugness should’ve irritated you.
It didn’t.
“You need more practice.”
He laughed once, breathless, and kissed you again.
The assessment card slipped from your lap and disappeared beneath the coffee table.
Owen shifted closer, following the pull of your body until his chest brushed yours. His hand moved along your side, stopping whenever your breathing changed, learning the response before continuing.
“Is this part of the lesson?” he murmured.
“You wanted practical feedback.”
“I’m committed to improving.”
“You’re talking too much.”
“That’s never been one of the categories.”
“It is now.”
He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw. “And how am I doing?”
You pulled him back by his collar.
“Still under review.”
Owen’s smile disappeared into another kiss.
The worn fabric sofa creaks under the weight of him half-covering you, his mouth hot and wet against your neck. Too hot. Too wet. Too fast. He's kissing you like he's trying to win something, like there's a timer counting down somewhere, and the soft scrape of his barely-there stubble against your skin is the only part of this that actually lands—rough, alive, real.
His breath comes in quick, uneven bursts against your throat, and the hand that had been moving so carefully along your side is suddenly fisted in the cushion beside your hip, knuckles white beneath the thin skin stretched over them, like he’s pulled it away before it could reach for something he doesn’t quite know how to ask for. No longer on your waist. No longer following the line of your thigh. Not touching you at all.
You let him have a few seconds. Enough to register what’s wrong. The way his lips move too fast, skipping over the skin just below your ear where he could’ve stayed for an hour. The way his body hovers instead of settling, all that earlier confidence tightening into restraint as he braces for you to stop him.
Then you do.
“You’re rushing.”
Your voice comes out steady, almost bored, and the effect is immediate. His mouth freezes against your neck. His whole body goes still, arrested and caught mid-motion, like a record needle lifted mid-track.
He pulls back, and the shift in his breathing is sharp. A caught breath. A recalibration.
"What?" He blinks down at you, blue eyes wide and dark in the dim lamp glow, hair falling across his forehead in that shaggy mess that makes him look younger than twenty-three. "I'm—I thought—"
"You thought faster was better." You hold his gaze. "It's not."
His mouth opens. Closes. A flush crawls up his neck, visible even in the low light, and he lets out a breathless laugh that's half-embarrassment, half-relief. "Right. Yeah. No, you're—you're right. I'm just—" He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling it further. "I've been thinking about this all night. All week, actually. Since the pasta."
"I know."
"And I got ahead of myself."
"I know that too."
He laughs again, quieter this time, and the sound is warmer now, less frantic. His hand finally moves, uncurling from the cushion and settling on your hip, palm flat, fingers pressing just enough to feel the heat of you through your shirt.
“Okay. Okay, I hear you. Slower.”
“Slower,” you repeat. “Let it build.”
“Build.” He parrots, saying it like he was testing the word's weight on his tongue. “Right. Build-up. I can do build-up.”
You don't smile, but something in your posture shifts—a softening, a permission. "Show me."
His jaw tightens. Not in frustration. In focus. He drops his gaze to your mouth, then to your throat, then back to your eyes, and this time when he leans in, it's different. Slower. Deliberate. His mouth brushes the corner of yours first—barely a kiss, more a question—then drags down your jaw, lips parted, breath warm against your skin.
He pauses at your pulse point. Breathes there. Lets you feel the weight of him waiting. Then his mouth closes over the spot just below your ear—the one he missed before—and stays. No frantic movement. No rushing. Just the wet heat of his lips, the gentle suction, the soft scrape of teeth that makes your breath catch before you can stop it.
"Better?" he murmurs against your skin, and his voice is lower now, rougher, the nervous edge blunted into something almost cocky.
"Getting there."
He huffs a laugh against your throat, and the vibration of it travels down your spine. His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, fingers splayed, palm pressing heat through the denim of your jeans. He takes his time—one agonizing inch at a time, his thumb tracing a slow arc along the inside seam, feeling the curve of muscle beneath.
The dust motes float in the lamplight, suspended and golden, and the faint smell of rain on pavement drifts through the cracked window—wet asphalt, ozone, the memory of a storm that passed hours ago. His cologne mixes with it, something clean and slightly sweet, and the combination is so specifically him that it makes your chest ache.
His thumb presses higher. Deliberate. Finding the spot where pressure turns into something else, where the seam of your jeans meets the heat of you. Your hips shift before you can think about it. A small movement. Involuntary. He notices. Of course he notices. His thumb stills, then presses harder, exactly where you need it, the pressure of denim against sensitive flesh making your breath stutter. He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark now, focused, the boyish softness sharpened into something hungrier. "Yeah? Is this better?"
You don’t answer with words, you answer him with a kiss.
Not a gentle one, but not rushed either. Your hand finds the back of his neck and pulls him down, and your mouth meets his with a hunger that surprises you both, all teeth and tongue and the wet slide of lips finally taking the time to feel each other. He makes a sharp, startled sound against your mouth that melts into a groan as the hand on your hip slides down to your thigh, fingers digging into the denim like he’s afraid you’ll pull away.
You don’t.
His tongue meets yours, and it’s messy, sloppy in the best way, all heat and spit and the taste of the wine from dinner still lingering at the edges. He kisses like he talks when he’s nervous: too much, everything spilling out at once. But there’s something else underneath it now. Something focused. His free hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb pressing against your cheekbone as he angles your head and kisses you deeper.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, the word half-lost between kisses. “That’s—you’re—”
He breaks off and kisses you again, harder this time. His tongue slides against yours, wet and insistent, and you feel it everywhere: in the ache between your thighs, in the way your toes curl inside your socks, in the heat spreading steadily through your chest.
“Sorry,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I? The talking thing. When I get nervous, I just—I talk, and I know I should stop, but the words keep coming and—”
You kiss him quiet.
His laugh vibrates against your lips, and this time, when his hand slides from your jaw down your throat, it’s deliberate. Slow. His fingers trace your collarbone, feather-light, and you shiver.
“Better?” he asks, that hint of cockiness slipping through the nerves again.
“Getting there.”
His grin flashes sharp and bright before he dips his head to your neck.
His mouth finds the spot below your ear again, the one he rushed past the first time, and he works it with a patience that makes your hips lift beneath him. Open-mouthed kisses, the wet heat of his tongue, the careful scrape of teeth that pulls a gasp from you. His hand trails lower, palm gliding down your chest, and when his thumb brushes over your nipple through your shirt, you arch into him.
“Yeah?” He breathes the word against your skin as his fingers find the button of your jeans. “Can I—?”
“Yes.”
The word comes out rough, almost a command, and he doesn't waste time. He has your jeans unbuttoned and unzipped in seconds, his hand sliding inside, palm flat against your belly, then lower. His fingers find the heat of you through your underwear, and he groans—a low, desperate sound that sends a pulse of heat straight to your core.
"You're so wet," he murmurs, and there's wonder in his voice, like he can't quite believe this is happening. "I can feel it through—you're soaking, and I've barely even—"
He presses harder, his middle finger finding your clit through the damp fabric, and you bite your lip to keep from making a sound.
"Don't do that," he says, looking up at you, and his eyes are dark and serious. "I want to hear you."
He pushes your underwear aside and slides a finger inside you—slow, deliberate, watching your face the whole time. The stretch of it, the wet slide, the way your breath catches and your head falls back against the sofa cushion—he takes it all in, pupils dilating, mouth falling open.
"Christ," he whispers, and his voice is wrecked. "You feel—you're so tight, and so wet, and I haven't even—" He pushes a second finger in, and you gasp, your hips rolling against his hand. "Is that good? Tell me that's good."
"It's good." The words come out strangled. "Owen—"
He groans at the sound of his name, and his fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes your vision go white at the edges. He works you slowly, deliberately, his thumb circling your clit in time with the thrust of his fingers, and you can feel yourself getting closer, the heat building in your belly like a coil winding tight.
"Not yet," you manage, and your hand closes around his wrist, stopping him. "If you make me come like this, I'm going to be useless for the rest of the night."
He laughs, breathless and bright. "That's the goal, though. Isn't it?"
"The goal is mutual."
Something shifts in his expression—a softening, a warmth that cuts through the heat. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He pulls his hand out of your jeans, and you feel the loss of it like a physical ache. He brings his fingers to his mouth, and you watch, transfixed, as he licks them clean, his eyes never leaving yours.
"You taste incredible," he says, and there's no shyness in it. No nervous chatter. Just fact. "I want to taste you properly. I want my face between your legs until you can't remember your own name."
The words hit you like a punch to the chest, and you're already reaching for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up over his head. He helps you, tossing it aside, and then his hands are on your shirt, tugging it off, and the cool air hits your skin as he unclips your bra and slides the straps down your shoulders.
He stops. Stares.
"Jesus," he breathes, and his voice is reverent. "Your tits are—" He swallows, hard. "Can I—?"
You nod, and his mouth is on you before you finish the movement. He takes your nipple into his mouth, tongue circling, sucking gently, and the sensation arcs through you like electricity. His hand finds your other breast, thumb rolling over the peak, and you moan—a real sound, raw and unguarded.
He groans against your skin, the vibration making you arch into him, and his hand slides down your stomach, back into your jeans. He finds you wet and ready, and he pushes a finger inside you again, then two, fucking you slowly as his mouth works your nipple.
"Owen." His name comes out broken, desperate. "I need—"
He pulls back, looks at you with dark, hungry eyes. "What do you need?"
"I need you to fuck me."
The words hang in the air between them, raw and honest, and something in his expression shifts—a crack in the confidence, a flash of the earnest boy underneath. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He looks around the living room, at the sofa, the lamp, the dust motes still floating in the golden light. Then he looks back at you, and there's a smile playing at the corner of his mouth—nervous and hopeful and so fucking endearing it makes your chest ache.
"We should—" He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling it further. "My room. Upstairs. Because if Matt and Freya come home and find us going at it on the sofa, I will actually die. And not in a sexy way. In a 'my brother will never let me live this down' way."
You laugh, and it breaks something open between you, the tension easing into something warmer. "Lead the way."
He stands, offers you his hand, and you take it. He pulls you up, and you're both half-undressed, flushed and breathing hard, and the absurdity of it hits you—standing in his living room, jeans unbuttoned, bra discarded, about to follow him up the stairs like this is the most natural thing in the world.
His hand stays wrapped around yours as he leads you up the narrow staircase, his bare back warm in the dim light. His room is at the end of the hall—small, cluttered, an acoustic guitar propped in the corner and sheets tangled on the bed. He kicks the door shut behind you, and the click of the latch feels like a seal.
He turns to face you, and for a moment, he just looks at you. Takes you in. The flush on your chest, the way your jeans hang loose on your hips, the mark he left on your neck.
"This isn't practice anymore," he says quietly. "I need you to know that. Whatever this is—it's not a lesson. It's not feedback. It's me wanting you so badly I can barely think straight."
Your heart hammers against your ribs. "I know."
"Good." He steps closer, his hands finding your waist, sliding under the waistband of your jeans. "Because I don't think I could fake it if I tried."
He kisses you again, deep and slow, and his hands push your jeans down over your hips. They fall to the floor, and you step out of them, standing in just your underwear as he pulls back to look at you.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You're so beautiful."
You reach for his belt, unbuckling it with clumsy fingers, and he helps you push his jeans down. His cock springs free, hard and leaking, and you wrap your hand around it without thinking. He gasps, his head falling back, and you feel the weight of him in your palm, the heat, the throb of his pulse.
"Assessment," you say, and your voice is steadier than you feel. "You're very hard. That's a good sign."
He laughs, breathless, and his hand covers yours on his cock. "Yeah? What else?"
"Good size." You stroke him slowly, watching his face. "Nice shape. Looks like it would feel good inside me."
He groans, his hips thrusting into your hand. "Fuck. You can't just—say things like that. I'll—"
"You'll what?"
He doesn't answer. He pulls you onto the bed, your bodies tangling in the sheets, and his mouth finds yours again, hungry and desperate. His hand slides between your legs, pushing your underwear aside, and he groans when he feels how wet you still are.
"I need to taste you," he says, and it's not a request. "I need my mouth on your pussy. Right now."
He doesn't wait for an answer. He slides down the bed, his mouth trailing down your stomach, and when his tongue finally touches you, you cry out. He eats you like he's starving, like he's been thinking about this for weeks, his tongue finding every sensitive spot, his fingers curling inside you as his mouth works your clit.
You're close again, the heat building, and you feel yourself tightening around his fingers. "Owen—I'm going to—"
He doubles down, his tongue flat against you, his fingers fucking you faster, and you come with a gasp that turns into a moan, your hips bucking against his face as the orgasm rips through you. He works you through it, licking gently as you shudder, and when he finally surfaces, his mouth is slick and his eyes are dark and satisfied.
"Assessment," he says, grinning. "You taste incredible. Ten out of ten. Would enthusiastically eat again."
You laugh, breathless, and pull him up for a kiss. You taste yourself on his lips, and it's intimate in a way that makes your chest tight. Your hand finds his cock again, stroking him slowly, and he groans against your mouth.
"Condom," you murmur. "Do you have—"
"Nightstand. Top drawer."
You reach over, fumbling blindly, and your fingers close around the box. You pull one out, tear it open with your teeth, and he watches you roll it down his length with an intensity that makes you shiver.
He positions himself between your legs, the head of his cock pressing against you, and he pauses. Looks at you.
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
He pushes in, slow, and the stretch of it makes you gasp. He's bigger than you expected, filling you completely, and he pauses when he's fully inside you, his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing hard.
"Fuck," he whispers. "You feel—I can't—"
He starts to move, slow at first, his hips finding a rhythm that makes your eyes roll back. He kisses you as he fucks you, deep and messy, his tongue sliding against yours in time with his thrusts.
"Harder," you breathe, and he obliges, his pace quickening, the sound of skin slapping skin punctuating the air. His hand finds your clit, rubbing in tight circles, and you feel yourself climbing toward another orgasm.
"Come for me," he says, his voice rough and desperate. "I want to feel you come on my cock."
The words undo you. You shatter, your cunt clenching around him, and he groans, his thrusts becoming erratic as he follows you over the edge, his body shuddering as he comes inside you.
He collapses onto you, his weight a warm pressure, his face buried in your neck. You feel his breath, hot and uneven, and your hands find his back, tracing the lines of his shoulder blades.
After a long moment, he pulls out, disposes of the condom, and returns to the bed, pulling you against him. The sheets are tangled, the room smells like sex, the rain having stopped by the time the room went quiet again.
The rain had stopped by the time the room went quiet again, leaving you with the soft whir of Owen’s laptop on the desk and the occasional car moving through the wet street outside. The candles downstairs had probably burned themselves out, the abandoned pasta plates were still beside the sink, and somewhere beneath the coffee table was an assessment card neither of you had finished.
Owen lay on his back with one arm beneath your shoulders, his other hand moving absently along your arm and tracing the same path over and over, as though he needed the reassurance of finding you there each time. His hair was a mess against the pillow, and he looked exhausted, pleased and increasingly troubled.
You watched the concern gather across his face.
“You’re thinking,” you said.
Owen looked at you. “I do that sometimes.”
“You’re doing it loudly.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You don’t need to.”
He stared up at the ceiling again. For the first several minutes after he’d pulled you against him, he hadn’t been able to stop smiling, but then you’d made the mistake of mentioning the date. Not what had happened afterward, but the date itself. Owen’s arm had tightened around you when you jokingly announced that he’d passed and was officially ready to try the real thing with someone else.
You hadn’t expected him to go quiet.
“So,” you said, trying to drag the mood back toward something safer, “final assessment.”
“Right.”
“Conversation was good once you stopped behaving like you’d memorized a list of interview questions.”
“Generous.”
“Table manners need work.”
“That wine glass was unstable.”
“You elbowed it.”
“The table’s too small.”
“General romantic intrigue…”
Owen turned his head toward you, and you stretched the pause out until his mouth twitched.
“Acceptable,” you said.
“Acceptable?”
“You shouldn’t argue with the feedback.”
“After everything I’ve done for this course?”
“You’re getting marked down for attitude.”
“I cooked.”
“You boiled pasta until it turned to mush.”
“I bought a flower.”
“You stole Freya’s.”
“I had permission.”
“It was fake.”
“It’ll last longer.”
The reply was so painfully Owen that something tightened beneath your ribs, and you looked away before he could see it.
“And kissing?” he asked.
“You’re very invested in that category.”
“I value comprehensive results.”
“You passed.”
“Just passed?”
“Owen.”
He smiled, but it faded before it had the chance to settle.
“And that’s it?”
The question was quiet enough to change the air between you.
You pushed yourself onto one elbow. “What d’you mean?”
“We finish the assessment. I’m apparently ready to be inflicted on the general public, and you go home.”
“That was the arrangement.”
“I know.”
Owen’s fingers stopped moving against your arm. It should’ve been easy to tease him after he’d given you enough material to last for weeks, from the handwritten evaluation card to Freya’s immortal fabric flower downstairs, but instead, you studied his face.
“You’re upset.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m thinking.”
“You’ve already admitted that means you’re upset.”
“I admitted nothing of the sort.”
“Owen.”
He let out a long breath and rubbed one hand over his face.
“This was a stupid idea.”
Your stomach dropped. “You’re the one who suggested it.”
“Exactly. Historically, that should’ve warned us.”
“You didn’t seem to think it was stupid an hour ago.”
“That was before.”
“Before what?”
He gave you a look, and heat climbed into your face, but you refused to back away from the question.
“Owen, it was your rule too. Nothing counted.”
“I never said that.”
“You agreed.”
“I repeated what you said.”
“That’s usually how agreeing works.”
“I didn’t want to argue.”
“You always want to argue.”
“Not when you were offering to go on a date with me.”
The words came out sharper than everything else, and Owen closed his eyes beneath your stare, seeming to realize there was no way to drag the admission back. His hand dropped onto the duvet, fingers curling into the fabric.
“What does that mean?” you asked.
Owen opened his eyes again but didn’t look at you. “It means I wanted the date.”
“You needed practice.”
“No, I didn’t.”
A startled laugh escaped you. “You spent an entire evening listing everything you did wrong.”
“Yeah, well, there’s no shortage of material.”
“So you invented the practice date?”
“I didn’t invent the concept.”
“You tricked me.”
“I didn’t trick you.”
“You made a form.”
“That was for structure.”
“You put kissing on it.”
He finally looked at you, frustration and embarrassment fighting across his face. “Because I wanted to kiss you.”
The room went still.
Owen swallowed, but once the confession had started, it seemed to pull the rest out with it.
“I wanted to take you out,” he said. “I wanted to buy you dinner and sit across from you while you laughed at me. I wanted to know what’d happen if I asked you to kiss me. But I couldn’t ask you on a real date, because if you said no, I’d still have to see you all the time and pretend it didn’t bother me.”
“Owen…”
“And this seemed safer.”
“You thought sleeping with me on a fake date would be safer?”
“I didn’t plan that far ahead.”
“You made an assessment card.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I planned the date. I didn’t plan…” He gestured vaguely between you, the duvet slipping lower across his chest. “Everything.”
You sat up farther, pulling the sheet with you.
“So you didn’t need dating help.”
“I probably do need dating help. Just not for the reason I said.”
“What reason, then?”
Owen’s expression softened into something almost apologetic.
“Because when I like someone, I become a complete nightmare.”
Your irritation cracked. “A nightmare?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I really don’t.”
“I get ahead of myself. I think about everything all at once, then I try to act normal, but in my head I’m already imagining how they’ll fit into my life, and apparently that’s considered intense.”
“Generally, yeah.”
“You’re doing a terrible job of reassuring me.”
“You lied to me about why we were doing this.”
“I created a controlled romantic environment.”
“You manipulated me with supermarket wine.”
“It wasn’t cheap.”
“The label was peeling off.”
“It tasted fine.”
You tried to stay annoyed, but Owen watched your mouth betray you.
“You’re smiling,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m considering suffocating you with this pillow.”
“That’s still emotional investment.”
You shoved his shoulder, and Owen caught your wrist before you could do it again. His grip was gentle, but he didn’t let go.
“I’m sorry,” he said, the humor disappearing from his voice. “I should’ve just asked you.”
“Yes.”
“I was scared you’d say no.”
“You had no reason to think I’d say yes.”
His face fell so quickly that you nearly laughed again.
“That’s not the same as saying I wouldn’t have,” you clarified.
“Oh.”
Owen’s ears turned red. Despite everything that had happened, despite the confidence he’d found once you touched him, that single syllable contained the same awkward man who’d buttoned his shirt wrong before opening the front door.
You lowered yourself beside him again.
“This was still a terrible plan.”
“I know.”
“The fake flower was unsettling.”
“I’ll give it back to Freya.”
“The pasta was awful.”
“You had two portions.”
“I was hungry.”
“The kissing category was obvious.”
“I panicked while making the form.”
“And you could’ve saved yourself a ridiculous amount of trouble by asking me on a real date.”
Owen’s thumb brushed across the inside of your wrist.
“Would you have said yes?”
You let him wait.
It was cruel, maybe, but after a year of watching Owen build entire romances out of glances and coincidences, it felt fair to leave him without the ending for a few seconds.
“Yes,” you said.
His face changed, relief appearing first, then disbelief, followed by the beginning of a smile so open and boyish that you suddenly understood why he kept risking humiliation for the possibility of feeling exactly this.
“You would?”
“You’re ruining it.”
“Sorry.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Right. Calm.”
Owen visibly tried to rearrange his expression into something more restrained, but he failed, and you laughed as you leaned down to kiss him. His hand immediately settled behind your neck, keeping you there when you tried to pull back; the kiss stayed soft, but there wasn’t any uncertainty left in it, and Owen smiled against your mouth before following you in for one more quick kiss when you finally drew away.
“Tomorrow,” you said.
“What about it?”
“You can take me on a real date.”
Owen’s eyebrows lifted. “Thought we just had one.”
“This one didn’t count.”
“It counted to me.”
The simple certainty behind it left you quiet for a second, and Owen looked far too pleased with himself, so you recovered by pulling the pillow from behind him and pressing it into his face until his laughter came muffled through the fabric.
“Tomorrow,” you repeated. “Start over. No forms, no false pretenses and preferably edible food.”
He dragged the pillow down far enough to look at you.
“Can there still be kissing?”
“We’ll see how you behave.”
“I think my previous assessment should carry over.”
“You’re assuming you passed.”
“You said I passed.”
“I’ve reconsidered.”
“That’s completely unethical."
“You slept with your dating coach.”
Owen tossed the pillow aside and pulled you against him again. “You let your student kiss you.”
“You asked if you could.”
“And you said yes.”
“Only for educational purposes.”
“Course.”
His grin had become unbearable.
You placed one hand over his mouth, but Owen kissed your palm, then your wrist, his expression softening as he looked at you.
“For the record,” he said, “I’m glad you’re a terrible teacher.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because I haven’t learned a thing.”
You narrowed your eyes, and Owen tightened his arm around your waist before you could reach for the pillow again.
“Except,” he added quickly, “that you’ll go out with me tomorrow.”
You settled back against his chest, listening to the quick beat beneath your ear.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you’re planning to interrogate me about crisps.”
hii mae ! i hope you’re doing good ! this is gonna be very self indulgent so feel free to ignore haha but i’m working in the service industry and work has been taking such a toll on my body i was wondering if you could write some sort of hurt/comfort with either emt!marauders or just poly!marauders where they see r getting more and more tired and they worry until either something happen or they confront her/them
Thank you for requesting, I hope you're doing well too lovely!
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her vile agendas
poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1k words
You twist yourself around in the armchair, and a satisfying series of pops ripples down your back.
"Stop it," you say to Remus.
James turns from his self-assigned task of finding a board game for you all to play. "What?"
"He's glaring at me."
"I am not glaring at you," says Remus from the floor in front of your coffee table.
"You are, though."
"Well, it's not because of the cracking—"
He's interrupted by a bark of laughter as Sirius emerges from the kitchen with James' requested water. He sends Remus a fond look. "You are such a dirty liar."
Remus rolls his eyes, but relents. "It's in part the cracking," he admits, because James pulled a muscle cracking his neck one time, and Remus felt vindicated and has used it against all of you ever since, "but mostly I don't like that you've strained yourself so badly you feel like you have to crack it."
"It's just being on my feet all day." You don't mean to whine. You work with people who have been doing this job for years or decades; you're loath to think what their backs must feel like, how they can continue through every shift. "I'll get used to it."
Remus isn't glaring at you anymore. He looks rather put out. They all do, actually.
"What?" you ask, exasperated.
James holds his hands up. "Nothing. Don't get mad."
You quiet your voice. "I'm not mad."
"No," Sirius agrees, squishing into the armchair with you, "you're tired, baby. And you're hurting, yeah? It's shit."
You accept his invitation of a lifted arm and rest your head on his shoulder. It is shit.
"Would you sleep with the heating pad tonight?" asks Remus.
You shift, feeling the achey stretch of your muscles. "Maybe," you hedge. "It's not really that bad."
"Try, please." His tone oozes soft concern. You think that you'll be too hot all night if you wear the heating pad, but you'll likely do it anyway just to appease him. James sets a box down on the coffee table with finality, and they both begin taking out the pieces for the game. "If it doesn't feel any better tomorrow, maybe we can get you in to see a chiropractor."
Thinking of tomorrow presses a sigh from your chest. "I can't. I have to work."
Sirius' chin bumps your head as he turns to look at you. James and Remus have both stalled in their movements. "Tomorrow?" Sirius asks.
"Yeah."
"Since when?"
"Since today. My manager asked me to."
"Fuck that guy." It's said brashly, with enough feeling to startle you. "What's he need you there for?"
You shrug. "Apparently somebody's sick."
"Well, maybe you'll be sick tomorrow, too."
"He saw me today. I doubt he'll be convinced I caught something overnight."
"You can say you have diarrhea," offers James. "That comes on fast, and nobody ever wants to know more details."
Your lips part on a breathless laugh. "I can't!"
"You could," Remus counters.
"He won't have any follow-up questions," James goes on encouragingly, "promise."
"Why do you all want me to call in so badly?"
"Because your back is in bits!" Sirius exclaims.
You feel your eyebrows go up. "You weren't so worried about it a minute ago."
"That was when we thought you had tomorrow off." James is frowning, a sure sign things have gone awry. There's a troubled little divot sitting above the bridge of his glasses. "I mean, angel, you haven't had a day off in…when was the last time you had a day off?"
"It wasn't that long ago," you mumble. As though you haven't been counting your shift days like tally marks in a prison cell. "Last Tuesday."
Sirius looks at you sternly. "Baby—"
"Don't," you whine.
"—you need a break."
You let a breath out through your nose, looking at him dejectedly. The lines of your boyfriend's face soften. It's strange to resent being so cared for.
"I know," you admit, "but I need to work."
Remus nods. "You do need to work."
You nod back at him, relieved. He understands. Sirius and James have jobs, but they don't know what it is to need money, to perceive it as something that can run out. Weathering discomfort to keep that from happening is something Remus can understand that they can't.
"You don't need to work as much as you have been, though," he says gently. "You need breaks, too. Going over a week without a day off, that's too much, sweetheart."
Now it's you glaring at Remus. Sirius snickers as you shrink down his side. "You're ganging up on me."
"God, it's almost like we're trying to help you," Sirius teases.
"I really don't think I can call my manager and lie tomorrow."
He tsks, rubbing your arm. "I'll do it for you. More believable that way, anyway. I can tell him you're on the toilet and so distraught you can't come to the phone."
You moan and turn your face into his side.
"Don't say that," James laughs. "I'll do it."
"No, you can't," says Remus.
"Why not?"
"You'll laugh," Sirius and Remus say over one another.
You don't have to move from Sirius' side to envision the put-out-but-conceding look on James' face.
"We'll have Remus do it," Sirius says with finality. "He won't use any toilet humor, and he's the best liar anyway."
"Fine," says Remus.
"Fine," you groan. You pick your head up, looking at him somewhat abashedly. "Thank you."
FORMULA 1 GRAND PRIX WEREN'T EXACTLY JUDE BELLINGHAM’S SCENE.
He preferred a green football pitch with a ball rolling freely while the crowd cheered euphorically. That was his home, his natural habitat. However, the roar of engines, like a predator ready to pounce on its prey, and the sound of tyres screeching on the track weren't so bad after all. It was a new experience that deeply intrigued him. There was a certain inexplicable magic in seeing those cars go over 300 km/h and, as many people said, 'go around in circles'.
It was fun to watch, even though Bellingham didn’t quite understand how the DRS worked or what the new active aerodynamics technology implemented in the regulations was all about. But Jude was trying to learn. He knew the basics of the scoring system and the colours of the flags. He even knew that a C1 tyre with a white stripe was a hard tyre with less grip, though he had no idea when it would be used. He had picked up these details from conversations with none other than his girlfriend ⸻ you, Mercedes' second seat driver.
The sparkle in your eyes whenever you talked about your sport was always a source of satisfaction for the soccer player.
You were amazing. Absolutely amazing.
The first woman in 50 years to be a driver on the grid and to score points in races.
Simply being on the grid was revolutionary in itself, but for Jude, it was not just your excellence and the various records you had broken as a driver that drew him to you. He admired much more than just your talent.
There was something mesmerising about you.
Your smile. The way your voice was soft, yet firm when necessary. Your piercing gaze. Beyond your appearance, he saw a glimpse of the personality you displayed in front of the cameras... He’d spend hours watching you on Grill the Grid ⸻ even though that only represented 10% of your true personality.
And he would be eternally grateful to George Russell for introducing you at the 2025 Spanish Grand Prix in Barcelona.
It was probably the best experience Jude had ever had in a Formula 1 paddock. And, of course, he couldn’t forget the night they celebrated Mercedes’ one-two podium, when he was hypnotized by every word you said when you two talked at the party.
After that pleasant night, there were conversations via text message and phone call, and then, whenever there was a chance, casual dates.
But the thing was, 'casual' wasn't in Bellingham's vocabulary. Before he knew it, he was head over heels. You were his first thought of the day and his last before going to sleep. He was always happy when you called or sent a quick text... He was falling hard.
It didn't take long for your relationship to become official. At first, you hadn’t made your relationship public because you thought it was too new. But as the months went by, the idea of going public simply didn't come up anymore ⸻ the truth was, you'd simply forgotten about it. The fact was, though, that you weren’t in a secret relationship: your close friends and family knew about it. It was the classic 'private but not secret' situation.
Things were going well ⸻ like a bed covered in roses. After all, being happy in a healthy relationship was what really mattered.
BRITISH GRAND PRIX !
It was Jude's first time in the parc fermé following a victory. To top it all off, it was also your first victory at Silverstone.
The sun was shining brightly and the ground was shaking with the excitement of the crowd. But when you appeared, wearing the black Mercedes uniform and a cap and sporting a radiant smile, everything around Jude seemed to freeze. The people around him who had been jumping for joy seemed frozen, the sound had ceased entirely, and you seemed to be running towards him in slow motion like a clichéd scene from a romantic comedy. When you wrapped your arms around him, encircling his neck and pressing your lips to his, Jude realised that if he were in a romcom, he would want the film to never end.
"I dedicate my victory to you," you said, smiling.
"For me?" he asked, his eyes wide.
"Well, that would be your home race if you were a driver," you laughed. "And because I love you."
"Thanks," he said, kissing your forehead and hugging you tightly. "I love you more."
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
yourusername
liked by f1, judebellingham, georgerussell63, mercedesamgf1 and others
yourusernameㅤcan u keep up?
view all comments
mercedesamgf1ㅤ our silverstone winner 🎉🎉ㅤ𖹭 by author
georgerussell63ㅤ congrats 👏ㅤ𖹭 by author
judebellinghamㅤ 👏🫶ㅤ𖹭 by author
⤷ username1ㅤ the NERVE u have boy
⤷ username2ㅤ so are we pretending the kiss never happened?
username3ㅤ how come we never noticed jude in yn's likes??
⤷ username4ㅤ the world is wondering about this now....
username5ㅤ this is our championship leader ✨️✨️
username6ㅤ amazing drive, yn!!
⤷ username7ㅤ as ALWAYS ‼️
username8ㅤ QUEEN 👑
username9ㅤ so... the kiss...
username10ㅤ so many questions and no answers
judebellingham
liked by f1, georgerussell63, yourusername and others
judebellinghamㅤ amazing weekend 😁
view all comments
username1ㅤ no one is gonna talk abt the elephant in the room????
⤷ username2ㅤ the fact that neither of them has spoken about it is driving me crazy
⤷ username3ㅤ girl SAME
username4ㅤ he knows exactly what he's doing posting the first photo 🤨
⤷ username5ㅤ he's trying to distract us but that's not going to happen ☝️
⤷ username6ㅤ hate it when they know they're hot
username7ㅤ i would have an amazing weekend too if yn kissed me
⤷ username8ㅤ RIGHT??!! u're not that special jude 🙄🙄
username9ㅤ urgh he's so pretty
username10ㅤ *go to a f1 gp* *kiss the winning driver* *go home*
georgerussell63ㅤ 😏😏
⤷ username11ㅤ WHAT DO U KNOW GEORGE
⤷ username12ㅤ SPILL THE TEA MY BROTHER
⤷ username13ㅤ even i want to know about this gossip....
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
yourusername
liked by judebellingham, georgerussell63, zendaya and others
yourusernameㅤ🍷💋
view all comments
username1ㅤ i kind of understand jude
⤷ username2ㅤ so real my friend
username3ㅤ it's kind of unrelated but that pasta looks delicious
username4ㅤ the kiss emoji 🤣🤣
username5ㅤ the most beautiful woman in the worldㅤ𖹭 by judebellingham
⤷ username6ㅤ not jude liking this!!!
⤷ username7ㅤ simp behavior... i respect it 🫡
username8ㅤ if i were on a date with yn i think i'd even forget to eat distracted by her beautyㅤ𖹭 by judebellingham
⤷ username9ㅤ not jude exposing himself
⤷ username10ㅤ i don't judge!! if i were dating yn i would do the same 🤷♀️🤷♀️
judebellinghamㅤ ❤️ㅤ𖹭 by author
⤷ yourusernameㅤ ❤️
⤷ username11ㅤ i love how they communicate with zero words
⤷ username12ㅤ como diria o filósofo contemporâneo luan santana, um beijo vale mais que mil palavras
username13ㅤ our future wdc ‼️
judebellingham
liked by yourusername, georgerussell63, vinijr, endeick and others
judebellinghamㅤ adore u ☀️🌊
view all comments
username1ㅤ yn through jude's eyes is so beautiful 🥹
⤷ username2ㅤ the same applies to jude through yn's eyes!!!
username3ㅤ i'm kind of in love with them
username4ㅤ they are THE couple
⤷ username5ㅤ and they know it
username6ㅤ DAMN i don't know where to look
⤷ username7ㅤ i still can't get past the first photo
username8ㅤ congratulations to george for having the vision to bring this couple together 🙏
hey mae!! how are you? i don’t know if this is something you would be interested in writing as i think you’ve done something similar with remus, but i was wondering if you could do a sort of poly!marauders roommate situation where reader is super shy with remus and sirius but has a soft spot for james? thanks for considering haha !
Hi angel, I'm well how are you? Thank you for your request <3
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her vile agendas
roommate!marauders x shy!reader ♡ 1.2k words
"You're going to get glitter on the table."
"I'll clean it up."
"It never really goes away," says Remus darkly.
Sirius turns his head from the mirror he's propped on the kitchen table, enough glitter flashing in the corners of his eyes to cause a traffic collision. "There's nothing I can do about the fact that the kitchen has better lighting. If you'd like to install a window in the bathroom, be my guest."
Sitting across the table, James' eyebrows go up. "That's not a bad idea."
"The bathroom doesn't have any exterior walls," Remus points out. The pasta he's reheating on the hob sizzles its agreement.
"True…a skylight, maybe?"
"I think our landlord might notice."
James concedes and goes back to watching Sirius work on his makeup fascinatedly. If a bit of glitter does make its way onto the table, he's certainly not tattling. After a while, the click of the lock in the front door diverts his attention.
You open it silently, in the way that only you seem to know how to do (no matter how James tries to avoid waking everyone when he leaves for his morning runs, that thing always squeaks) and step inside on soft feet. James smothers a grin as Remus' head turns in your direction.
You have a tendency to creep through the house like you're hoping you'll go unnoticed. You rarely do, and James feels sort of bad for thinking it's funny when you're thwarted every time.
"Hiya," says James. "Late night at work?"
"Yeah." You glance up, not necessarily looking surprised at having been caught again. (You may be getting used to it.) A smile flickers like light across your lips as you toe off your shoes. "Hi."
"Oi!" Sirius turns around in his chair to face you. James and Remus both wince. Sirius' tone is nothing but friendly, but oi is not a way to win you over. You tense like you're on trial. "What are you doing tonight?"
"Um, nothing important. Why?"
Sirius' excitement grows. "We're going out in a bit. You should come."
"Oh." Your voice quiets, as though making itself small while you crouch to pick up your shoes. "Thanks, but I'm pretty tired."
"It won't really be a big night out," Remus tries in a gentler tone. "We're only going to a bar nearby. We'll be back by midnight."
"Like Cinderella," adds James, trying to get a smile out of you. It works, sort of.
"I think I'm going to stay in," you say apologetically, "but you all have fun."
"Won't be as much fun without you." Sirius pouts.
You press your lips into a good-humored smile, and flee to your room.
Sirius heaves a sigh.
"Shush," Remus chides him, "she'll hear you."
"She never wants to do anything," Sirius whines.
"Maybe because you keep rushing her."
"It's been weeks!"
"She'll warm up eventually," says James, taking care to keep his voice low. "She's just settling in. And maybe bars aren't her scene."
Sirius wrinkles his nose. "Do we have to start a knitting club for her to hang out with us?"
"It could be a fun new hobby."
"You should talk to her," Remus says.
James looks at him, and finds himself being looked at in return. "Me?"
"Ooh, that's a good idea." Sirius leans forward, glitter flashing animatedly. "Get her to go with us tonight."
"Why me?"
"Because she likes you best."
"Wha—not more than any of us!"
"She's more relaxed with you," says Remus matter-of-factly. "Just give it a try, alright?"
James argues the notion of his preferential treatment for a while longer, but ultimately finds himself at your door, knocking politely. "Can I come in?"
There's no answer. After knocking some more and casting a frightened look back towards the kitchen—to which Sirius responds with an insistent shooing motion—James cracks open the door, half expecting you to already be asleep.
You're not. You're still in your work clothes, laying on your bed with earbuds plugging your ears. You take them out when you see James.
"I tried to knock," he apologizes.
"It's okay." You sit up, blinking at him. You look like you're worried you might be in trouble. "What's up?"
"I'm here to make a case," he admits. "Can I come in?"
Wary, you nod.
James steps inside, shutting the door behind him. You shuffle backwards on your bed, making room, though he isn't sure if he should sit. She's more relaxed with you, Remus had said. James doesn't know if that's true, but you do seem more at ease in your own room, your gaze steady on his. He sits on the bed.
"I don't want to pressure you," he starts out. "You don't have to come if you don't want to, but we would like it if you went out with us. Are you really too tired?"
Your shoulder comes up in a half-shrug. "I don't know…it was a long night."
"Like Remus said, we won't be out long. This place is small—it closes at midnight. Sirius will try to get us to go somewhere else after, but we can tell him no."
That smile is back, quick as a struck match. Its warmth lingers in your eyes. "Can we?"
"It's not easy, but it can be done. Remus will champion us."
You look at your lap. James hopes you're thinking about it rather than thinking about how to tell him no. Your fingers tap on your leg.
"We don't even have to stay until close," he bargains. "Give us an hour, and if you want to leave I'll walk you home."
You look startled. "Why do you want me to go so badly?"
"Because—" There's no keeping the earnestness from his voice. "—we want to hang out with you."
You really shy, then. Shoulders drawing in, lashes kissing at the corners. James wants to wrap you up.
"So," he says to rescue you, "an hour?"
"You don't have to walk me home," you murmur.
"Sorry, I'm afraid that part is non-negotiable. I don't mind, though, if it helps."
Your head gives a little shake. James doesn't know if it's directed at him or yourself. "I'm going to need to change."
A grin splits James' face at the realization that he's convinced you. "Take your time," he says. "Sirius is still working on his makeup anyway, and you've only just gotten home from work. We're not in any big hurry."
"Okay." You finally meet his eyes again as he stands to leave, your look sweet. "Thanks, James."
"Thank you," he replies sincerely.
He's smiling gigantically as he steps out into the hallway, closing your door behind him. It gives him away immediately.
Sirius' eyes pop. "Really?"
"Yeah," James whispers, feeling like you as he creeps quietly back to the kitchen. "She's going to be a minute, but she'll come. For an hour, at least."
Sirius pumps his fist in the air. Remus looks smug as he plates up his dinner.
"Told you it'd work," he hums.
Sirius jumps out of his chair to plant a kiss on James' cheek. "You're a legend!"
At Remus' urgent shushing and James' frightened glance toward your doorway, he covers his mouth with both hands, wincing.
Summary & CW: Suggestive (MDNI), hand job (?)…. & dirty talk(?), song fic (e85 by don toliver), pushing my biker!jason propaganda, cursing, no use of y/n, Jason POV
Pairing: Jason Todd x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 0.9k
A/N: PLEASE DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME! Another piece out the Kiln! Thank you to @akusuincoffee for requesting! Im so sorry it took me this long I literally listened to this song a million times trying to get inspo for it LMFAO, as always I hope you enjoy my lovelies (only one piece lefttttt)
•───────•°•♡•°•───────•
The only thing he could focus on was the sound of your laugh over the wind, it was something sweet and bright. The cadence was so divine, he couldn’t help himself but smile under the helmet.
Jason finally had a night off that coincided with one of yours. Not wasting the opportunity, you both decided to go on one of your famous night rides. It reminds you of the earlier days, when neither of you had money save for a tank of gas and a greasy burger your stomach would hate you for later.
The second he called you to give you the good news, you did all but cry your phone. He had to pull the phone away from his ear at the sound of your squealing, Bruce raised an eyebrow at him when he heard your voice through Jason’s busted speaker.
Night rides were a lost art in your opinion. There was something so beautiful about having the wind rushing past you, the thrill coating your stomach from the bike, and music blaring in your ears.
Jason could feel every part of your body on his back. Considering the fact that all you wore was that romper of yours, not much was left for the imagination. He felt all your warmth bleeding in through his cotton t-shirt, and he’d never been more grateful for opting for a thinner one. The feeling of your arms against him, legs parallel to his, your front on his back, it was perfect. He could never ask for anything more.
The giggles escaping your lips were sounds of pure joy- he’d drown in the sound if he had the chance. If the bubbling feeling that arose in him at of your laugh was what awaited him for the remainder of eternity, he wanted forever to start tomorrow.
Your chin rests on his left shoulder, helmets bumping occasionally as he weaves through cars on the New Jersey highways. Jason wasn’t one for patience -hell, was famous for lacking it- but he’d sit through every batch of traffic this state cursed him with, so long that you were at his side.
Finally seeing the exit sign, he cuts over to the right lane and for once, the exit is empty. This part of Gotham looks like a ghost town, stranded even. There’s no cars, no bikes, no people hanging out on the corner.
Just you, him, and a red light.
After about thirty seconds, his head turns left, right, then left again before mumbling, “I could just run it.”
“Jason Peter Todd,” you pull back from his shoulder to slap him upside the head, “you are not going to be running a red light. Waiting two more minutes isn’t going to kill you.”
“And how would you know? Maybe I want to try death by car, I’ve done it by bomb,” his voice is so annoyingly matter-of-fact, you’re tempted to fall for the ragebait.
“Fine. Be my guest and run it,” you huff already pushing off him, “but just so you know that if you do, I’m hoping off the bike and walking my ass home.”
“Babyyyyy” he draws out the vowel, whining almost.
Your arms are crossed over your chest, and he tilts his head back so his helmet kisses yours. You don’t make another noise, letting the honks of the highway behind you both speak for you. Another minute passes and the light doesn’t change from red.
He scoffs and leans forward again and this time, you lean with him. Your arms wrap around his midsection, but only for a moment. He tries -really he does- to not think too hard on how your right hand starts traveling down. e tries
“Doll,” his voice cracks with hesitation.
You merely hum back as your hand rests over his jeans, feeling the erection he’s failing to hide. Heat flushes his cheeks and he’s suddenly grateful for the polarized cover the helmet provides. Shifting slightly in the small seat, your hand squeezes a miniscule amount and he groans.
“Princess,” he’s breathless, “what’re you doing?”
“Nothing baby,” you sound so innocent, as if you weren’t getting him off at a light, “just focus on the road.”
He thinks he’s going to be strangled. His hands start white-knuckling the handlebars of the motorcycle while you palm him through his jeans. The worst part about it all- you talked him through it.
“You’re doing so good for me,”
“Just a little longer,”
“Oh my pretty boy,”
That last one almost has him creaming in his pants. He’s no longer leaning forward on the bike but rested against you. His head thrown back on your shoulder, staring at the stars as heaven reaches him at this exit. His breaths are heavy and he doesn’t think he’s ever been so aroused.
“Hey Hood?” Dick’s voice rings through his helmet, solidifying his veins to ice.
Never in this second life, has he been cockblocked this bad. If Dick ever connects himself to his comm system without asking again, he’ll shoot him for real that time.
“There goes the moment,” you snicker to yourself, moving your hand back up his torso much to Jason’s dismay.
He has to clear his throat before responding with a “Yeah?”
“You’ve been at that intersection for a while,” he sounds concerned, but there’s amusement lingering in it, “you know that light’s been busted since Monday right?”
𝒹𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝒸 ! 𝓈𝑜𝓁𝒹𝒾𝑒𝓇 𝒷𝑜𝓎 who smacks ur ass a little too hard while ur standing at the stove cooking a meal for the both of you, savoring that stunned, half annoyed half prudish expression on ur little face
domestic soldier boy who thanks you for starching his jeans “real nice and good” by bending you over the washer the next time ur loading the laundry in. his hands grip ur hips tight after lifting ur skirt, grinding his thick cock against ur ass as he groans in ur ear.
domestic soldier boy who buys u little sets of delicate lingerie for your birthday and holidays, just for him to shove the soft fabrics out of the way when he’s got his cock buried in u. ur folded in half beneath him on the bed, taking each thrust with little girlish uh, uh, uhs that makes him grin.
domestic soldier boy who occasionally makes you kneel under the desk in his study, his leaking dick in ur mouth as he signs off at monthly bills. because he refuses to have shit automated, much less digitally. you brush ur tongue flat against his cockhead, lazily stroking the untended inches. and when he’s about to cum, he grabs your hair in his fist and shoves you down until u gag, ur nose buried in his pubes as he shoots thick ropes of hot cum down ur throat- and u have no choice but to swallow.
domestic soldier boy who holds u flush against his chest, his boner pressed against your back. one hand grips ur tit, infrequently pinching your nipple through your shirt as his arm holds u in place with no escape. his fingers plunge inside your tight cunt, switching between quick little juts and slow, steady up and down thrusts that absolutely should not have happened before he’s obligated to head out.
and you already know what his face will twist into if u ask him about washing his hands after u cum, crying out, clenching ur fists and eyes shut: positively offended and confused. he’d let you go, smirking as your legs wobble, and he’d kiss your forehead before leaving, keeping the smell of u on his fingers all day as a sweet reminder.
a/n: genuinely why is it so much easier for me to write for homelander than soldier boy. and the gag is i want to write so much for him. idk. hope u enjoy i havent watched the finale yet i will the day this gets posted with my friends and i’ll definitely have stuff to say. love yall gn
heyy can i pls request camp counsellor james smut? like in the week before the kids get there and theyre sneaking around maybe 😼 Thanks!!
Thanks for requesting!
cw: smut mdni, afab reader
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
camp counselor!James x fem!reader ♡ 924 words
James is in a mood.
Not a bad one, though it's not terribly convenient either. You've reminded him more than once that you only have a short window of privacy, and that's if you're lucky, but you cannot seem to impress upon him any sense of urgency.
Worse, he's trying to get you to give up yours. You've been waylaid with kisses, softened up rather deftly by laughter and strong hands, and now find yourself struggling for a sense of how long you have before the training you've both already completed lets out and someone finds you smushed together in the tall grass offside the lake.
James wriggles his fingers underneath the stretchy material of your bathing suit, and you catch your lip between your teeth. An afternoon swim was your cover story. It wasn't a very convincing one; James' friends know about you already, and everyone will soon if Sirius continues waggling his eyebrows at you both every time you speak to each other.
"Where are you?" James mumbles from your neck.
You shake your head. "Sorry. I'm just thinking, they're probably nearly done, right?"
"I'm not sure," he says, unconcern audible. "Even if they are, it'll be fine. They won't find us."
"They know we came down here, though."
James takes a moment to consider this. "If they find us," he allows, "I'll run off, and everyone will be too distracted by my nakedness to see you. You can say you were in your cabin the whole time."
It's such a silly picture, the edges of your nerves disappate again. Your lips tilt. "What a gentleman."
James' smile blooms at seeing yours. He cups your face in his hand and kisses you. It's the sweetest way of being kissed, savored like ice cream on a hot day.
You melt into the grass, pushing your palm up his chest, his shoulder. James was more undressed than you to begin with, shirtless in only his trunks, whereas you have had the top half of your bathing suit manhandled down to nearly your waist. With James' fingers now stuffed inside the bottom half, you may as well be wearing a belt.
James kisses the corner of your lips, then your jaw, making his way back down to your neck. "I missed you today."
Ordinarily, you'd make fun of him—you've been apart for only a couple of hours all day, as long as it took you to renew your lifeguard certification while James helped with training the new counselors—but right now he's earnest in a way that turns everything he touches to sweet, sticky sap. You're not immune to it. (Arguably, you're the most susceptible.)
"Me, too," you admit. Breath hitching when he draws his fingers out of you to smear wet over your clit.
James finds a place to settle in the curve of your neck, and a pace that suits you both. Your nails dig into the back of his bicep as he works you over. He sucks your skin into his mouth and takes it gently between his teeth; when his tongue soothes over the sore spot, awareness jolts your brain back to functioning.
"Do not give me a hickey."
James' mouth curves in a grin you can feel. "I think it might be too late," he says, sitting up to look you over. "You have a few."
You look down to see two already coloring marks on your chest, only one of which might be covered by your bathing suit if you pulled it up. "James," you moan into your hands, covering your face.
James laughs and kisses your knuckles lightly. "I'm sorry."
"No, you're not."
"I'm not," he agrees.
You part your fingers to glare at him, intending to make him feel the severity of your upset, but James appears too happy to be dissuaded from it. He wraps hands around your wrists to coax them down the rest of the way.
"You can give me some," he offers.
"Then they'll definitely know we're together."
"Well, Sirius is working on that either way. And if you think I'm going to let everyone think someone else did this to you—"
"James?"
You flatten yourself to the earth at the sound of a new voice, but James, with seemingly no instinct at all for secrecy, sits up curiously.
"Remus?"
"James? Oh—er, I'll stay over here, then." You shut your eyes in mortification, sparing a moment of gratitude that it's only Remus. "Just thought you ought to know that we're all out of training, and everyone's coming to the lake for a swim."
James clicks his tongue disappointedly. His manner is perfectly easygoing, though, as he extracts his fingers from inside of you, wiping them on your leg. "Thanks," he calls to Remus.
"Yeah, um….right. I can try to stall them, I suppose?"
"That'd be great, mate, thanks." You're struggling to get your arm through the strap of your bathing suit, and James lends a hand. He lowers his voice as you hear Remus leaving. "You don't have to look so embarassed. It's only Remus."
"It is embarassing!" you whine.
"Only if you make it that way." He takes your face between his hands, grinning. "You're all hot."
You want to groan and roll your eyes like a teenager. You settle for pulling up the other strap of your bathing suit. "Even Remus sounded embarassed for us."
"True. If it makes you feel better" —James kisses you sweetly— "you can both be awkward about it at dinner together."
hi!! 💖 could i please request some popular outgoing sirius x introverted shy/awkward reader. thank you!!
Thanks for requesting lovely <3
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
Sirius Black x shy!reader ♡ 445 words
It's a sunny, balmy day in the midst of an English heat wave when Lily decides, "We should make a friend with a boat."
"We should make a friend with a pool," says Marlene. Laying on her stomach on the grass, she turns her head to glare at James and Sirius. "Why don't you have a pool?"
James blinks. "Sorry. How is that our responsibility?"
"You're rich."
"All the space that the Potters could have used for a pool went to the quidditch pitch," Remus reminds them.
Sirius, intentionally missing Remus' disdainful tone, nods. "As it should."
"We could find a pool," says James.
Lily frowns. "It seems like you have to always pay to get into one anymore."
"Well, that's not strictly true, is it?" Sirius bumps your shoulder, grinning with conspiratorial pride.
You shrink as the attention of the group settles collectively on you.
"Tell us about that spot you found." Sirius hesitates. "Uh, unless it was meant to be a secret."
You cringe. "Well, no—"
"Shit. Sorry, gorgeous."
"It's fine." Heat prickles in your face, but you force yourself to speak loud enough that they can hear you. "I've been swimming at the hotel lately. It doesn't seem like they check if you're a guest or not."
"No way." James looks gobsmacked. Behind him, Marlene's brows raise from behind her sunglasses. "That's genius."
"Should we go tomorrow?" asks Lily.
While the rest of the group hatches a plan to infiltrate the pool (which you aren't so confident will work with a large group—the main reason why you were keeping it under wraps), Sirius squeezes your hand encouragingly. You try to supress the smile that takes you, feeling the lingering impressions of eyes on you still, but Sirius catches it.
A kiss lands on your head. You turn to him, eyes blinking wide, but he only grins and does it again.
The heat of the day just keeps getting worse, for you.
"What?" Sirius laughs at you. "You can't expect me to stop if you're going to keep looking so scandalized."
"You just surprised me."
"Well, you shouldn't be surprised." He takes your chin in hand, angling you for a bone-meltingly soft kiss to your lips. "You're stunning, and I'm not made of stone."
You drop your forehead to his shoulder, burning. Sirius' laughter rumbles through him. He palms the back of your head and pulls you closer like he's shielding you.
"I'm just spreading the gospel of your brilliance," he murmurs close to your ear. "Don't know if you heard, but everyone agrees you're a genius now. You ought to be thanking me."
Hi Mae!!! Im SOO HAPPY that i've finally built up the courage to ask you for a post!! I love ur writing soo much. Could I get like a tasm!Peter Parker x reader where she somehow convinces peter to let her try on his suit and when it properly fits her she kinda looks super hot in it and Peter is all over her?? Feel free to ignore this if u want! I LOVE UR WRITING BTW. Byyyeee
Love you!! Thanks for requesting <3
tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader ♡ 456 words
Your laughter echoes ominously from inside the bathroom.
"What?" Peter asks.
"Nothing," you say back. "I just don't know if I could fight crime in this thing. The cameltoe is insane."
He snorts. "Yeah, I don't really have that problem with it."
"I guess," you admit, as you open the bathroom door and step out, "we're not really the same size…"
Peter has no witty comebacks to that. He has no words, period.
When you asked to try on his suit, he didn't expect it to fit you. And it doesn't really, some excess fabric puddling around your ankles and hanging off your shoulders, but the places where it is fitted are distracting enough to leave Peter tongue-tied like a twerpy pre-teen.
"Wow," he manages to get out. One syllable, two distinct sounds. A feat.
You're not wearing the mask (a lucky thing, otherwise this might have proven a pretty sexually confusing experiment) so Peter sees every ounce of mischief in your eyes when you tilt your head and smile. "Can I try the web shooters, too?"
"Totally." Peter flicks his wrists, latching onto your hips on either side. When he pulls tight, you have no choice but to stumble towards him, laughing as you fall into his lap. "Another time."
"Why not now?"
"Too much power."
You grin at him, positively impish as your legs shift to straddle him more fully. "Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah. Sorry, you've got to go through orientation first."
You set yourself down in his lap. Peter's hands travel from your hips down your legs, meandering, but your bravado slips when you hear a ripping sound.
"Oh, no." You twist your neck to see your backside. You arch toward him a bit in the process, which Peter is not mad about. "I'm sorry—"
"It's fine," he says. "I'll fix it."
You still look guilty. "I didn't think it would tear."
"I tear it all the time. Trust me, this is not the worst tear this thing has seen." Peter touches your jaw, angling you for a kiss. "Anyway, it looks good on you. Worth it."
You soften. "You think?"
You let Peter kiss you a while longer. Your fingers cup his face and curl in the hair at the back of his head. He knew the material of his suit was slippery, obviously, but he never really considered how that might feel for you until he experiences the sensation of you moving smoothly over the material of his jeans. He can feel your body heat through the spandex.
"Are you super sure I can't try the web shooters?" you murmur near his ear after a while.
"Hmm…huh?"
"I just think it would be fun."
"I, uh….yeah. Yeah, whatever you want."
FORMULA 1 GIRLIE @frankiesweird - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
