My friends walk in your direction / Said "Don't you know [...]?"
Huh / When did you get hot?
Overview: You've been the awkward friend forever. Always lingering in the background of Stu and Billy's lives, never quite fitting in with their other friends. But when their current girlfriends are tired of worrying about your relationship with their boyfriends, they offer you a makeover. You just hadn't thought it would have made Billy and Stu so angry.
Apparently, doing your makeup isn't very final girl behavior. Whatever that means...
a/n: absolutely playing into the “taking down her hair makes her hot” trope rn. Also, the reader has curly hair. For the sake of the plot. (and because I’m tired of not living my curly-haired truth)
Also, X2 Sid and Tatum are a bit OOC. I was in love with Tatum when I was younger, but for this, I need her to be a bit of a bitch. It’s for the plot people, I don’t make the rules
wc: 7.2K
more at: Belle’s 3k Extravaganza
You can already see Stu grinning as he watches you run up to the fountain. Billy's there waiting beside him, flipping through a book you doubt he has any interest in. Your chest heaves as you come to a stop, hands propped on your knees as you try to catch your breath.
Stu snorts, “What’d you run here?” he taunts, with that stupid voice he always uses.
“Shut up,” you grumble, dropping your bag to the ground and pulling out a folder. “Here,” you toss it at him. It slaps against his chest, and he lets out a little grunt, just barely catching it before it slips to the water.
He leafs through the papers inside, though you know he never actually bothers to proofread. Bored waiting for him to be done, you hold out your palm. He glances at it with a dumb look, "What?”
“Seriously,” you tilt your head and let out a scoff. “Do you think I’m doing this because I love you?”
Stu rolls his eyes and fishes his wallet from his pocket. You let out a triumphant hum as he slaps the cash in your palm. Trying to step back, you don't get very far before his wrist is snapping out, fingers wrapping around your arm as he tugs you back toward him. You stumble between his spread legs, shooting him an unamused look.
He only grins at your ire. “Come on,” he urges. “You love me, you can say it.”
You roll your eyes, but dip down to meet his stare. “All right. I love you, Stu.” His grin falls as you add, “Thank you for being my benevolent little rich boy.” Billy snorts and Stu shoots him a look. It’s enough of a distraction for you to slip from his hold and pick up your bag.
Good timing, too, considering Tatum’s walking up with Sid and Randy. Tatum’s certainly chiller compared to his other girlfriends. You get along with her more than you ever did with Casey. But you can’t imagine anyone would be happy to see their boyfriend all handsy with his best friend. Even if handsy seems to be Stu’s default state.
“Ooh, another illicit deal, I see,” Tatum makes herself cozy, dropping right into Stu’s lap. You force out a stiff laugh and make yourself look away.
You’re just friends with Stu, same as Billy. Have been since you were kids. To them, you’ll always just be the strange neighbor kid who never seemed to get out of that socially awkward phase.
But how you look in their eyes doesn’t change the fact that puberty hit you first. It doesn’t change that you haven’t been able to look at either of them as just friends since you discovered the difference between boys and girls.
However, based on their caliber of girlfriends, they couldn’t make it any clearer that there isn’t a chance in hell of anything ever happening.
“That’s seriously pathetic, Stu,” Sid teases. She can't hide the undercurrent of disapproval in her voice. “How long are you going to let her get you through school?”
Stu’s sharp eyes cut to yours and you feel heat bloom under your skin. “Well? How long are you gonna carry me?”
Scoffing, you move to take your place beside Randy. He immediately offers you some of his food, which you take just to have something to do with your hands.
“However long you keep paying, rich boy.”
Tatum and the others laugh a little, but you feel like you got the question wrong from the look Stu’s sending you. You’re not sure what you could have possibly said that he would have approved of. But you don’t think you’ll ever fully understand him or Billy.
You doubt anyone ever will.
Tatum turns her attention away from you, instead speaking across her boyfriend to discuss some gossip with Sid. It’s typical that you’re left out of the loop.
Something about you seems to scream that you’re above petty girlhood experiences. Given the chance, you'd have more dirt on the people at this school than they would ever know. People trip up around the quiet kids, always seeming to forget they're there until it's too late.
But, as much as Tatum and Sid are nice to you, you’re still an outlier. Someone they think belongs more to the boys. While the boys seem to think you’d do better with the girls. There’s no safe middle ground for you to stand on. You’re sure that if you didn’t show up for lunch tomorrow, the only thing that would change is who Stu pays for his homework.
Running a hand over your hair, you let out a tired sigh as you leaf through your book. “You know,” Tatum’s voice startles you from your stupor. You glance up to find her eyes narrowed on your hair. “That puffed-up look has been done to death.” She pops a grape in her mouth with a sharp grin. “It’s not the eighties anymore, sweetie.”
Your eyes widen, hands shooting to your hair. Stu snickers, slapping Tatum’s hip, “That’s catty, even for you, babe.”
“Seriously,” Sid admonishes, shooting you a sorry smile. Billy’s eyes dart between you and her, but he doesn’t say a thing in your defense. Swallowing roughly, your gaze drops to your shoes. Self-consciousness drowns you so quick, you just want to run to the bathroom and hide out the rest of the day.
“What?” Tatum snickers. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant she could use some touch-ups.”
Your throat burns as your eyes flick toward the grassy courtyard. You’d prefer anything to facing them right now. Crying in front of the Stu and Billy is worse than chumming the waters before going diving.
“Christ, you’re the worst sometimes,” but Sid can’t hide the smile in her voice. She calls your name and you suck in a sharp breath before looking at her. “She’s sleeping over at mine tonight. Why don’t you come?”
“So you can give me some touch-ups?” you snap. Randy snickers at the perceived cat-fight, and you punch him in the arm.
“Innocent bystander,” he grimaces, shooting you a glare. You give him a sharp smile and shrug.
“Yeah,” Tatum agrees. “I think it’d do you some good to hang out with someone other than these bozos.” She doesn’t fail to include her boyfriend in the insult. Stu’s face drops behind her as he looks to Billy.
“Me?” he mouths, and Billy just glares at him.
“They’re totally holding you back, babe,” she pops another grape in her mouth and shrugs. “Your choice.”
“I can’t believe you let her talk to you like that,” Stu snickers, shoveling popcorn in his mouth as he sprawls across the loveseat.
You shift uncomfortably in your seat, clutching the throw pillow closer to your chest. “What the hell was I supposed to say?”
Billy glances over his shoulder at you, his legs kicked over the arm of the seat across from Stu. “Maybe don’t roll over and let her treat you like a doormat.”
You roll your eyes and pick up a piece of popcorn. Tossing it, it bounces off of Stu’s nose while you lean back on the couch. “She’s your girlfriend, you could have said something.” Stu watches the popcorn fall to his mom’s new, ridiculously expensive rug and snorts.
“Yeah right, like I’m gonna get in the middle of a cat-fight.”
“Oh yeah,” Billy rolls his eyes as he flips through the channels. “I’m sure that’s your nightmare.”
Stu laughs and tosses a handful of candy at Billy. Clearly incensed by your idea of trashing his mother’s pristine living room. “Shut up, man.”
You drown out their bickering, more than used to it, as food begins to fly across the room. Reaching up, you fiddle with a strand of combed-out hair. “Do you think she was right?”
They pause, eyes darting back to you. They share a look that you don’t understand and it only worsens your mood. “What? That we’re holding you back?” Billy questions, voice tight with something dangerous.
“No,” you snip, tossing your pillow at him. He deflects it with an irritated look, narrowed eyes meeting yours. “That I’m a mess.”
“She didn’t say that,” Stu objects, a cruel tilt to his lips. “Just that you need some touch-ups.” Billy chuckles and Stu joins him. The pair turns back to the TV and that’s that. You’re dismissed.
Frowning, you get to your feet and grab your bag. “Where’re you going?” Billy asks, not even turning around.
“I’m gonna head home,” you tell them, something souring your stomach the longer you’re in their presence.
“We haven’t even gotten to the movie, yet,” Stu whines. You ignore him, rushing toward his front door and throwing it open. With your back turned, you miss the harsh look the boys share. The type that would have had you turning around and sitting right back down on the couch.
Heading through the door, you think over Tatum’s harsh words. Cruel, but maybe necessary. Checking your watch, you figure it’s not midnight yet, surely Sid’s invite must still stand.
Sid’s surprised as she opens her front door. “Oh,” she offers a polite smile as she greets you.
Tatum pops up behind her, an impressed grin on her face. “Didn’t think you were going to show. Isn’t this your movie night?”
You sigh, fingers flexing around your bag. “Yeah. But you had a point. Your delivery sucked. But you had a point.” Tatum mushes Sid to the side and beckons you into the house.
“I know I did,” she’s far too proud of herself as she leads you over to the couch. Sid hovers behind you both, clearly not expecting you and unsure what to do with herself.
Tatum seems far more comfortable as she takes your bag from you. “I had hope you’d see sense,” she croons, dropping onto the cushion beside you.
Your shoulders tense and you try not to grimace at how enthused she is at making you over. You hadn’t thought you were that bad. Clearly, she disagreed. Tatum rifles through some magazines before dropping one in your lap.
“I have plans for you." It sounds more like a threat as you stare down at the glammed out model in the magazine.
An hour later, Tatum’s coiling freshly washed strands of your hair around her fingers while Sid sits in front of you, brushing eyeshadow across your lids. “You really don’t look bad,” she reassures. “But, it’s confidence that sells a look.”
“If a little mascara gives you some confidence, who knows?” Tatum shrugs as she spirals more hair around her finger. “Maybe you’ll finally get a boyfriend.”
The longer this little "sleepover" has gone on, the more you’ve felt they had ulterior motives. Sure, slumber parties in chick flicks always look fun. Pillow fights, makeup sessions, and gossiping with one another. But that hasn’t been happening. The girls seem strangely tense.
You’re pretty sure they’re hoping this makeover session will finally get you your own guy, so they can stop worrying about your relationship with their boyfriends. You hadn’t taken Sid as the insecure type, apparently you were wrong.
Still, this was nicer than some of the exes Billy and Stu had acquired. At least they were helping you out. Rather than starting rumors that you slept around with the teachers.
Thank you, Casey Becker.
You hadn’t exactly been sorry when you’d heard what the town’s new killer had done to her and her asshole boyfriend.
Billy and Stu had called you twisted when you’d said that, but you’d seen the way they smiled. You wouldn’t be friends with them if there wasn’t something a little off-kilter about you.
“Someone should have taught you how to do this a while ago,” Tatum mutters, talking about the hair you’d hardly ever put much thought into. You had been taught how to deal with it, but it was never your top priority. Typically, you braided it and just lived in it for a while.
Something about the way she says it reminds you of what she’d casually dropped at lunch. “What did you mean when you said Billy and Stu are holding me back?” Sid’s brush pauses on your cheek and Tatum’s hands still. You don’t have to look to know they’re sharing a silent conversation.
“It’s just something guys do,” Sid dismisses.
Your eyes narrow and she offers a tense smile. “Tatum?” You prod, knowing she doesn’t care about softening her words.
She lets out a little sigh and drops your hair. “Guys like having awkward girl friends. When they get dumped or go through a slump, she’s someone they can fall back on.”
“Like,” you pause, heart stuttering. “For sex?” Sid snorts at your blunt delivery and Tatum shrugs.
“Yeah, pretty much. They think if a girl’s lonely enough, she’ll sleep with anyone. It’s just a good way to keep a backup.”
“And you think that’s what they do with me?”
Sid’s eyes dart up to meet yours and you know she feels bad you’re having this conversation at all. “Sometimes. Sometimes they just like having someone around to make them feel better about themselves.”
Your heart drops to your feet and you don’t want to believe her. But something about what she says makes sense. Every time you complain about your clothes, hair, or anything too shallow or girly, the guys blow you off. They say stuff about not thinking you were into that vapid stuff.
Any chances you’ve had at a date, they’ll tell you shit about the guy you would never have guessed. Horrible things that make you uncomfortable and sick to your stomach. Half the time, you think they’re making it up, but you choose not to take the risk.
Every chance they get, they keep you all to themselves. And like an idiot, you’d just always thought that was because they wanted you the way you want them. Of course, Sid and Tatum would know better than you. They’re dating the boys after all. And it’s not so far out of character to assume Stu and Billy would be so malicious.
“Oh,” your stomach flips on itself and you blink watery eyes down at your hands. “Thanks for telling me,” you whisper. Tatum and Sid share a look over your shoulder. You see the guilt on Sid’s face, but you miss the wink Tatum sends her.
You follow what Sid and Tatum had taught you the night before, you don’t know which one you mess up worse, your hair or the makeup. You’ve missed first period by the time you finally make it out of the house. Meaning you manage to skirt around Billy and Stu right up until lunch.
Honestly, after what Sid and Tatum told you, no part of you actually wants to see them. But your boss at the video store is cutting your hours and you really need the cash Stu will give you for writing up his world civ essay.
Sucking in a sharp breath, you give yourself a little pep talk before forcing yourself to walk over to the fountain. Everyone’s there already, Sid and Tatum sprawled across their boyfriends. Meanwhile, Randy’s up and speaking with flailing arms. Like the court jester performing for the popular royals. It’s sickening what a cliche your friends have become when that’s what they’ve always made fun of.
“Watch the hands, Meeks,” you call out, nearly catching a slap to the face as he rants passionately about some horror flick you’ve never heard of.
He lets out a huff before turning to face you. Whatever argument he had dies on his tongue as he jerks back. You swallow roughly, hand reaching subconsciously toward your hair as he nearly pushes his nose against yours.
“Randy,” you whisper, mushing his face away. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
His thumb reaches up, swiping for your cheek, and you just manage to slap his hand back. “Is that glitter?” He questions, positively dumbfounded.
“It’s blush,” you snap, pushing him back. “Would you get out of here, you weirdo?” Shaking your head, you rifle through your backpack until you find the folder for Stu.
You try not to look at him as you walk up, chest tightening at the dead silence you’re now surrounded by. Stu grabs the folder, but his hand snakes up, grabbing at your wrist before you can back up.
“Huh,” he pulls you down, eyes roaming across your face. You glance at Tatum and she gives you an encouraging smile. “It is glitter.”
“Eyeshadow, doofus,” she swats his arm. “You did a good job,” she reassures you.
“Made me late for school,” you mutter, skin warming the longer Stu stares.
“Why?” Billy asks, before anyone can say anything else. Stu releases you at the sound of his voice and you stumble back.
“I don’t know,” forcing yourself to meet his eyes, you startle at the coldness staring back at you. “Maybe I wanted to look pretty.”
Stu snorts and cuts you a sharp look. “You didn’t need to do drag to look pretty,” he mocks. Your hand shoots up to your face. You hadn’t even done close to as much as Sid and Tatum had taught you.
“Stu,” Tatum snaps, shooting him a harsh look.
He lets out a chuckle and jerks back, “What?” He glances over at you, but the smile on his face isn’t genuine. “I was joking. It looks fine, dude.”
For some reason, you find yourself looking over at Billy. His jaw is tensed, eyes glaring down at the ground. He seems to feel your stare, gaze snapping up to meet yours. Biting your tongue, you swallow the burn in the back of your throat. “It looks good,” he finally admits, hardly sounding like he wants to compliment you.
You purse your lips and nod, barely wanting to be around them for another second. Clearly, the girls were right about their theory. “Really good,” Randy adds on, a goofy look on his face. You let out a sharp laugh and roll your eyes at him.
“I know it’s not your thing,” Tatum starts, sucking on her lollipop with a proud smile. “But you should come to Stu’s party tonight.”
You grimace and begin to shake your head. “Seriously,” Sid encourages. “You’ll have fun, for once.”
“What are you two planning, you little vixen?” Stu taunts, fingers pinching at Tatum’s sides. Your eyes narrow at the way he speaks through gritted teeth, voice tight.
Swallowing bile at Billy and Stu’s reactions, you straighten up, forcing your voice to be strong. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t.” The girls shoot you odd looks and you shrug as you pluck your bag from the ground. “I’m covering for Randy at the store.”
Randy’s head shoots up, eyes glazed over with confusion. “You are?”
“God,” you roll your eyes. “Remind me how many times they’ve fired your ass.” With a smug grin, he holds up five fingers and winks.
“What a shame,” Stu clicks his tongue and he doesn’t even bother sounding disappointed. “We’ll miss you reminding everyone of curfew.”
Hurt tightens your chest as you let out a sharp scoff. “Fuck off, Macher.”
His nose wrinkles and he presses his hand to his chest. “Ouch,” he hisses.
Billy reaches over and swats his arm, clearly telling him to knock it off. But you know that look on Stu’s face. He’s pissed, about what, you never have a clue.
Deciding to spare yourself any more embarrassment, you turn around and head back to the school. You didn’t want to go to his stupid party. But it would’ve been nice if they had wanted you there. If they could have just shown you something, that meant what the girls told you was bullshit.
“How many times do I have to tell you to alphabetize by genre?” Your boss, Jason, tosses Halloween at you and storms off. The VHS smacks you square in the chest and you let out a sharp scoff. The fuck does that even mean?
“Seriously,” you jump as someone’s pointy chin digs into your shoulder. “How many times does he have to tell you,” Stu bemoans, stealing the tape from your hand. You cast your eyes back and catch his grin as he backs off from you.
“Don’t you have a party to be planning?” You snap, not bothering to keep the venom from your tone.
“Someone jealous she didn’t get an invite?” Billy comes up on the other side of you, sharp eyes alight with a rare teasing glint.
It’s like being circled by hyenas with the pair of them. They always corner their prey, backing them up until there’s nowhere to run. Currently, it’s keeping you locked in the horror section as they block both ends.
“No,” you cut your eyes to Stu, irritation only growing worse at his stupid grin. “But you didn’t have to be such a dick today,” you tell him, snatching the tape back so you can shelf it.
“Oh,” he croons, catching your wrist and tugging you back into his chest. “I think I hurt her feelings,” he mocks, pouting at Billy.
Billy raises his brows, leaning on the shelves as he shrugs. “Did he?”
“Is there a particular reason you guys are being such assholes to me, or are you just bored?” Billy’s eyes narrow as he offers a sharp smirk.
Stu lets his chin rest in the crook of your neck, ignoring how you try to wiggle out of his hold. “Is there a reason you decided to do this?” He asks, tugging at one of your curls. “I liked the whole puffed-out dandelion look.”
“Ugh,” a disgusted groan slips out as you elbow him in the side. His breath whooshes out of him and his arms finally loosen. “Why do you have such a hard-on about whether or not I style my hair?”
“You never cared before.” Billy frowns, eyeing you up and down. “All the best final girls don't give a shit about that stuff.”
Your eyes fall into slits as a bewildered scoff leaves you. “What geeky language are you even speaking?”
Stu barks out a sharp laugh, leaning forward until he's back in your field of view. “Says you,” he taunts.
Your head falls to the side as you shoot him an unimpressed glare. “Do you guys need something? Jason already hates me. I don’t feel like having you two getting me fired.”
“Jason?” Billy questions. “The asshole that was bitching about genres?”
“That’s the one,” you hum, turning back to your cart and the piles of tapes you have to deal with.
“Dude seems like he needs to get laid,” Stu points out, eyes tracking Jason as he paces through the store. Yelling at the first person he sees over some made-up bullshit.
“Yeah, he probably does. But I doubt anyone’s that desperate.”
“No,” he taunts, and your hackles raise at his tone. “Not even you?”
You slam the tape down harder than you mean to. The noise echoes through the store, the shelves rattling beneath Stu and Billy’s careless bodies. Stu’s brows raise with poorly concealed excitement. “Get something or get the fuck out,” you hiss at him.
Taking hold of your cart, you shove past him before he can think of anything else smart to say. Insulting others seems to be the only time he’s capable of coming up with any wit of his own.
Of course, that means you get to be on the receiving end nine times out of ten. You make a good target for them, apparently.
Billy swats Stu’s arm, shoving him back and trailing after you. Stu lets out a snotty huff, randomly grabbing one of the tapes from the shelves as Billy falls into your check-out line.
“He’s a moron,” he excuses.
“And a jackass,” you snap, barely lifting your gaze to meet his. “Did you pick something?” Billy reaches behind himself, slapping Stu in the chest and making the other boy toss Prom Night on the counter.
You ignore how Stu’s gaze bores into the side of your head, scanning the VHS and looking over the blocky green letters on your screen. “You owe ten bucks for an overdue movie,” you tell him.
“Ten bucks?” he scoffs, “What movie?”
Tilting your head, you scoff, he’s such a cliche. “Basic Instinct, got a little crush on Sharon Stone, Stuart?”
Stu’s nose wrinkles as he glares at you. “Stuart?” he huffs, “You sound like my mother.” Pushing Billy out of the way, he props his elbows on the counter, chin resting in his palms. “Can’t you do your best friend a favor?”
You drop down to his level, matching his posture with a saccharine smile. “Why would I do that?” You tease, voice pitched with faux innocence.
Stu’s got a genuine grin on his face as you play along; it takes everything in you not to return it. “What are you doing?” The moment’s broken as you jump back, Jason’s harsh voice ruining the fun.
Sucking in a sharp breath, you turn back to the monitor and pretend to type some nonsense into the system. “Nothing, just checking them out.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet,” your head whips up at the insinuation, but he barely spares you any attention. He turns toward the boys with a sneer, “Just because you're friends with her, doesn’t mean you don’t have to pay like everyone else. Have the movie back by tomorrow, or you’re banned.”
“Jason-” you object.
“You’re already on thin ice,” he snaps, pointing his fat finger in your face. You resist the urge to snap your teeth at him. “Don’t push me,” he warns, as if he were scary at all beyond you not having a paycheck next week.
Stu watches him walk away with furrowed brows and a sneer. “God, what a prick.”
“Yeah,” you mutter, “you’re telling me.” Feeling ever so slightly vindictive, you clear the charge from Stu’s account and toss him his tape. “Keep the movie, he’s an ass.”
Stu cares little for the other people waiting in line as he reaches across the counter and cups your cheeks. You let out a little squeak as he drags you closer, planting an obnoxiously loud kiss on your cheek.
“What are friends for?” He mocks, pushing back from you.
“Ugh,” you wipe at your face and glare at him.
“See you,” Billy says as he shakes his head, yanking up Stu’s sleeve and dragging him away before he can make an even bigger scene.
You watch them leave with a disbelieving laugh. Stu could be a dick, but at least he was fun. Unlike other people, Jason, who got off on making everyone as miserable as them. Despite your general disinterest in drunk crowds of teenagers, you’d rather be at Stu’s party than deal with him the rest of the night.
You, however, didn’t receive an invite. So, you turn back to your cart of tapes and force yourself to go back to restocking.
Around midnight, you finish closing up the registers and pick up a cleaning rag and some spray. You hum to yourself as you move to the windows, beginning to wipe them down.
Jason is hiding in the back. Shirking all his responsibilities on you as you close up tonight. Meaning you probably won’t be getting home until one at the earliest.
Muttering to yourself, you work on scrubbing out a particularly tough stain. Whatever it is clings to the fabric of your rag, each wipe seeming to spread it more. With a huff, you lean down to spray some more cleaner when a dark shape moves in the corner of your eye.
Frowning, you straighten back up. The window before you is fogged with whatever ruined the glass. Tilting your head past it, you find a screaming white mask staring back at you.
“Fuck,” you jump back with a gasp, rag slipping from your hand. The figure stares, head tilting slowly as he surveys you. You can only stare for a minute, heart trapped in your throat as your chest stutters. Visceral panic fills you, spikes through your blood until you feel lightheaded.
He takes a step forward and your body jolts back to life. Stumbling over yourself, you rush to the door, flipping the lock before he can get any closer.
Of course, you knew all about the Woodsboro killer. Casey Becker's murder was worse than even Sid’s mom. But it still seemed so far disconnected from you that you hadn’t really thought about it.
After all, why the hell would anyone want to kill you? You never did anything.
But he’s staring right at you now. Beneath that ridiculous mask are the eyes of a killer. And they're set on you.
Too afraid to take your eyes off him, you stumble back until your hip is smashing into the corner of the counter. A pained hiss slips past your lips as your hand gropes blindly for the phone. He almost seems amused as he watches you, relaxed and at ease as his head follows your clumsy movements.
Finally managing to wrap your hand around the landline, you hastily press it to your ear. The monotonous ringing on the other end is possibly one of the worst sounds you’ve ever heard.
The phone slips from your hand, cracking against the floor as you stare at him. His head tilts and he shakes it slowly, mocking you.
“Jason?” You shout, forcing your eyes off the killer in front of you. With a sharp breath, you push off from the counter and run to the back. The door to Jason’s office is cracked, light spilling out from within.
You shove through, eyes burning as you fight back your panic. “Jason, we have to call-"
Your voice trails off into nothing as you take in the scene before you. His fan buzzes in the corner of the office, a droning noise amongst a scene straight from a crappy slasher movie.
Blood drips from the open gash of his throat. It trails down his arms, pooling along his fingers until it splashes against the floor. The noise echoes through the quiet space as your breath trembles. You trip over yourself as you back out of the office, stomach clenching painfully the longer you look into the open flesh of his throat. His eyes have rolled back, hidden beneath his eyelids, as his body goes cold.
“Oh,” you let out a revolted moan. “God,” you clap your hand over your mouth, tripping as you run from the room.
He had already been in here. Somehow, that psycho killed your boss. Then, for some reason, he decided to wait around for you to notice him outside. He’d been smart enough to cut the phone line. Why is he playing with you now?
Racing back to the front, you find him right where you left him. Just outside the front door, head still tilted with amusement. “What the….”
He taps his knife against the window. Tap, tap, tap, slowly, he lifts his head, straightening up as he nods behind you. Just barely, you managed to turn in time to see the knife slashing toward you.
With a shrill scream, you dive to the side, terror filling you as you realize there are two of them. They don’t give you long to dwell on that. The second one dives for you while the one outside works on breaking the glass door.
Kicking your leg out, you manage to catch the one in front of you in the shin. He lets out a raspy groan, muffled by the mask, as he falls forward. Your hands grope along the floor, desperate for any sort of weapon. The best you have is a VHS. You don’t let that stop you from smacking the sharp corner into the temple of the man next to you. His hand flies up to his head, another pathetic groan leaving him.
You scramble to your feet just as the sound of glass shattering echoes through the store. A brick skips across the carpet, stopping just before your shoes. With a shaky breath, you look over to find the second man stepping slowly through the empty doorway.
His gaze flicks to yours and you let out a small whimper as the other one begins getting to his feet. “Shit,” you hiss, not sparing them another glance as you rush to the back. You can hear their footsteps quick behind you, just barely managing to slip into Jason’s office as they catch up.
You slam the door shut, body jolting roughly as they try to barrel through. With a groan, you shove your shoulder forward, shoes squeaking against linoleum as you force the door the rest of the way closed.
Panic-slick palms slip against the handle until you’re finally turning the lock. The door rattles violently as you step away, their bodies thudding against the wood as they try and batter their way through.
You don't waste any time, whipping around toward Jason’s computer and dialing into the modem. You work around your boss’s dead body, eyes burning at the smell of death and copper that floods his office. Your fingers fly across the keyboard, quick to connect to emergency services. You just manage to send your address when the door flies open behind you.
A scream rips from your throat as you jump around the desk. They both stand in the doorway, shoulders heaving as their muffled breaths fill the air. Your hands tremble at your sides as they split away from one another. The tallest lingers by the desk, the shorter one hovers in the doorway. They’ve cornered you, left you nowhere to run.
You back up as much as you can, wincing as your back connects with Jason’s metal filing cabinets. The shorter one lunges first. Your hand wraps around the handle of one of the cabinets and you wrench it forward, jumping back as it slams into the ground.
You manage to catch him off guard as he jerks back. You leap over the fallen cabinet and shove past him. A gloved hand wraps around your elbow, roughly shoving you forward.
Right into the tip of his blade.
A low moan escapes you, heart beating furiously against your chest as blood begins to weep from your stomach. Your eyes flutter shut at the sharp burst of pain. Fire lights up along your nerves.
When he begins to pull away, trying for another hit, you shove him back with all the strength you have left. He stumbles with a grunt, tripping over the cabinet and crashing into the other one.
You press your hands against your stomach, running from Jason’s office, and leaping through the shattered front door. You can only hear the crunch of your shoes against the broken glass. You can’t spare any attention to what might be following behind.
You don’t let yourself stop, pushing forward even as your lungs tighten until it hurts worse to breathe than it did to be stabbed. By the time your legs finally give out, lights are speeding down the road toward you. Doors slam and familiar voices call your name as you crash against the pavement, blood pooling from your hands and onto the asphalt below.
“I’m not the one who thought we should test her.”
Consciousness is slow to come back to you. Distantly, you can hear familiar hushed voices. “Well, I’m not the one who tried to fucking gut her.”
You hear what sounds like a slap and then a harsh, “Shut the fuck up!”
Your mind is fuzzy, dulled by the edges of pain and sleeping too long. You can hardly recognize the voices, let alone understand what they’re saying.
“You’re lucky she’s still alive.”
There’s a brief pause and then a low chuckle that makes shivers run up your spine. “What the hell were you going to do if she wasn’t?”
A strange sound slips from your lips, a groan, maybe. It’s hard to tell as your eyes adjust to the sterile lights of the hospital room.
Immediately, there’s a weight sat beside you, large hands covering your own. You blink slowly, forcing your eyes to focus as you take in your surroundings. “Stu?” You mutter, voice wrecked as your gaze dips from his concerned face to Billy’s stoic one.
Your head tilts, nose wrinkling as you notice they’re both wearing hospital gowns. Stu even has an IV hooked to his arm.
“What’s going on?” You try to straighten up, but your arms buckle out from under you. Stu reaches forward, gentle for once, as he helps you sit up.
Slowly, Billy makes his way to your side, perching just beside you, mirroring Stu. “How do you feel?” He asks, dodging your question.
You blink, struggling to take inventory of yourself. “Uh,” you shrug, frowning at the pain burning through your stomach. “Weird.”
“That’s the meds. They’ve got us on the same shit.” Stu lets go of your hands to lift his gown, showing a large, red-tinted bandage along his side.
“Jesus,” you reach out, fingers just brushing the edge. “What the hell happened to you two?”
“Sid’s dad,” Billy cuts in. Your head whips around to him so fast you’re surprised it doesn’t pop off. He offers a sardonic smirk as your jaw drops.
“Sorry, what?”
“Yeah, apparently the dude lost it,” Stu cuts in, eyes wide with something you don’t like. “Freaked out and just went on a bloody spree. He got us last night.” Billy reaches over and swats Stu’s arm. He lets out a little huff, “He got Tatum, too.”
“Stu-“
“And Sid.” Billy cuts you off before you can even start to console. Your eyes clench shut before shooting back open. This is way too much to be processing when you’ve just woken up from a drug-induced coma.
Your lips part, condolences ready on your tongue. But neither of them seems especially desperate for that. Stu’s got your hands in his, eyes watching every micro expression of yours like it's the most interesting thing in the world. Billy seems distant. Expected when your girlfriend is murdered by her father. But this is different, somehow.
There’s something he doesn’t want you to see.
“I,” your mind races with a hundred different thoughts before settling on one. “I don’t get it. Why'd he come after me?”
Stu scoffs, “Why'd he murder his daughter? Nothing about this will ever make sense.”
“Yeah, but-"
“We should let the doctor know you're awake.” Billy gets to his feet, cutting you off again. Stu lingers for a moment before reluctantly releasing your hands. Your eyes dart between them, not eager to just be left on your own again.
“We’ll stop by later,” Stu promises, the wheels of his IV drip squeaking as they both shuffle from your room. Your hand drifts to your stomach, mind growing consumed with the throbbing pain. Something isn’t right.
When you’re well enough that your meds can be cut back, you go off on your own to find the boys. You’re sick of being alone in your room. Terrified that every time you look through your window, that screaming mask will be staring back at you.
Sid’s dad is dead. Dewey and the others had reassured you a hundred times. But that didn't mean that Ghistface was dead. You saw him.
Saw them.
It wasn’t just one man behind the slaughter. But you hadn’t told Dewey that. Hadn’t told the sheriff. Not even the nosy ass reporter that kept sneaking her way past security.
No part of you had been able to reason away why you kept that information to yourself. There was no plausible excuse to protect the men who tried to kill you. Still, you can’t help but feel that if murder really had been their plan, you wouldn’t have gotten away that night.
Shuffling through the hospital halls, you keep an arm wrapped tight around your wound as you make your way to Stu’s room.
He seems miserably bored as he flips through channels on his TV. His face lights up when he sees you in the doorway. You chuckle as he tosses his remote away. Beckoning you closer as he pulls back his sheets.
Carefully, you help yourself into his bed, letting out a pained sigh as you try to get comfortable. “Where’s Billy?”
Stu shrugs, “I don’t know, probably using the bathroom. The meds they’ve got us on have me pissing like crazy.”
You let out a little snort and swat his arm. “You’re disgusting.”
Stu catches your hand in his, lacing your fingers together. His eyes bore into the scratchy hospital blanket, stare pensive. You think about offering to bring him something more comfortable when he speaks.
“Do you even like horror movies?”
Your brows furrow. Out of anything he could have said, that was probably the last thing you were expecting. “What?” You let out a disbelieving chuckle and he shrugs.
“We always force you through them on movie night. But I don’t think you’ve ever said you like them.”
You frown, picking at the threads of his fraying blanket. “I don’t know, what’s it matter?”
“Humor me,” he insists, tone unsettling. Looking back up, you nearly pull away. The vacant look in his eyes is disturbing.
“No,” you whisper, feeling like you’re telling him something you shouldn’t. “I don’t like them.”
“Why do you watch them?” He pushes, sitting up until his nose is nearly brushing yours. You would pull back if it didn’t feel like his stare had frozen you to the spot.
“I feel like if I don’t, you guys won’t want to hang out with me anymore.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Why are you asking me all this?” You whisper, eyes burning the longer Stu stares into them. He stays still for a moment, gaze running across yours. With a sharp bark of laughter, he falls back onto his pillows. You jump at the sudden movement and finally realize just how hard your heart is pounding against your ribs. His face cringes with pain as he tugs at his stitches.
“Wanna know my favorite trope?” He brushes past your question, armed with another series of his own. Fingers flexing under his tight grip, you try not to grimace. He doesn’t wait for you to answer.
“The final girl,” he whispers, waving one hand as if it’s some big reveal. “She never goes out. Never parties. Doesn’t care what she looks like,” his grip tightens infinitesimally around yours.
You want to tell him it hurts, but you can’t force the words from your tightened throat. “Always manages to outsmart the killers. She's always so perfect. Except,” he holds up one scolding finger with a sharp grin. “When she helps assholes like me cheat on his homework.”
You jerk back, flesh stinging like you’ve been burned. Stu lets you go, smile creeping ever wider. “What the hell are you saying?” You demand, voice cracking as you get to your feet.
“What’s the matter?” He asks, barely concealing his excitement as you back out of the room. “It’s just a joke,” he needles.
Your back slams into something firm and your breath catches in your throat. “I don’t think we ever asked,” Stu taunts with a chuckle.
Tilting your face back, you see Billy standing behind you, eyes dark and cold as they bore into yours.
Summary: Max always thought you never asked for much because you didn’t need much, low-maintenance to a fault, until he finally overhears the truth.
4.4k words / Masterlist
Max had always appreciated how easy you were to love.
You didn’t demand. You didn’t sulk over missed dates. There were no passive-aggressive comments about him not posting you enough or forgetting to text back when a race weekend swallowed him whole. You never made him feel guilty for the parts of his life that were already complicated. When he was travelling or exhausted, you simply kissed his forehead and told him to rest. When his schedule changed last minute, you never got upset, never made him sit through a tense silence or apologise for the same thing five different ways, you just shrugged with that soft little smile of yours and said, “We’ll figure it out.”
You weren’t just low-maintenance, you were selfless, unshakeably chill in a way that made loving you feel almost effortless. You understood the pressure, the travel, the media, the endless demands on his time, and you never tried to add yourself to the list of things he needed to manage.
You made room for his life before he even had to ask. You bent around the complicated edges of his world so naturally that, after a while, Max stopped noticing how much you were bending at all.
It was refreshing. Comforting, even. Being with you never felt like another obligation waiting for him when he got home. You were warmth, quiet, peace… but it also made it easy for Max to coast.
Because when you said you didn’t need flowers, he believed you. When you told him birthdays weren’t a big deal, he took your word for it.
When you said you didn’t mind that his attention was always half-distracted by Red Bull, his sim rig, his phone, or whatever new team crisis was unfolding in the background, he didn’t stop to wonder whether you meant it. He didn’t ask himself if you were genuinely fine with being loved in the gaps, or if you had simply learned to make your wants small enough that they never became inconvenient.
He didn’t notice that every time you said, “Don’t worry about it,” you were teaching him that he didn’t have to.
Until he saw the way your smile dimmed at Daniel’s girlfriend’s birthday party.
The boat was filled with champagne and noise, a private Monaco affair organised by Daniel, of course, because no one else could make a birthday party feel quite that excessive and still somehow charming. There was a neon sign glowing above the bar, a curated playlist that seemed suspiciously full of songs Daniel liked more than his girlfriend did, and custom cupcakes with everyone’s faces printed on them. Max didn’t even know you could do that.
You sat beside him with a drink in hand, your shoulder brushing his every now and then as the boat rocked gently against the water. To anyone else you looked perfectly fine, but Max had started paying closer attention now.
Your laugh came half a second too late, your smile faded too quickly, and your eyes kept drifting back to the couple across the deck.
Daniel’s girlfriend had her arms slung around his neck, his jacket draped over her shoulders, and a glittery tiara with Birthday Girl written across the front sitting slightly crooked on her head. Daniel kept adjusting it for her, grinning every time she swatted his hand away, and when she leaned into him, he kissed her temple without seeming to think about it. Thoughtless in the best way, like loving her out loud was simply instinct.
“You made it!” Daniel said, pulling Max into a hug before turning to you with even more enthusiasm. “And you look amazing. Seriously, come on, look at you.”
You laughed, a bit surprised, and looked down at yourself like you hadn’t expected anyone to notice.
Max noticed that.
Daniel’s girlfriend came over next, glowing, happy, adored. She hugged you tightly and thanked you both for coming, then turned to show you the bracelet Daniel had bought her. It was delicate and expensive, the kind of jewellery Max would never have picked out on his own because he would have convinced himself he didn’t know what he was doing and given up before trying.
“He surprised me with it this morning,” she said, beaming. “And he pretended he forgot my birthday for, like, ten minutes, which was evil, but then he had breakfast set up on the balcony.”
Daniel, overhearing, lifted his glass. “Romance is alive and well ladies and gentlemen.”
Normal Daniel. Loud, teasing, affectionate Daniel, who made a spectacle out of caring because he had never been embarrassed by warmth in the same way Max sometimes was, but then Max looked at you.
You were smiling. Of course you were smiling.
You were always polite. Always kind. Always good at being happy for other people, even when something inside you was quietly aching. There was something different about it then, something Max had never noticed before because he had never had reason to look for it.
Your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.
You didn’t look devastated, you didn’t withdraw your hand from his arm or go quiet in a way anyone else would pick up on. You just looked at the bracelet on Daniel’s girlfriend’s wrist, then at the flowers, then at the wall of photos, and for half a second your expression morphed into something almost wistful.
Max felt it like a punch he had no right to react to.
The conversation moved on around him. Daniel was talking about the cake, someone else was laughing about how long it had taken to get the decorations right. His girlfriend was telling you how Daniel had been secretly planning it for weeks, badly, apparently, because he almost exposed himself several times.
You laughed at the story.
You said, “That’s really sweet.”
Max heard the softness in your voice.
For the first time all night, Max looked at the party properly. He looked at the flowers. The photos. The custom menu cards with her name on them. The cake Daniel had apparently taste-tested three times because the first one “didn’t feel like her.”
Then Max looked at you.
You were standing beside him with nothing from him except your own practiced understanding.
No flowers.
No post.
No planned birthday dinner he hadn’t rescheduled.
No little public signs that he was proud to love you.
No evidence, really, that Max Verstappen had ever looked at the woman beside him and thought, she deserves to feel chosen.
His stomach twisted, because suddenly he remembered your last birthday with a clarity that made him feel slightly sick.
He had been in Milton Keynes for simulator work. He’d called you late, later than he meant to, and you had answered in bed, face lit softly by your phone screen. You had smiled like you were happy just to hear from him. He had apologised again for not being able to be there. You had said it didn’t matter and he had promised to make it up to you. You had said, “Don’t stress, honestly. I had a nice day.”
Had you?
Had you really?
Or had you said that because it was easier than admitting you had wanted him there?
He thought about the flowers you always claimed not to need. The birthdays you said weren’t important. The dates you never demanded. The posts you never asked for. The attention you pretended not to miss.
Beside him, you glanced up. “You okay?”
Max blinked, pulled out of his thoughts by the gentleness of your voice. That made it worse somehow, even now you were checking on him.
“Yeah,” he said, too quickly. “Fine.”
You studied him for a moment, clearly not convinced, but you didn’t push. You never pushed. You simply nodded and looked back towards the others, your shoulder brushing lightly against his sleeve.
Max hated that too. He hated that you gave him space even when maybe he deserved pressure.
He hated that you had made yourself so easy to keep that he had forgotten keeping you was still something he had to actively do.
For the rest of the night, he couldn’t stop watching you.
He watched Daniel’s girlfriend pull you into photos, watched you laugh as someone handed you a party hat you refused to wear for about ten seconds. He watched you compliment the decorations, watched you ask questions about the planning, watched your fingers lightly brush over one of the flower arrangements when you thought no one was looking.
You liked flowers.
Of course you liked flowers.
Maybe not in the over-the-top, expensive, social-media way, but you liked them. He could tell by the way you touched the petals carefully, the way your face warmed when Daniel’s girlfriend told you Daniel had chosen them because they reminded him of a dress she once wore in Monaco.
Max stood there, silent and increasingly irritated with himself.
How many things had you convinced yourself you didn’t need simply because he had never offered them?
How many wants had you softened into jokes so they wouldn’t feel like demands?
How many times had you made yourself smaller around his life and called it love?
Later, when everyone gathered around the cake, Daniel made a speech. A terrible speech, because it was Daniel, so half of it was jokes and the other half was him pretending not to get emotional. Then he spoke about how his girlfriend made his life better. How she put up with him. How she deserved more than one night of being celebrated, but he hoped this was a decent start.
Everyone laughed.
His girlfriend cried.
You smiled.
Max felt like the worst boyfriend in the world.
He complimented you in private, usually quietly, usually after you’d done something for him. He told you he loved you, yes, but often in bed, or before hanging up, or in passing when one of you was leaving. He assumed you knew. He assumed choosing you privately counted the same as making you feel chosen.
On the drive home you were quieter than usual.
Your head rested against the window, city lights sliding over your face in brief flashes. Your heels were in your lap because you had taken them off the second you got in the car, and your fingers played absently with the strap like your mind was somewhere else.
Max kept glancing over. Usually he liked quiet with you, it was comfortable and easy, you didn’t need to fill every silence.
Tonight the quiet felt full of everything you weren’t saying.
“Did you have a good time?” he asked eventually.
You turned your head, smiling faintly. “Yeah. It was lovely.”
Lovely.
The word sat between you.
Max swallowed. “Daniel did a lot.”
“He did,” you said, and your voice was warm. “It was really sweet.”
There it was again. That careful admiration.
Max’s hands flexed around the steering wheel. “You like that kind of thing?”
You looked at him properly then, brows lifting a little. “What kind of thing?”
He shrugged, trying to sound casual and failing. “All of it. The flowers. The photos. The big party.”
You looked away and gave a small laugh, the kind that tried to make a truth sound harmless. “I mean, I don’t need all that.”
Max’s chest tightened.
That wasn’t what he had asked.
“I didn’t ask if you needed it.”
Your fingers stopped moving against the shoe strap and for a moment you said nothing. Then you looked down and smiled again, but this one was worse than the one at the party because it was meant only for him, meant to reassure him, meant to protect him from feeling bad about something he had already done.
“I just think it’s nice,” you said carefully. “For her. Daniel clearly put a lot of thought into it.”
Max nodded once, jaw tense.
Thought.
That was the word that stayed with him.
You didn’t need a private room full of flowers or a custom cake or a wall of photographs. You probably didn’t even want something that big, but you wanted thought. You wanted evidence that he had paused, considered you, and chosen to make you feel loved on purpose.
Max, who could analyse tyre degradation over fifty laps, who could remember tiny setup changes from races years ago, who could spend hours perfecting a sim lap by half a tenth, had somehow convinced himself he was incapable of remembering to buy you flowers.
“I should have done more for your birthday,” he said.
You went very still.
The car felt smaller suddenly.
“Max…”
“No,” he said, because he knew that tone. He knew you were about to let him off the hook again. “I should have.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not.”
You exhaled quietly and looked out of the window again. “I told you it was fine.”
“I know you did.”
“Then why are you bringing it up?”
Because I finally saw your face, he wanted to say. Because I finally realised you have been asking for so little that I stopped giving you even that and I do not know how to forgive myself for not noticing sooner.
But Max had never been good with words when they mattered most.
So he said, “Because I think you say things are fine when they're not.”
Your mouth pressed together. That tiny movement cut through him more than any argument would have.
You weren’t angry, but part of him wished you were. Anger would have given him something to meet, something to fix, something loud enough that he couldn’t ignore it, you just looked tired and that was worse.
“I don’t want to be difficult,” you said after a while.
“You're not difficult,” he said immediately.
You gave him a small, sad smile. “I know. I just mean… your life is already a lot. You have so many people needing things from you all the time I never wanted to be another thing on the list.”
“You are not a thing on the list.”
“Aren’t I?” you asked softly.
Max didn’t answer fast enough, once again words failed him, he hated himself for that.
You turned your face back towards the window, and the reflection showed him the truth he had been avoiding all night. You weren’t crying or making a scene. You weren’t asking him to turn the car around or apologise in some grand dramatic way. You were simply sitting there beside him carrying a hurt that had clearly existed long before tonight.
He figured you’d be home from your errands by now.
Probably curled up somewhere in the apartment, wearing one of his hoodies like you always did when he was away for more than a few days. Maybe on the sofa with your knees tucked beneath you, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, or half-watching one of those comfort shows you liked to put on in the background while you waited for him. The thought came easily, warmly, and Max found himself smiling before he had even opened the door properly.
He liked coming home to you.
He liked the small signs of you scattered through his space. Your shoes by the door, your hair tie abandoned on the coffee table, your mug in the sink because you always forgot to rinse it. Your presence had softened the apartment in ways he hadn’t realised he needed, turning it from somewhere he slept between races into somewhere that actually felt like home.
The apartment was quiet when he stepped inside, but not empty.
Max kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket, already turning toward the living room when he heard your voice from the bedroom. Then he heard your best friend’s name, and realised you were on the phone.
He didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He was about to call out, to let you know he was back, but something about your tone made him stop before the words left his mouth. So he stayed quiet, halfway down the hall, one hand still resting against the wall.
“I’m not upset he did all that for her,” you were saying. “It’s sweet. It is.”
There was a pause.
Max’s body went strangely still.
He knew, instantly, what you were talking about.
“It’s just…” You exhaled shakily. “He’s never done anything like that for me.”
The words hit him hard. Max stared at the floor, heartbeat slowing into something heavy and uncomfortable.
“I don’t ask for much,” you continued, and your voice was smaller now, like you were embarrassed to even say it out loud. “I know I don’t. I never wanted to pressure him or make him feel like he had to go out of his way when his life is already so much. I thought if I was easygoing and low-maintenance, it would make things easier on him.”
His throat tightened.
“But sometimes—” Your voice broke so softly he almost missed it. “Sometimes I wish he’d do something without me having to ask.”
Max’s fingers curled around the edge of the wall.
He could feel every careless assumption he had ever made beginning to turn over in his head, one after another, each one worse than the last.
You didn’t care if he forgot plans, if he came home distracted, if he said he would make it up to you and then didn’t, because something else came up and you smiled like it was fine.
“Maybe I enabled it by alway saying I was fine... but I don’t need grand gestures,” you went on, voice wobbling now. “I know that’s not really him, and I don’t want him to be anyone else. I don’t want a big show just for the sake of it, but it would be nice to feel special sometimes… to feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.”
Max’s chest ached.
He looked toward the bedroom door, but he couldn’t move.
“I just want to know he wants to do those things for me,” you whispered. “Not because he’s apologising or because someone else did it first… because he loves me enough to notice.”
Max couldn’t breathe properly.
He hadn’t known.
He really hadn’t known.
He thought you meant it when you said you didn’t care about birthdays, anniversaries, flowers, or all the romantic things he had always been bad at. He had thought that was part of what made you you. Unbothered by the kind of performative relationship stuff he had never known how to do properly.
The conversation ended a few minutes later.
He heard the soft rustle of sheets then your footsteps moving across the bedroom floor. Max reacted too late, still trapped in the weight of what he had heard and only barely managed to step back into the hallway before you came out.
You stopped when you saw him.
For one awful second, neither of you said anything and then he smiled and wrapped you in a hug pretending like he hadn’t heard a word.
That night Max sat alone in the dark of the living room for a long time, head in his hands. He couldn’t bring himself to move, couldn’t bring himself to do anything except sit there in the silence and let every word he had overheard replay in his head until it felt carved into him.
He kept hearing your voice.
“to feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.”
He pressed the heels of his hands harder against his eyes.
God.
How many moments had you swallowed your disappointment before he could even notice it was there, dimming yourself down just to be easier to love?
It gutted him.
You hadn’t asked him for the world. You hadn’t asked him to become someone he wasn’t. You only wanted to feel considered. Somehow he had made the best thing in his life feel like she had to be grateful for whatever was left of him at the end of the day.
You deserved fireworks, even if you were the kind of girl who said she didn’t need them. You didn’t want more from him. You just wanted to matter enough for him to give it anyway.
You didn’t expect anything to change.
Max was always kind, attentive in the ways he knew how to be. He noticed when you were cold and passed you his hoodie without making a big thing of it. He reached for your hand in crowded places because he liked knowing exactly where you were. He remembered how you took your coffee, which side of the bed you preferred, the shows you put on when you needed background noise. He loved you. You knew he did.
So when he suggested you take a weekend off together “Somewhere quiet, just us” you didn’t overthink it. You figured he wanted to disappear for a couple of days, somewhere without cameras, team radios, sponsor obligations, or someone asking him about tyre degradation.
It wasn’t until you stepped onto the lakeside dock in Switzerland that you realised something was different.
The cottage was small but charming, tucked away by the water with warm wood walls, soft cream blankets, and floor-to-ceiling windows that made the whole place glow with the late afternoon light. It wasn’t flashy, it wasn’t the kind of place chosen to impress anyone, it felt private, thoughtful, almost painfully intimate.
Inside there were your favourite snacks arranged in the kitchen. Your favourite wine chilling in the fridge. Your comfort blanket folded over the armchair by the window. Your favourite book was already resting on the bedside table, the old, worn copy you had once told him you reread whenever your head felt too loud.
You frowned, turning slowly back to him. “Did you… did you set this up?”
Max leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, trying for casual and not quite managing it. “Maybe.”
You narrowed your eyes, sceptical. “What’s going on?”
His smirk softened a little. He just looked at you and there was something unusually careful in his expression, something that made your chest tighten before he had even said a word.
“I listened,” he said.
You blinked. Max glanced down briefly, like the words felt awkward in his mouth, but when he looked back up he didn’t look away again.
“I didn’t realise how much I’d taken for granted,” he continued quietly. “How much you gave by never asking. You made it easy for me, but that doesn’t mean I should’ve stopped trying.”
Your throat tightened.
“Max…”
“No, let me say it,” he murmured, taking a small step closer. “You always said things were fine. That you didn’t need flowers, or birthdays, or plans, or all the extra stuff and I believed you because it was easier because it meant I didn’t have to think about whether you were only saying it so I wouldn’t feel bad.”
You swallowed hard, looking away before your face could betray too much.
He walked you further inside, his hand warm at the small of your back, and that was when you noticed the little table by the window. It had been set for two, facing the lake as the sun began to lower behind the mountains. Candlelight, flowers, two plates, homemade pasta that looked slightly lopsided and very clearly like his doing, and a little folded note beside your place.
You stared at it for a second before picking it up.
In his messy, all-caps handwriting, it said:
I SHOULD HAVE MADE YOU FEEL SPECIAL BEFORE NOW. I’M GOING TO DO BETTER.
Max’s face shifted immediately, concern cutting through the nervousness. “Schatje…”
You shook your head quickly trying to laugh it off, but your voice came out thin. “I wanted to be cool,” you whispered. “I wanted to be the girlfriend who didn’t care about all that stuff. I thought if I asked for too much then I’d just become another pressure for you.”
Max stepped closer and cupped your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away the tears that slipped out despite your best efforts.
“You are the most important person in my life,” he murmured. “You always are.” His voice dropped softer, rougher. “I wish I could give you the world and I’m sorry it took me this long to show it.”
You looked at him then, really looked at him, at the nervous set of his mouth and the careful way he held you, like he understood now that easiness was not the same thing as not needing anything.
Then you finally kissed him.
Later that night you were curled against his chest with the fireplace crackling softly in the background, the cottage wrapped in that quiet, golden kind of warmth that made everything outside feel very far away.
Max had one arm around you, his hand resting beneath the hem of your sweater, fingers tracing slow, absent patterns against your skin.
You smiled into his shoulder, cheek pressed against the soft fabric as you listened to the steady beat of his.
“So,” you mumbled, voice sleepy but teasing, “is this a one-time gesture or…”
Max’s chest moved beneath you as he chuckled. “Oh no.”
You tilted your head slightly. “Oh no?”
“No,” he said, tightening his arm around you. “You’re getting so much romance now it’ll annoy you.”
You looked up at him trying and failing not to smile. “Really?”
He nodded solemnly, like he was discussing race strategy. “Really. I’m talking airport reunions. Flowers for no reason. Random poetry.”
“Poetry?” you repeated, laughing already.
“Bad poetry,” he corrected. “Very bad. Rhymes way too much.”
“Oh, God.”
“And a cheesy playlist,” he added, completely serious. “Maybe several. One for the car. One for when I’m away. One with songs you’ll make fun of me for.”
You laughed properly then, burying your face in his neck as warmth spread through your chest. It was never about the playlist, or the flowers, or whatever terrible poetry Max Verstappen might attempt in the name of love.
It was that he was thinking about it. That he had finally understood the difference between you not needing to be spoiled and you still deserving to be cherished.
Max turned his head and pressed a kiss into your hair. “I’m serious,” he murmured, quieter now. “I don’t want you wondering anymore.”
Your laughter softened. You lifted your face again, looking at him through the firelight. “Wondering what?”
“If I think about you,” he said. “If I notice. If I care enough to try.”
Your throat tightened, but this time the feeling wasn’t painful. Max brushed his thumb along your cheek. “I do,” he said. “I’ll show you better now.”
For a moment you just looked at him, then you leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth before tucking yourself back against him.
“That sounds perfect.” you whispered, smiling against his neck.
˚ ༘ 🎞️ ⸝⸝ ⋮ in which as one of mercedes’ top-performing drivers, you have always been on f1’s biggest douchebag, max verstappen’s, bad side.
or… there’s a fine line between hatred and obsession when your camaraderie with teammate george russell starts ‘crossing the line’.
max verstappen x mercedes driver f! reader · category : (very) suggestive · contents : feat. george russell. reader is referred as y/n. enemies to ???. strong language. slight age gap (max is 4 years older than reader). mean!max. degradation. mild violence (slapping). make-outs. hickeys. there's a love triangle if you squint. reader discretion is advised. · word count : 10.9k
💬 … verslyns speaking ⸝⸝ an anon request! might write a smut chapter for this couple 😇
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A WORD TO DESCRIBE MAX VERSTAPPEN? dickhead. bastard. asshole—oh wait, that’s three words… well, he deserved more than that.
he deserved a thesaurus, honestly, a whole fucking dictionary of every cuss word the english language had ever coughed up, because one word could never be enough to capture the particular flavor of his existence. the way he walked through the paddock as if he owned the place, the way he looked at other drivers—especially you, as if you were beneath him… you had figuratively compiled a list over the years, kept it within your headspace, added to it after every race, every interview, every time his name appeared on the timing screen at p1.
oh, how it drove your blood pressure to spike.
more precisely, he deserved a monument built to his own enormous ego, a statue carved from pure entitlement, standing tall in the center of some dutch square where pigeons could shit on it for eternity. you would definitely pay a visit. you would bring bread. you would pack a picnic. you would make a day of it, watching the white streaks cascade down his stone-cold face, and you would feel nothing but profound satisfaction.
but here was the thing… you hadn’t always felt this way.
there was a time, once, when you had looked at max verstappen and seen something other than arrogance wrapped in a racing suit. a time when you had watched him climb through the ranks, from karting to finally taking a seat in a formula one car, from boy wonder to youngest winner, then a world champion.
well yes… what you felt for him was contradicting your present self. back then, it was admiration, pure and uncomplicated. as far as you wanted to shove dirt down your throat… you had to admit that you were a fan.
you had been younger then, newer to the sport. still naive enough to believe that talent was all that mattered, still innocent enough to separate the driver from the person, still stupid enough to think you could ever be anything other than a footnote in his life.
you had watched his first win in spain, his first championship in abu dhabi… you remembered crying when he finally made his appearance with the trophy, all messy hair and a victorious smile.
you remembered thinking… ah, he deserves this.
you remembered being genuinely happy for him.
you remembered shamelessly screaming along with your friends as he was the first to cross the finish line.
you had wanted to meet him, had imagined it a thousand times; bumping into him in the paddock, catching his eyes across a crowded room, finding yourself seated next to him at some obligatory fia dinner. you had rehearsed conversations in your head, imagined what you would say, how you would make him see you as something other than just another face in the crowd.
then, you started racing against him. you had signed with mercedes and teamed up with george.
and everything had changed ever since. you started to see max verstappen not as a person but the villain of your career, and the hatred had taken root.
george russell was not the reason you hated max verstappen. that would be too simple, too reductive, too easy. however, george was the lens through which you had learned to see max—the filter that colored every interaction, every incident, every casual cruelty disguised as competitiveness.
you had arrived at mercedes as a rookie, wide-eyed and desperate to prove yourself. you had no allies, no friends, no one to be your mentor. and george, with that opportunity, took you under his wing.
he had stood with you when everyone else avoided you. he had answered your endless questions about setups, tire management, and how to handle the media. he had defended you in meetings when the engineers dismissed your feedback, had stayed late to help you analyze data, had celebrated your first podium like it was his own.
he had also, over time, told you stories.
not maliciously. not with any obvious agenda. just… casually. over coffee. during long flights between races. in the quiet moments when the two of you were the only ones left in the karaoke room.
"it was completely reckless. he pushed me wide in a corner where there was no runoff—just a wall. i could have been seriously hurt."
"he doesn't respect anyone who isn't a threat to him. and he doesn't think i'm a threat."
"he said, and i quote, 'i will purposely go out of my way to put you on your fucking head in the wall...' i don't really get the unnecessary violence."
you had absorbed these stories like a sponge, not questioning them, because why would you? george was your friend, your teammate. and everything he said about max aligned with what you saw with your own eyes—the aggressive driving, the dismissive interviews, the way he treated other drivers.
that was when the admiration curdled, when the distance between fan and rival collapsed into something sharper, colder, something that lived in your chest and hissed every time you saw his face on a screen.
because max verstappen also didn’t look at you like a proper rival… you were rather a nuisance, someone who had absolutely no business being on the same track as him. perhaps it was both your fear and insecurity speaking.
and the worst part? he wasn’t entirely wrong… not yet.
but you were getting there. and the thought of noticing you, not as a mere rookie but as a threat, was the only thing that kept you going some days.
all of your thoughts were thrown out the window as you stepped into the cooldown room.
it felt… incredibly suffocating.
not surprising. that was the first thing you noticed the moment you pushed through the door; the way the air had gone still and heavy, thick with tension, with something unspeakable that had crystallized in the space between two men who had forgotten how to be civil to each other approximately three seasons ago.
the way the two men inside seemed to have forgotten that anyone else existed—that the cameras would be arriving soon, that there were protocols, expectations, and a thousand unspoken rules about how drivers were supposed to behave after a race.
none of that mattered to the mighty max verstappen.
the dutch lion stood in the center of the room like it belonged to him. arms crossed above his chest, chin lifted, jaw set. his fireproof still clung to the broad lines of his shoulders, the top half of his race suit hanging loose around his hips. he was perfectly, unnervingly still, the kind of stillness that came before something snapped.
and george—
george was seething.
you had never seen your teammate like this. george russell, with his polished manners and his carefully curated press persona, the man who never raised his voice in public, who always had a diplomatic answer ready, who had always been your 'role model'… that george was gone.
in his place stood someone raw and furious, his usual composure shattered like glass against concrete. his race suit was still zipped to his neck, yet his gloves had been torn off and thrown somewhere. his face was flushed, his chest heaving, and when he spoke, his voice cracked with the effort of containing his rage.
the replays showed it; the clips the stewards were reviewing, the clips that made this whole situation so damn complicated:
max had been ahead.
he had been ahead the entire time, defending his line the way he always did—aggressively, yes, but appropriate. and george, so desperate to prove that he belonged in that top step conversation, had lunged—had gone for a gap that was never really there, had put his front wing where it didn't belong and paid the price.
the crash was entirely george's fault.
everyone knew it despite you hating to admit it. the data would show it. the stewards would probably penalize him for it.
however, max, being max, wasn't content to let the facts speak for themselves. no, he had to confront it. he had to push. he had to make sure george understood exactly who was to blame.
“your ego wrote a check your talent couldn't cash, russell,” max spat, and his voice was low, cutting, each word a scalpel. “you saw a gap that didn't exist and you went for it anyway. like you always do.”
classic max. no hesitation, no filter, no mercy. just the cold, hard truth served with a side of that smug arrogance that made you want to slam his face into a wall—anything to stop the dutchman from ever speaking.
“my ego?” george laughed, short and humorless, and there was nothing pleasant about it, “you squeezed me. you've been squeezing me all race. what was i supposed to do—just sit behind you and let you drive off into the sunset?”
“i was ahead,” max stepped closer, and the height difference became almost comical; george towering over him, yet somehow appearing smaller. “that's exactly what you were supposed to do. i had the line. i had the corner. and you—”
he jabbed a finger into george's chest. “you decided your ego mattered more than other’s safety.”
george returned the action, an ugly frown festering on his lips, “you ruined my race.”
“you ruined your own race. i just happened to be there when you did it.”
his jaw ticked, “you're unbelievable."”
“and you're predictable,” max’s expression soured even further, “every single time. you get desperate, you make a mistake, and then you blame everyone else. it's exhausting, honestly. do you ever take responsibility for anything?”
“i—”
“maybe if you weren't so desperate to prove that you belong in that seat,” max continued, stepping even closer to george, shoving him backwards, “maybe if you spent less time playing politics and more time learning how to race—”
“that's enough.”
the words left your mouth before you could stop them. they cut through the tension like a dagger, sharp and unexpected, and both men turned to look at you.
max's expression flickered. for a fraction of a second, something that looked almost like surprise crossed his features. he had forgotten you were there—well, they both had.
you, with little courage left, walked towards them, boots stomping against the polished floor. you were still in your race suit, the top half pulled down and tied around your waist like max's, your fireproofs sticking to your skin with sweat and adrenaline. your hair was a disaster; pulled back in a ponytail that had come half-undone during the race, strands escaping to frame your face. you probably looked like hell.
well, you didn't care.
“the stewards will make their decision,” you announced, and your voice was steady, measured, the voice you used when you were negotiating your contract or facing down a hostile interviewer, “screaming at each other isn't going to change what happened.”
“stay out of this, y/n,” max's tone was dismissive, the same tone he always used with you. as if you were a child who had wandered into a room full of adults. like your opinion didn't matter. as if you didn't belong here, in this conversation, in this sport, in his orbit.
something hot and familiar flared in your chest.
“don't tell me to stay out of anything.” you stopped a few feet away, close enough to be a presence, close enough to remind them both that you existed. the words came out flat, “you've made your point. he made a mistake. congratulations.”
you let the word hang there for a beat, let it drip with exactly as much sincerity as it deserved, “now grow up and wait for the update like everyone else.”
turquoise-blue eyes found yours in a slow, deliberate sweep; the kind of look that wasn’t rushed, wasn’t startled, wasn’t anything close to impressed. the way he looked at you made you feel like you were a mildly interesting insect that had dared to crawl across his path, as if he had all the time in the world to decide whether or not to step on you.
he caned his head to the side, just lightly, just enough to make it clear he had heard every word and was already bored of them.
or so you thought.
“always the loyal little teammate,” the words slithered out of him, akin to smoke curling from a cigarette—smooth, unhurried, but lethal. a noxious chortle followed, “does toto give you a bonus for that? or do you just enjoy being russell's sidekick?”
the words landed like knives between your ribs.
sidekick.
you had been called worse. you had been called every variation of ‘not good enough’, ‘replacable’, and ‘only got the seat because she's marketable’. you had developed calluses over the soft parts of yourself, built armor out of spite and determination, and the stubborn refusal to let anyone make you feel small.
however, to hear that from the world champion himself and your idol… it hit somewhere you hadn't known you were vulnerable.
it hit the part of you that still remembered being that young fan watching him on tv, the part of you that had once hoped he might see you as an equal, a rival, someone worth acknowledging, the part of you that had spent three years convincing herself she didn't care what he thought—when clearly, devastatingly, she did.
you didn't think. you didn't pause. you didn't give yourself a single second to consider the consequences.
your hand moved.
“y/n, no—”
the slap cracked across his face like thunder, sharp and final, the sound echoing off the marble walls of the cooldown room. his head snapped to the side, a red mark blooming instantly across his cheekbone, stark against his pale skin.
silence.
max's nostrils flared, jaw tightened. his hands balled into fists, trembling crescively. and in his eyes—in those blue eyes that you had once, in the privacy of your own mind, admitted were beautiful, something cracked.
you couldn't name what you saw there. hurt? anger? worse, hatred? it was there and gone too fast, swallowed by the mask he wore like armor, the mask that had been forged in the fires of his family's expectations and the weight of a nation's hopes.
“this isn't over,” he muttered finally.
he didn't even look at george, didn't even bat an eye. he looked at you.
oh, if eyes could kill.
following that, he walked out, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound like a period at the end of a sentence.
george exhaled heavily beside you. his hand found your elbow, warm and grounding. “you didn't have to do that.”
“...whatever, george,” you mumbled softly, still staring at the door. still feeling the ghost of max's gaze on your skin.
THE MEDIA PEN WAS A ZOO. microphones stretched toward you like hungry mouths, cameras flashed in rapid succession, bleaching the world white between shots, leaving spots of color swimming behind your eyelids every time you blinked. reporters shouted questions over each other, their voices blending into a cacophony of noise that made your head throb, that made the lights overhead seem somehow brighter, somehow more cruel.
you had done this a thousand times; attending these conferences should be easy for you by now… just practiced smiles and measured words.
however today, you were beyond exhausted. you were still angry. you could still feel the phantom heat of max's gaze on your skin, and something reckless was coiling in your chest.
“y/n! your thoughts on the incident between verstappen and russell?”
you paused. adjusted the mercedes cap on your head. took a deep breath.
your pr manager was standing just outside the pen, watching you with an expression that said 'be careful' in capital letters. toto was somewhere behind her, probably already on the phone with the fia, damage control already underway.
the sensible thing would be to give a boring answer. these things happen in racing. the stewards will handle it. my focus is on the next race.
however, you were so tired of being sensible.
especially when it came to max verstappen and his violent personality.
“george made a mistake.” you responded carefully, “he's admitted that. but max's reaction after the crash was... disproportionate. there's a difference between holding someone accountable and what he did.”
“are you saying verstappen was out of line?”
“i'm saying that his behavior was unnecessary. the crash happened. it's being reviewed. there was no need for him to escalate the situation even more.”
violent. the word was on the tip of your tongue, begging to be spoken. you thought about max's face in the cooldown room; the way his nostrils had flared, the way his skin bloomed in red, the way he had looked at you—
nevermind. you didn’t want to think about it anymore. for your own peace.
“would you describe his behavior as violent, y/n?”
there it was. the opening you hadn't meant to create.
you should have closed it. should have laughed and said that's a strong word and pivoted to something safer. however, the recklessness was still there, burning in your chest, and you were so tired of being careful.
“i think there's a pattern of aggression that goes beyond what's acceptable,” you disclosed slowly, choosing each word like a weapon. “and i think it's time someone pointed it out.”
in instant, the space broke open.
the reporters erupted. questions overlapping, cameras tilting, someone gasping a laugh that didn’t sound like a laugh at all. it was chaotic, beautiful, and irreversible.
and on the other side of the pen, max was answering his own questions.
his back was facing you; that should have been a wall, a barrier. something to soften the blow, muffle the intent, turn his words into background noise swallowed by the thick swarm of bodies between you.
yet the crowd, dense as it was, elbows and shoulders, along with hungry recorders held aloft, might as well have been made of air.
you could still hear him.
that flat yet menacing voice that never seemed to waver, even when the questions were hostile, even when the cameras were rolling, even when the world was watching.
“max, what do you say to y/n's comments about your behavior?”
a pause. you peered over your shoulder, taking a peek at him. you imagined him tilting his head, that infuriating half-smile playing at the corners of his lips.
“she's entitled to her opinion.”
“do you think her comments were fair?”
he could’ve said no. could’ve shrugged and moved on. could’ve been the bigger person—
instead…
“i think,” his tone lacked temperature, texture, nothing to hold onto, “that some people are more interested in being popular than being fast. and when you can't defend your teammate on track, i guess you have to defend him in the media.”
motherfucker.
“are you referring to y/n specifically?”
i’m going to kill him.
"i don’t know," his mouth curved—not a genuine one, instead the skeleton of one, a simper that had been gutted and hung out to dry, "why don’t we ask miss y/l/n herself?"
oh my god. he did not—
the question hit hard like a freight train made of glass; shattering and over before anyone could duck. you felt the heat rush to your face, felt the cameras swivel towards you to capture your reaction, felt your teammate holding his breath.
“would you like to respond to that, y/n?”
you forced a smile. no, you couldn’t let him win. you would not give him the satisfaction.
“no comment.”
yet your nails were digging into your palms so hard that you left crescent-shaped marks in your skin.
YOU HAD SURVIVED MONACO AT NIGHT IN THE RAIN. you had survived a 300 kilometer per hour crash that should have broken more than just your confidence. you had survived four seasons in a sport that had tried, repeatedly and enthusiastically, to chew you up and spit you out.
but this? this dinner was going to be the death of you.
the entire grid was there: drivers, a few of the team principals, along with a few invited celebrities. you never really had any problem with any of the drivers. in fact, other than george, you were great friends with alex. he was one of the first drivers who made you feel welcomed during your rookie season. you remembered being lost and overwhelmed in the chaos of the paddock, and he simply made his presence known by sitting down next to you, trying to start a conversation.
you loved alex for that—well, you loved a lot of people for a lot of reasons. carlos, who always saved you a seat at dinner when the grid went out together. fernando, who had always been a good mentor to you. and charles, who always sent you stupid memes whenever he couldn’t sleep before a race.
you had friends in this sport, real friends. people who celebrated your podiums and commiserated your losses, and never once made you feel like you didn’t belong.
and yet… somehow, the room still felt like a battlefield—if only because of a specific dutchman and the silhouette he carved in the corner of your eye.
“earth to y/n?”
you blinked. once, twice, regaining your reality as george had finally returned from the bathroom and was sliding into the seat beside you, a curious expression plastered on his face.
the casual grid dinner was already in full swing: plates of pasta being passed around, bottles of wine scattered across the table, everyone talking over everyone else in that chaotic, comfortable way that only happened when the cameras weren’t rolling.
“you okay, love?” the british driver studied you for a moment, before reaching for the bread basket, “looked like you were having an existential crisis.”
a soft sigh escaped you, “just thinking.”
“dangerous habit,” he said it lightly, the way he always did, and his arm found its familiar place across the back of your chair—not possessively, just comfortably. the way two friends who had spent countless hours side by side tended to settle into each other’s space without thinking about it.
you leaned into him slightly, letting your shoulder press against his. the table was undoubtedly crowded; mercedes claimed the middle section of the table, with toto across from you, already deep in conversation with susie about something that made her laugh. it was casual, it was normal… it was exactly the kind of casual dinner you had attended many times before.
so why did it feel like the walls were closing in?
“are you sure you’re okay?” george asked, quieter now. his hand found your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze, “you’ve been off all night.”
you shrugged, now reaching for your glass of wine, “i’m fine, george.”
a light scoff, “you’re a terrible liar.”
“i’m an excellent one. you’re just annoyingly perceptive.”
he grinned, flashing those perfect teeth, “one of my many talents.”
you rolled your eyes, but you couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips. this was good. this was safe. george was here, solid and familiar, and the food was good and the wine was better and nothing bad was going to happen at a casual team dinner in a private room above some restaurant that toto had booked out for the night.
you just had to get through it.
you just had to not look at the other end of the table.
you just had to—
too late.
you were already under the lion’s watch. max was already watching you.
of course he was. the man had never seemed to let go of the incident. not really. not the time you had assaulted him across the face. not the time you had made offending comments on him in front of the media, words you couldn’t take back, words you weren’t sure you wanted to take back.
okay fine, you regretted hitting him. it was out of line.
not the words though, they were facts and needed to be disclosed; in hopes that the dutchman would stop bullying his fellow drivers.
his gaze was heavy from the other end of the table, a weight you could feel pressing against your skin without meeting his eyes. he wasn’t even pretending to be subtle about it. his chin rested on his hand, his posture relaxed, almost lazy, yet his eyes… those turquoise blues, they were fixed on you with an intensity that made your stomach burn.
no, he was not glancing. not looking in your general direction while his attention was elsewhere. staring. as if you were the only person in the room. as if the table could catch fire and the walls could crumble, and he wouldn’t notice any of that because his eyes were on you.
his jaw was set tight, his grip on his wine glass white-knuckled. he wasn’t looking at george. just you.
the noise of the dinner faded. the clinking of glasses, the rumble of conversation, the sound of lando laughing at something three tables over—all of it blurred into white noise. there was only him. only those eyes. only the weight of his gaze pressing against your skin like a brand.
you should have looked away.
you should have dropped your gaze and gone back to your conversation and pretended you hadn't seen anything. that was what sensible people did. that was what professional athletes did. that was what someone who wasn't secretly, desperately, pathetically curious about what was happening behind those blue eyes would do.
instead, you held his stare.
and then, slowly, your lips cracked a smile.
a teeny-tiny smile. the kind of smile that could be explained away as nothing, as a reflex, as a trick of light. innocent, almost. the kind of smile you might give an acquaintance across a crowded table, harmless and fleeting.
however, max saw the intention behind it. you knew he saw it, judging by the tightening grip on his glass, knuckles going white, the whine inside trembling ever so slightly. something malicious flickered across his expression, there and gone in less than a second, yet you caught it right on the spot. you were learning to catch his tells.
his eyes dropped, just for a moment, to where george’s arm rested on your shoulder, casual and familiar, the easy intimacy of two people who had spent years trusting each other’s weight.
when they came back to yours, they were burning. you could feel your pulse quicken, the heat crawling up your neck, spreading across your cheeks, betraying you in ways you couldn’t control.
he then looked away.
fuck, that was hot—
ahem.
you watched him clear his throat, turn back to checo, forcing himself to participate in whatever conversation he had abandoned. yet his posture was rigid now, shoulders tense, jaw still working as if he was grinding his teeth into dust. the easy confidence he had worn earlier was gone, replaced by something coiled, something waiting to explode.
carlos, sitting next to max, had noticed. you saw the spaniard lean in, say something with a concerned expression. max shook his head, waved him off, yet his eyes kept flickering back toward you.
towards george's arm on your shoulder.
towards the way you were leaning into your teammate's side.
towards the smile that was still playing at the corners of your lips.
interesting.
you should have stopped there. you knew you should have stopped there. every rational cell in your brain was screaming at you to turn away, to focus on george, to pretend that you hadn't just started a fire you had no idea how to control.
but something had awakened in you… something reckless and curious. something that had been sleeping for years, buried under layers of loyalty, obligation, and the desperate need to belong. something that wanted to see how far you could push him. something that wanted to know what would happen when he finally broke.
you scooted closer to george, your thigh pressing against his. the leather of the booth creaked beneath you.
“alex is trying to get your attention,” you murmured, your lips almost brushing george's ear. from across the room, it would look intimate. from across the room, it would look like exactly what he didn't want to see.
george glanced at alex, then back at you, a small furrow appearing between his brows. he shifted in his seat, turning slightly so he could look at you properly. his hand dropped from your shoulder to the table, fingers drumming once, twice, “what are you on about?”
“nothing,” you kept your voice light. innocent. the voice of someone who had absolutely no ulterior motives whatsoever, “just talking to my teammate.”
“you're up to something,” he leaned closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne—something clean and familiar, the scent of safety. his knee pressed against yours under the table, not pulling away, just... anchoring.
“i don't know what you're talking about,” you smiled, sweet yet hollow, and reached out to straighten his collar. your fingers lingered there for a beat too long, brushing against the fabric, against the warmth of his neck.
george caught your wrist. not hard—just enough to stop you. his thumb pressed against your pulse point, feeling the rabbit-quick beat of your heart. his eyes searched your face with an intensity that made you want to squirm.
“you're being weird,” he mumbled quietly, “and you're never weird unless you're nervous or plotting something. which one is it?”
you pulled your wrist free, slowly, letting your fingers drag across his palm, “maybe i'm just feeling friendly.”
“you're never this friendly,” he didn't look convinced. his gaze flickered toward the other end of the table—and something clicked behind his eyes, “ah.”
“mhm?”
“nothing,” he reached for his own wine glass now, taking a long drink. when he set it down, he was smiling. not his usual warm smile. something sharper. something that looked almost like... disappointment, “nothing at all.”
you frowned, “george—”
“i'm not going to ask,” he said, cutting you off. his hand found your arm again, squeezing once, “i'm not going to pry. but whatever you're doing… just know what you're getting into, yeah?”
“i don't know what you mean—”
he shook his head. “again, you're a terrible liar.”
you let your hand rest on his forearm, your fingers curling around the fabric of his suit jacket. he didn't pull away. he didn't even seem to notice… or maybe he just didn't mind. his thumb traced idle patterns on your arm, absent and familiar.
you tilted your head so that your hair fell across your face, creating a curtain, a private world that no one else was invited into. to make it, you knew, even more ambiguous.
and then, because you were cruel, because you were curious, because you had spent years being someone's shadow and you wanted to know what it felt like to be seen—
you glanced across the room.
max's chair was empty.
the door was still swinging shut behind him, the wood clicking softly against the frame.
you watched it close, and you couldn't stop the smirk that spread across your face.
gotcha.
but even as the satisfaction bloomed in your chest, something else was stirring beneath it. something that felt too much like… guilt.
what are you doing?
god, you’re so childish.
you didn't have an answer.
you weren't sure you wanted one.
THE DINNER WENT ON WITHOUT MAX FOR THE NEXT FIFTEEN MINUTES. or perhaps it was twenty. or an hour. time had become something slippery in his absence; a river you couldn't hold, water slipping through your fingers every time your gaze drifted to that empty chair at the far end of the table. the seat sat there like a wound, like a missing tooth, a negative space that had been bothering you ever since his sudden exit.
you told yourself it didn't matter. you told yourself you were glad he was gone. you told yourself that the knot tightening in your stomach was relief, not disappointment but satisfaction.
definitely not... regret.
well, you told yourself a lot of things.
none of them felt true.
george was still beside you, his arm still draped across the back of your chair, his voice still a warm murmur in your ear; the steady current beneath your chaos. he was talking about something. testing, maybe. or the upcoming season. or some restaurant in monaco that made the best pasta he'd ever had. you nodded along, made the appropriate sounds, laughed when you were supposed to laugh.
yet your mind was elsewhere. it had drifted to a different shore, and it was refusing to come back.
the moment played on a loop within your headspace; those turquoise eyes burning right through every wall you'd ever built, every brick you'd laid, every carefully constructed inch of distance you'd placed between you. it kept coming back to the way he acted... differently; the way he had stared at george's arm on your shoulder like he wanted to rip it off with his bare hands
and then he left.
just... left. walked out without a word, without a glance back, without any indication that he cared about the scene he was causing or the questions he was leaving behind. the door had closed behind him with a soft, final click, and the room had exhaled—or maybe that was just you.
good, you thought. let him leave. let him go. it's better this way.
but the knot in your stomach tightened. your thoughts began to spiral, tangling into knots you couldn't untie, vines wrapping around your ribs and squeezing. what if he's upset? what if he's angry? what if—
“you're doing it again,” george murmured, pulling you back to the present like a beacon through fog.
you blinked, “doing what?”
“spacing out,” he tilted his head, studying you with those perceptive eyes that missed nothing: the slight furrow in your brow, the way you kept going blank, the way your gaze kept drifting toward the door like a compass pointing north, “you've been staring at that empty chair for a long time.”
“no—”
“no seriously,” there was a softness to his voice, undercut by something else—concern, perhaps. or a warning, "what's going on with you tonight?"
“nothing. i'm just tired.”
“y/n.”
“i swear, george.”
“doesn't seem like it,” he turned in his seat, giving you his full attention, “what's going on in that head of yours?”
you opened your mouth. closed it. opened it again.
what were you supposed to say? max hasn't returned to his seat and i'm kinda concerned? i think i might not hate him as much as i've been telling myself i do? i think i might have just done something incredibly stupid?
none of those felt like words you could speak out loud. they sat on your tongue like stones, too heavy to lift, too sharp to swallow.
“it's just…” a soft sigh escaped you, deflating the tension in your chest, “it's been a long weekend.”
george's expression softened. he knew you well enough to know when you were deflecting. however, he also knew you well enough not to push. that was one of the things you loved about him; he gave you space when you needed it, even when he wanted to dig deeper, even when the questions were burning on his tongue.
“why don't you get some air?” he nodded toward the door, “you look like you could use it.”
you blinked at him, confusion evident by your tone, “what?”
“go,” he squeezed your hand once, warm, reassuring, before releasing it, “take five minutes. clear your head. it’ll help.”
you hesitated for a moment longer, searching his face for something—judgment, maybe, or suspicion. however, all you found was the same steady warmth he'd always offered, the same unwavering support that had carried you through your darkest moments as a rookie, the same certainty that he would be there when you came back.
“okay...” you exhaled, the tension in your shoulders loosening just slightly, like a fist unclenching, “five minutes.”
“take ten,” he winked.
you smiled, a genuine one this time, and pushed back from the table.
the chair scraped against the floor, a sound that felt too loud in the warm hum of conversation, a crack in the careful fabric of the evening. a few heads turned. toto glanced up from his conversation with susie, his brow furrowing. you offered him a small wave, mouthing bathroom, and he nodded, returning to his wife.
you walked toward the door.
your heels clicked against the hardwood floor, each step echoing in your chest like a heartbeat. the room seemed to grow quieter as you approached the exit… or maybe that was just your imagination, the way your senses sharpened when you were about to do something you knew you shouldn't, the way the world held its breath when you were standing on the edge of something.
the door loomed before you. without further thoughts, you reached for the handle and pushed.
immediately, you could feel the change of temperature; the hallway was cool, the air blessedly free of the wine-and-perfume haze that had clouded the private dining room—clean and sharp, like the first breath after surfacing from deep water. the lights were dimmer here, softer, casting everything in shades of amber and gold, painting long shadows across the floor. your heels clicked against the polished wood as you stepped out, the door swinging shut behind you with a soft thud.
you stood there for a moment, breathing.
the silence was different out here. not the heavy, suffocating kind from the cooldown room. it was something gentler, something that let you breathe normally. finally.
you leaned against the wall, pressing your palms flat against the cool surface, and let your head fall back. the ceiling stretched above you, white and empty, a blank canvas for all the thoughts you didn't want to have.
what are you doing?
the question echoed in your mind, relentless, accusatory, a moth beating against the glass of your skull.
you didn't have an answer. not a good one. not one that made sense.
you had spent years building walls between yourself and max verstappen. years convincing yourself that you hated him, that his arrogance was insufferable, that the way you felt belittled by him was reason enough to despise him. you had curated that hatred like a garden, watered it with every insult, every dismissive glance, every time he opened his mouth. you had tended it carefully, lovingly, because it was easier to hate him than to admit—
no, you would rather not say it.
yet tonight… tonight, something had shifted. the ground had moved beneath your feet, and you were still trying to find solid ground.
tonight, you had looked at him and felt something other than anger. something you couldn't name. something that scared you more than any crash ever had, more than any high-speed spin, more than any wall rushing toward you at two hundred miles an hour.
no. what the fuck is wrong with you?
you closed your eyes. pressed the heels of your hands against them until you saw stars. counted to ten. to twenty. to thirty.
when you opened them again, the hallway was still empty. still quiet. still waiting, patient as a held breath.
and somewhere, at the other end of the corridor, you thought you heard footsteps.
you didn’t have time to react. to comprehend the situation. the footsteps grew louder, closer, faster… and before you could move, before you could even draw breath to speak, a hand clamped around your wrist.
you gasped, tried to pull away. yet the grip only tightened, and then you were being yanked, dragged, your heels skidding against the polished floor as you were pulled through a doorway, through a shadow, through the threshold of somewhere you hadn’t intended to go.
the door slammed shut behind you, the lock engaging with metallic sound, final.
the men’s restroom… you registered it in fragments: the urinals along the far wall, dark marble and cold chrome. the sinks with their gold fixtures, gleaming under harsh fluorescent light. the black-and-white checkered tiles beneath your heels, cold even through the thin soles of your shoes. the smell of cologne and something sharper, something electric, something that was just him.
and then there was no more time for registering.
your back hit the wall, and a figure pressed against you, caging you in, pinning you in place. broad shoulders blocked out the light. hands found your waist, fingers splaying across your hips; gripping, holding, pressing you into the plaster like he was trying to fuse you there. a chest heaved against yours, rising and falling with ragged breath, and his face hovered inches from your own.
max verstappen.
his white dress shirt was untucked, wrinkled, the top two buttons undone, revealing the hollow of his throat and the smooth, unmarked skin of his collarbone. his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, forearms tense, muscles coiled like springs. his hair was a disaster, falling across his forehead in messy waves, like he had been running his hands through it in frustration. or desperation. you couldn't tell the difference anymore.
his blue eyes were blazing.
not the cold, dismissive gaze he wore like armor in the paddock. not the sharp, cutting look he used to eviscerate rivals in press conferences. something else. something raw. something that looked almost like hunger.
“what...” he began, and his voice was low, rough, barely above a whisper, “the hell do you think you're doing?”
your spine straightened on instinct. chin lifted. shoulders squared. four years of facing down aggressive drivers and hostile interviewers had taught you how to stand your ground, even when your heart was trying to escape through your ribs.
“i could ask you the same thing,” you bit out, proud of how steady your voice came out, “this is the men's restroom.”
“and?”
“so maybe you should—”
“for fuck sake, y/n,” you found yourself flinching as the words exploded from him, raw and frayed, his composure cracking at the edges. his free hand slammed against the wall beside your head, the impact reverberating through the tiles, through your skull, through the careful armor you had wrapped around yourself, “can’t you be serious for once?”
the silence that followed was deafening. neither of you looked away. his chest was heaving, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts, and there was something in his eyes; something you had never seen before. something that looked like…
get yourself together, y/n.
“i am being serious…” your voice was softer now, stripped of the sharp edges you usually wielded like weapons, “what do you want, max? if this is about the interview—”
“no, it’s not—”
“then, what is it?” frustration leaked out of your tone, mixing with something else… well, you couldn’t quite name it. or you were scared to acknowledge it, “what do you want from me? aren’t you tired of constantly dragging me?”
his jaw tightened. the muscle jumped beneath his skin, a tell you had learned to read across years of watching him from a distance. his other hand remained anchored on your waist, fingers pressed into the curve of your hip as if he feared you might evaporate should his grip loosen.
his eyes searched your face, flickering across your features like a man trying to memorize a landscape before daylight faded: your eyes. your lips. the furrow etched between your brows… and your heart was a prominent traitor, hammering against your ribs like a caged bird, betraying your ‘well-maintained’ composure.
not that there was much composure left to maintain.
“i want you to stay away from russell.”
the words came out low, flat, brooking no argument. not a request. not a suggestion. a command. the kind of voice he used on the radio when he was telling his engineer exactly what he needed to win… and expected to get it.
you blinked. of all the things you had expected him to say, that hadn't even made the list.
“what?”
“you heard me,” his thumb traced a slow, deliberate arc across your hip bone, and his eyes never left yours, “stay away from him.”
what. the. fuck.
“you’ve officially lost it, verstappen,” a puff of air fled from your lips, resembling a scoff—bitter, incredulous, sharp enough to cut the tension between you, “seriously, you need help.”
his expression didn't waver. didn't crack. didn't offer you the satisfaction of a single tell. he simply looked at you, those blue eyes flat and awfully unreadable, and the silence between you grew teeth.
“i don't need help,” his voice deadpanned, “i just need you to listen.”
“listen to what? your delusions?”
“listen to the truth.”
“the truth?” a laugh escaped you, hollow, disbelieving, “you want to talk about the truth? fine. let's talk about the truth.”
you planted your palms against his chest and pushed. not hard enough to displace, but just enough to carve an inch of space between your bodies. just enough to remind yourself that you still possessed fight, still possessed will, still possessed the capacity to resist whatever gravitational pull he exerted.
“he’s my teammate. we’ve driven together for four years.”
his expression further hardened. the lines of his face seemed to sharpen, his jaw tightening, his pupil dilating. yet he didn't move, didn't retreat, didn't give you an inch more than you had taken.
“four fucking years,” your voice rose, echoing off the marble walls, “what made you think you have the right to just order me around?”
you leaned closer—not much, just enough to close the small gap your hands had created, just enough that your chest brushed against his, just enough that your lips hovered dangerously close to his jaw. you could feel the heat radiating off him, could feel the way his breath hitched.
“i can talk to whoever i want, befriend whoever i want, date whoever i want—fuck whoever i want,” your eyes held his, unblinking, daring him to argue, daring him to push back, daring him to do anything other than stand there looking at you like he wanted to devour you whole, “i don’t owe you shit.”
just as you thought you were winning, his hand moved. his fingers found your chin, gripping it firmly between his thumb and forefinger; a touch so electric, commanding… most definitely possessive, sending a shockwave down your spine that you desperately tried to hide.
no, you refused to back down, to look away, to let him see how much he rattled you, how deep he got under your skin. instead, you tilted your head slightly, leaning into his grip rather than away from it, and let a slow, mocking smile spread across your lips.
“oh… someone is hurt,” you continued to taunt him, your voice dripping with false sympathy, “what? can’t handle the truth? jealousy is surely a disease—”
words died in your throat as you felt his thumb pressed against your lower lip.
not hard. not painful. just… there. firm. demanding. pressing down just enough to silence you, just enough to make a point, just enough to steal the breath from your lungs and the words from your tongue.
“me? jealous of george russell?” he pronounced the name like it was something foul on his tongue. like garbage. like something he had stepped in and was now scraping off his shoe.
his head tilted, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. him? jealous of george russell? he would rather swallow a bullet than to ever admit that someone else might be worth his attention, let alone his jealousy.
“tell me… what exactly would i be jealous of?”
little did you realize, you had fucked up.
the comparison was… well… max was a four-time world champion, a living legend, a man who had already secured his place in history books. and george was… george was your teammate. your friend. a talented driver, yes, but not in the same stratosphere… not yet.
the silence stretched between you, heavy and asphyxiating. the fluorescent light hummed above you, casting strange shadows across his face; the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the dark intensity burning behind his eyes.
“well?” max’s voice was now soft, almost gentle, and somehow that was more terrifying than if he had shouted, “i’m waiting. what exactly does george russell have that i don’t?”
your throat tightened. “that’s not—”
“this is why we think before we speak, prinses.”
the petname rolled off his tongue like honey laced with hemlock—sweet, deadly, intimate in a way that made your stomach invert.
prinses. princess. he had never called you that before. no one had. and the way he said it had successfully, shamelessly, sent a shiver down your spine that you desperately tried to hide.
“sure,” his breath was warm on your lips, his forehead inching closer and closer to yours. “you've spent all these years hating me… always defending him.”
his thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, and you hated the way your body leaned into his touch, hated the way your heart thundered so violently you were certain he could feel it through the inches between you.
“which explains why…” his voice trailed off as his gaze drifted downward; lingering on your lips, before snapping back to yours. he squeezed your chin lightly, “your personality is very undeveloped. i understand.”
the words hit like a slap.
not because they were cruel, though they were. but because there was a sliver of truth in them, a needle-sharp point that pierced right through your armor and lodged itself somewhere deep in your chest.
you had spent years defining yourself in opposition to him. years building your identity around hating him, around defending george, around being the loyal mercedes driver who would never back down to the red bull champion. you had poured yourself into the role, shaped yourself around it, made it the bedrock of everything you were.
but who were you without that?
you should push him away.
your hands were now pressed against his chest, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, knuckles white. you could feel his heartbeat beneath your palms—steady, unhurried, maddeningly calm… a counterpoint to your own racing pulse, the wild staccato of a heart that had forgotten how to hide.
you should push him away.
his gaze didn’t waver. didn’t blink. didn’t beg. it just waited… the kind of patience that knew with absolute certainty, that you would break before he did.
you should push him away.
yet you didn't.
instead, you pulled him closer. your chin lifted, your eyes never leaving his, and you let a slow, mocking smirk spread across your lips; a mirror of his own.
“my personality… my life,” your voice barely a whisper, now overwhelmed by his presence, “none of them are your concern.”
“isn't it?” his forehead pressed against yours, his lips lightly brushing yours, “you've made it my concern. every time you open your mouth. every time you try to overtake me. every time you act like a loyal dog—“
“fuck you,” the words tore out of you, virulent acid spilling through gritted teeth; meant to wound, meant to cut, meant to destroy one’s ego. a defense mechanism, the last wall standing between you and the… ‘strong emotions’ you had been running from for years.
you expected him to flinch. to recoil. to mirror your anger as acid hit his skin, sizzling. you expected him to get the hint, to read the room like the genius he claimed himself to be.
yet, the side effects differed from the original intention. instead, he laughed.
and just like that, he was under your skin… again.
“there she is.”
his voice wrapped around you effortlessly, low and honeyed, as his thumb skimmed the edge of your jaw. the touch was almost reverent, as if he were handling something precious, something breakable. it made your chest ache in ways you refused to name.
“i still find it amusing,” he breathed against the corner of your mouth, “that you get all so defensive when it's the fact.”
his lips charted a path down the side of your face—slow, languid, as if he had nowhere else to be, no one else to see. each kiss landed like a spark, igniting nerve endings you had forgotten existed. your breath stuttered as his mouth discovered the tender hollow just beneath your ear.
“always racing behind him,” he continued, his voice a velvet rasp against your throat. his teeth scraped over your pulse, and a violent shudder wracked your frame, “poor y/n. she might always be in the second seat.”
“what are you—“
a fractured sound slipped past your lips as his mouth sealed over that sensitive spot on your neck, sucking, pulling, stealing your thoughts, your breath, and your carefully maintained composure all at once. the word evaporated on your tongue, replaced by something rawer, something you couldn't take back.
you felt the curve of his smile pressed into your skin.
…and fuck was he good at it.
“you know,” he mumbled, his lips grazing the ridge of your collarbone, “you're not exactly a good teammate either.”
“huh—”
the dutchman withdrew just enough to meet your gaze, close enough that his lashes almost swept your cheeks, far enough that you could see the storm churning behind his irises. his hand glided from your jaw down to the column of your throat, fingers spreading wide, cradling the base of your neck like a trophy.
his thumb pressed gently against your trachea; not enough to constrict, just enough to remind you how exposed you were.
“sneaking around with the rival,” he murmured, his thumb stroking a slow, hypnotic rhythm against your skin, “what would people think of this, schat?”
the dutch endearment dripped from his tongue like molten gold; foreign and intimate, a key turning in a lock you hadn't known existed. your stomach clenched further.
“you dragged me in here,” you managed, though your voice emerged threadbare, stripped of its usual steel.
“and you stayed,” his head cocked, a predator studying prey that had stopped running, “what does that say about you? hm?”
“stop putting your words in my m—”
he didn’t let you finish; his mouth found yours with a precision that suggested he had been rehearsing this moment, mapping the terrain of your lips long before he ever touched them. the kiss was not gentle; it had never been gentle, would never be gentle, and some part of you was grateful for that. gentleness would have felt like pity. this felt like recognition.
his hand remained on your throat, thumb pressed to your pulse, feeling every staccato beat as if he were taking its measure. his other arm wrapped around your waist, hauling you flush against him, eliminating every inch of space you had tried to preserve.
you should resist.
but no, you simply couldn’t.
your body refused to obey the commands your mind issued. your hands, which should have been shoving at his chest, remained fisted in his shirt; holding on rather than pushing away. your knees, which should have been driving toward his groin, stayed pressed against his thighs. your mouth, which should have bitten down on his invading tongue, opened wider instead, welcoming him deeper.
he swallowed the small sound you made: a whimper, a sigh, a surrender you hadn't given yourself permission to voice. the vibration of his satisfied hum traveled through your chest, through your bones, through every cell that had forgotten how to feel anything but cold.
this is wrong, a distant part of you whispered. this is so wrong.
he kissed you like he was trying to consume you—like he wanted to crawl inside your skin and live there, take up residence in the spaces between your ribs, make a home of your heartbeat. his tongue slid against yours, demanding and insistent, and you met him with equal fervor, your arms now wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer even as the tiles bit cold through the silk of your dress.
“you still think george is the better person?” the words were murmured against your lips, spoken into the tiny space between one kiss and the next. his mouth never left yours—he asked the question as if he were breathing, as if the words were simply an extension of the kiss, inseparable from the press of his tongue against yours.
“shut up—” you tried to respond, but when his teeth grazed your lower lip, your thoughts scattered like startled birds, wings beating against the inside of your skull, going nowhere.
his hand left your throat, slowly, reluctantly, fingers trailing down your chest, your ribs, your waist, leaving a wake of fire behind them. you watched through half-lidded eyes as his palm slid lower, lower, until his fingers found the hem of your dress and pushed beneath it.
your breath caught when his hand closed around your thigh.
his fingers spread wide, spanning the soft flesh, gripping firmly... possessively, as if he had every right to touch you there, like he had been waiting years for permission he had finally decided to grant himself. his thumb stroked the sensitive skin of your thigh, and your hips arched toward him involuntarily.
“and i'm the one between your legs,” ‘mad max’ murmured, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth, “try harder.”
he kissed you again, harder this time, hungrier, as if he could make up for four years of tension in a single press of his lips. his hand remained on your thigh, fingers gripping firmly, anchoring you to him even as the world tilted and spun around you.
“should've signed with your idol, schat,” his voice was a velvet rasp against your skin, his lips tracing the line of your jaw between kisses, “bad decisions, as always.”
before you could protest, his other hand found your hip, before lifting you, hauling you off the wall. you let out a high-pitched yelp, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, ankles locking behind his back. he carried you across the restroom as if you weighed nothing, as if you were something precious, something breakable.
the sink met your backside, cold marble against your thighs, and he set you down on the edge, stepping between your spread legs, his hands finding your hips and pulling you to the edge until there was no space left between you, until you were pressed flush against him, his belt buckle cold against your inner thigh.
he stepped between your spread legs like he belonged there. like the space had been carved out for him years ago, and he was only now claiming what was his.
“i would've made you a star in that grid,” he murmured, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath warm on your lips.
his mouth then found your neck—not gently, not tentatively, but with purpose. his lips latched on the sensitive skin just below your ear, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, to see purple blooming on your skin, to make your fingers reach and clutch on his hair.
“unlike some incompetent bastard.”
his teeth grazed the spot he had just kissed, tongue soothing the sting, and you felt the heat bloom beneath your skin; a bruise forming, a brand, a claim he was etching into your flesh. your eyes fluttered closed, your head tipping back, giving him better access, surrendering to the sharp pleasure of it.
“stop talking—” the words came out fractured, breathless, stripped of all authority.
he ignored you. his mouth moved lower, finding the curve of your throat, the hollow where your pulse beat its frantic rhythm. he kissed there first, soft, before his teeth scraped, lips sealed, marking you yet again.
“you're an idiot to even like him. to even worship him.”
his hand slid from your thigh to your hip, fingers gripping firmly, holding you in place as he worked his way across your collarbone. each kiss was a statement. each bruise a sentence. each mark a word in a language you were only beginning to understand.
“but that's fine,” his lips brushed against the base of your throat, “i forgive you—”
this time, you didn't let him finish.
your hands fisted in his hair and yanked his mouth back to yours, swallowing the rest of his sentence. you kissed him with a ferocity that surprised even yourself; teeth, tongue, along with a hint of feelings that you never wanted to explain.
he made a strangled sound against your lips, half-groan, half-laugh, and his hands flew to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.
“fuck you, max,” the admission clawed its way out of your throat, ragged and ruined, spoken into the seam of his lips, “i hate you. so much.”
he laughed, a low, wrecked sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours. he drew back—just slightly, just enough to look at you, “liar.”
you wanted to argue. you wanted to shove him, to prove him wrong, to list every reason on why you hated him. however, your hands were already fisting in his collar, already dragging him back toward you, already craving for the taste of his mouth again.
you wanted to kiss the smugness off his face. wanted to swallow every word he had ever spoken against you. wanted to devour the jealousy that had burned in his eyes and replace it with… something else entirely.
your lips were a breath away from his when the sound cut through the air like a drill alarm.
his fucking phone.
the ringtone was jarring: ordinary, mundane, utterly foreign in this small, charged space. it shattered the cocoon you had woven around yourselves, splintered the tension into a thousand fragments that scattered across the tile floor.
max froze. his forehead remained pressed against yours, his breath warm and uneven on your lips. his hands stayed locked on your hips, fingers pressing into your flesh as if he could anchor himself there and refuse to let reality intrude.
however, the phone kept ringing.
once. twice. three times.
his jaw tightened. his eyes fluttered open, and you saw something flicker across his face. annoyance, yes. but also something else. something that looked almost like… regret.
he released you reluctantly, his fingers trailing down your thighs as he stepped back, as if the separation cost him something he couldn't afford to lose. the cold rushed in to fill the space where his body had been, and you had to resist the urge to pull him back.
he reached into his pocket and withdrew the phone, his eyes dropping to the screen. his expression shifted. something tightened in his shoulders. he looked at the display for a long moment, and when he raised his gaze back to yours, something had changed. the hunger was still there, banked but burning. yet now it was tempered with something else… something that looked almost like resignation.
“...412,” he muttered, a ghost of irritation in his voice.
the number hung in the air between you, weighted with meaning.
he didn't explain. didn't apologize. didn't offer any of the words you might have expected: a promise, a reassurance, a plea.
just the number. just the hint. just the space for you to decide.
he turned toward the door, the phone still buzzing in his hand, and pressed it to his ear as he walked. you caught fragments of his voice–low, clipped, speaking in dutch, before the door swung shut behind him and the lock clicked into place.
you remained on the sink for what felt like years.
the marble had grown warm beneath your thighs; your body heat bleeding into the stone, claiming it the way he had claimed your skin. your dress remained bunched around your hips, the fabric wrinkled beyond repair. your lips throbbed, swollen from his mouth, from your own.
room 412.
the digits carved themselves into your memory, each one a splinter, each one a hook.
you exhaled softly, sliding off the sink. your heels met the tile with a soft click, the sound swallowed by the oppressive quiet. you turned to face the mirror—and stopped.
wow… what a mess.
your hair had collapsed from its careful styling, tumbling around your face in disheveled waves. your lipstick had migrated beyond the borders of your lips, smeared across your chin, your jaw, transferred onto skin that wasn't yours. your cheeks burned with a flush that no amount of cold water could extinguish.
but it was your neck that piqued your attention.
you lifted your hand, fingers trembling, and touched the marks he had left. the skin was tender, each bruise a testament to his mouth, his teeth, his refusal to let you forget. you traced the edge of the darkest one, just below your ear, and a shiver raced down your spine.
oh.
…dickhead.
you smoothed your dress over your hips, tucking the fabric back into place. you raked your fingers through your hair, though it barely helped—nothing could fix the wreckage he had made of you. you wiped the smeared lipstick from your chin with the back of your hand, then froze, staring at the faint red stain on your skin.
...can't believe that really happened.
you turned away from the mirror and walked toward the door. your heels clicked against the tiles, your hand reaching for the handle.
room 412.
you hesitated.
the door loomed before you, heavy and dark. beyond it, the hallway stretched towards two choices; one where you returned to the dinner, to george, and one where you would knock on a door you had no business approaching.
Genuinely HOW are you so good at writing tension?!! This was amazing, author! You really captured his douchebag antics so well while still maintaining his aggressive charm. Well done!!
I think another bit of potential for the same au where it's them actually on a date this time. What if the scenario is that reader suddenly realizes how cute landos mannerisms are and keeps getting flustered? E.g. the date is at a café, lando is eating a cupcake, frosting ends up in the corner of his mouth and reader stares a bit too long when he tries to wipe it off.
Like just a really cliche, cute fluffy fic where lando seemimgly makes it his mission to fluster reader lol or you can choose to make him a bit oblivious and reader is suffering in silence too!
P.s it's okay if this is a separate au from the pr!reader
Lando Norris x PR Manager!Reader
flirty Lando | slow burn | fluff | age gap | flustered reader
author’s note: I wanted to do a part 2 just to see what reader is like when she's not being professional with Lando. hope you like this anon I tried my best 🫶
The café is quiet in that mid-morning way—soft chatter, cups clinking, sunlight spilling across the table like it’s been carefully placed there for atmosphere. You picked it for privacy. You tell yourself that’s the only reason your pulse is slightly annoying.
He arrives exactly six minutes after you.
Not late. Not early. Lando somehow manages to be both punctual and still make it feel like he’s showing up just for you.
The bell above the door rings.
You look up immediately this time.
He spots you, and there it is—that easy grin. Except it softens halfway through, like the moment he sees you, he forgets he was supposed to be anything else. He walks over, hands running through his curls, shoulders slightly raised like he’s trying not to look too eager.
“Hi,” he says.
You nod. “Hi.”
He sits opposite you, but instead of immediately leaning back like he usually does, he stays slightly forward. Like he’s closer than necessary on purpose but pretending he isn’t.
“You got here early,” he says.
“So did you,” you reply.
“I got here on time,” he corrects, smiling.
You almost roll your eyes. Almost.
A waitress comes over, and you order quickly—iced coffee.
He watches you order like he’s studying you.
“What?” you ask.
“You always order that?” he says.
"Yes, why?"
"Just keeping track of what you like" he says simply.
"Oh..." That was... sweet, no one else really cared about your favorite order, let alone mentally keeping track of things that you like.
He orders a cappuccino and—of course—a cupcake. Vanilla. And insists you have a donut which he ordered for you.
When the drinks arrive, he leans forward, elbows on the table, chin slightly tilted like he’s settling in. And then he starts talking.
Not about racing. Not about HR. About something stupid—something about a team meeting where someone tried to explain tyre strategy using a cooking analogy and got absolutely roasted for it.
You laugh once before you can stop yourself. His eyes flick up immediately.
“That was a laugh,” he says.
“It was not.”
“It was. I heard it.”
“You’re imagining things.”
He smiles like he doesn’t believe a word you’re saying but also doesn’t care.
And then he takes a bite of the cupcake.
Immediately—
Frosting. Right at the corner of his mouth. You see it instantly. And you make the fatal mistake of looking too long. He keeps talking, unaware. Something about the team meeting earlier and how awkward HR looked when he requested “formal disclosure procedures.”
You’re not listening anymore. Because he licks his thumb. Misses the spot. Still there. You exhale quietly through your nose. He notices. Of course he does.
“What?” he asks, mid-sentence.
“Nothing.”
Too fast.
His brows lift. “You always say ‘nothing’ like it’s a full sentence.”
“It is a full sentence.”
He leans back slightly. “You’re staring at me.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m observing.”
“Observing what?” he presses, amused.
You hesitate. Because now he’s looking at you properly. Waiting. Patient in a way that makes it worse. And the frosting is still there.
“Lando,” you say, trying for neutral, “you have—”
“I know,” he interrupts.
You pause.
He tilts his head. “I’m enjoying this.”
“You’re enjoying what.”
“You looking at me like that.”
“I am not looking at you like anything.”
He hums, unconvinced. Then—slowly, deliberately—he leans forward again and takes another bite.
This time, he doesn’t clean it. On purpose.
He just sits there, chewing slightly, eyes on you like he’s waiting.
You blink. “You did that on purpose.”
“Did what?”
“You know what.”
He shrugs lightly. “I don’t.”
You exhale. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Am I?” he says, wiping his mouth… very deliberately everywhere except the corner again.
You catch it. He sees you catch it. A small smile tugs at his mouth.
“You wanna fix it for me?" he asks
Your throat tightens slightly. “I don’t.”
He leans in a fraction.
“You do,” he says softly. “You just don’t want to admit it.”
You reach for your coffee to buy yourself a second. Bad move. Your fingers brush the cup. You don’t even realize how distracted you are until he speaks again.
“You’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” he repeats, slower this time, like he’s enjoying how quickly you’re losing control of the conversation.
You glare at him over the rim of your cup.
He looks delighted.
“Stop smiling like that,” you mutter.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re winning something.”
“I am,” he says simply.
You pause.
“That’s not how conversations work.”
“It is when I like the person I’m talking to,” he replies.
That lands. Annoyingly. You look down at the table immediately, because looking at him feels dangerous.
“So,” he says lightly, dragging the word out, “you’re not going to fix it?”
You look up. He taps the corner of his own mouth again. Your brain betrays you instantly. You reach forward before thinking. His hand lifts slightly—not stopping you this time, just hovering there like he’s waiting to see if you’ll actually do it. Your thumb brushes his skin,soft and warm. Too familiar for how new this is.
“There,” you say quietly.
You start to pull away.
He catches your wrist gently.
Not tight. Just enough to stop you from disappearing too fast. Your breath catches immediately. Lando places a soft kiss to the back of your hand. His thumb moves slightly against your wrist—barely there, but enough that your brain short-circuits for half a second.
“You’re very distracting,” you say, quieter than intended. His smile shift, less teasing now,more pleased.
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
You regret everything immediately.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“You did a little bit.”
“I did not.”
He finally lets go—but only so he can lean back, still watching you like he’s memorising your reactions.
“You’re very easy to fluster,” he says.
You cross your arms. “You’re just... doing that on purpose”
“I haven’t even done anything.”
“It's not nice to lie”
He laughs under his breath, then takes another bite of the cupcake—slower this time, deliberately neat, like he’s trying not to give you another excuse. Except he still looks at you while he does it. Which is worse. Because now he’s not even trying to hide it. And you realize, with growing frustration— It’s not the frosting. It’s him.
The way he looks at you like he’s quietly entertained by every reaction you try to hide. The way he knows exactly when you’re about to look away and waits for it.
The way he keeps doing things just slightly too intentionally, just to see if you’ll react again.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” you say finally.
He smiles.
“Yeah,” he admits easily. “I am.”
Then, softer—like it’s not a game anymore:
“Mostly because I like seeing you like this.”
You freeze.
“Like what.”
He tilts his head, watching you carefully now.
“Human” he says.
And somehow, that’s the part that makes your chest go tight. Because you realize you’ve barely been thinking about control for the last ten minutes. Just him,just this.
You stare at him.
“That’s your explanation?” you ask quietly.
He shrugs one shoulder, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “You try very hard to act unaffected.”
“I am unaffected.”
He smiles softly. “You’re blushing says otherwise.”
There’s no teasing in it this time. Just certainty.
And that makes it worse.
You look down at the table again, trying to recover, but that’s when you feel it.
His foot nudges yours under the table.
Light. Barely there. You assume it’s accidental. Then it happens again. Slower this time. Intentional. You look up immediately. He’s sipping his cappuccino like he’s never done anything wrong in his life.
“Your foot’s in my space,” you say carefully.
“Oh.” He glances down briefly. “Is it?”
“Yes.”
He hums thoughtfully. Doesn’t move it.
Instead, his foot slides just slightly against yours. Your breath stutters.
“Lando.”
“What?” he asks mildly.
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
You narrow your eyes at him. He smiles into his cup. You try to ignore it. You really do. But then his knee shifts too, brushing against yours under the table. It lingers this time. Not pressing. Just there. Close.
Like a quiet reminder.
“You’re very touchy today,” you mutter.
“Am I?” His voice is calm, almost innocent.
“Yes.”
He tilts his head. “You don’t like it?”
That question lands heavier than expected. You hesitate half a second too long. And he sees it. His expression softens slightly. His knee presses just a fraction closer.
“I didn’t say that,” you reply.
He sets his cup down carefully.
Then, slowly, he reaches across the table again. Not for your hand this time. His fingers brush your forearm. Light. Testing. You freeze. He pauses. Watching your reaction. When you don’t pull away, his fingers slide a little further—tracing from your wrist up toward your elbow. Not grabbing. Not gripping. Just brushing.
Your skin feels hypersensitive everywhere he touches.
“You tense up,” he murmurs softly.
“I do not.”
“You do.” His thumb moves in a slow, absentminded line along your arm. “Right there.”
He taps lightly near your wrist where your pulse jumps.
Your heart betrays you again. A small smile curves at the corner of his mouth.
“That’s because of me,” he says quietly.
You swallow. He leans in slightly, elbows back on the table, but his fingers don’t leave your arm. Instead, they move lower again. Back to your wrist.
Then—without breaking eye contact—he turns your hand over. His thumb traces across your palm. Slow. Deliberate. Your brain short-circuits.
“You’re ridiculous,” you whisper.
“And you’re flustered,” he replies gently.
His thumb draws lazy patterns against your skin like he’s mapping your reactions.
He watches your breathing change. Watches your shoulders rise and fall quicker. Watches you try to hold it together.
“You keep reacting,” he says softly. “I'm barely doing anything."
He slides his hand from yours entirely. You almost sag in relief. Almost. Because then he shifts his chair closer. Your thighs brush.
His arm rests along the back of your chair.
Not touching you. You look at him sharply.
“You’re crowding me.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
He leans just a little closer. Now you can feel his warmth.
“You could move,” he says quietly.
You don’t. His lips twitch.
“That’s what I thought.”
Your breath is shallow now. His fingers slide from the back of your chair to your shoulder. Then lower. Tracing down the length of your arm again. He watches every single micro-expression. Like he’s collecting them. Like he likes seeing how much power he has over you.
“You keep doing that,” you say, barely above a whisper.
“Doing what?”
“This.”
He finally lets his fingers rest at your waist. The contact feels louder than it should.
“You haven’t told me to stop,” he says gently.
You look at him. And for a second, the teasing drops completely. There’s something softer there. Something curious. Almost cautious. You exhale slowly.
“I don’t want you to stop,” you admit before you can think.
His entire expression changes.Not smug.
Not victorious. Just warm. His thumb moves slightly at your waist. Slowly and carefully. Like he’s savoring it now instead of testing you.
“That’s what I was checking,” he murmurs.
“Checking?”
“Yeah.” His forehead almost brushes yours now. “If you actually wanted me to.”
Your heart stumbles again. His hand slides from your waist back to your wrist, fingers threading through yours.
“You react,” he says softly. “But you never pull away.”
“You like seeing me flustered,” you say.
“I do.”
“And you like knowing you’re the one causing it.”
He smiles slowly.
“Very much.”
Then his thumb lifts to your chin.
Tilts it up gently.
“So what happens,” he murmurs, voice lower now, “if I keep going?”
Your pulse spikes. But you don’t move away. And that’s all the answer he needs.
Hello are you open to writing darker fics with angst or are you mostly comfortable with fluff? My idea was Lando pining for an older girl (5-7 yrs) who was hired as his p.a or pr manager (either works) but she thinks that he's too young and he's trying your convince her to like him back. The general vibe i was looking for was mainly pathetic lando × workaholic, serious reader. Lemme know if this idea works, I have others if not!!
Lando Norris x PR Manager!Reader
pathetic Lando | slow burn | angst | age gap | PR chaos
SUMMARY: He’s your driver. That’s all he’s supposed to be. But Lando keeps staying too late, talking too softly, looking at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted. And you keep pretending you don’t notice…even when it starts becoming impossible.
author’s note: first time writing!! be nice pls feedback is appreciated <3 thank you for the request anon!! i really hope I did your idea justice 🫶
~~~~~~~
“You’re late.”
“I’m three minutes late.”
“You’re three minutes and forty-two seconds late.”
Lando drops into the chair across from your desk and stares at you like you’ve personally offended him.
“You time me?”
“I schedule you.”
“That’s worse.”
You don’t look up from your laptop. “You have media in twelve minutes. If you’re not downstairs in five, I’m sending someone to drag you.”
“You wouldn’t.”
You finally glance at him. “Try me.”
He grins. There it is. That stupid grin that makes interns trip over themselves and charms the whole paddock. You don’t react, that’s new for him.
He tilts his head. “Did I do something to offend you?”
“No.”
“Then why do you act like I’m a problem you have to solve ”
“You are a problem I have to solve.”
He laughs, amused at how serious you always were.
“You’re harsh,” he says.
“I’m efficient.”
“You’ve never laughed at one of my jokes.”
“That’s not in my job description.”
“Maybe it should be.”
You close your laptop. “Downstairs. Now.”
He stands, but he lingers at the door.
“You know,” he says casually, “most people like me.”
“Most people don’t manage you.”
That one makes him pause.
He doesn’t understand yet why he keeps coming back to you. You don't bother entertaining him.
It starts subtly. He begins staying after meetings. Everyone filters out, everyone but him, he’s still leaning against the table while you gather papers.
“You don’t have to hover,” you say without looking at him.
“I’m not hovering.”
“You’re hovering.”
He shrugs. “Maybe I just enjoy your company.”
“That would be unproductive.”
He smiles slower this time. “You always talk like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you're incapable of feelings ”
You zip your bag. “Feelings complicate things.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Sometimes that’s the point.”
You pretend not to hear that.
The first real shift happens after a race weekend in Barcelona. He finishes P5. Solid, but not what he wanted. In the motorhome, the engineers leave. The cameras are gone. He drops into the couch and stares at the ceiling.
“I could’ve done better,” he mutters.
“You executed the strategy correctly.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
You hesitate before sitting across from him.
“What do you mean?”
He glances at you, surprised you asked.
“I don’t know. I just… I hate feeling like I’m almost there but not.”
“You’re improving.”
“That’s such a PR answer.”
“It’s true.”
He watches you for a long second.
“Do you ever just say what you feel?”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
He sits up.
“I think it’s relevant.”
You hold his gaze,calm and steady.
“What do you want me to say?”
“That you believe in me.”
“I do.”
He blinks.
“You’ve never said that.”
“You’ve never needed me to.”
“I do.”
The room feels smaller suddenly. You clear your throat. “You’re one of the most talented drivers on the grid.”
“That’s still professional.”
You stand. “Because that’s what I am.”
His eyes follow you.
“And what if I don’t want you to be just that?”
You turn slowly.
“That’s not your choice.”
After that, he pushes more openly.
During a sponsor shoot, he leans closer than necessary.
“You know,” he murmurs while cameras adjust lighting, “you’d look good in one of these team jackets.”
“I already have one.”
“I mean mine.”
You stare at him.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re being inappropriate.”
He smiles faintly. “You like using that word.”
“It fits.”
“You know what else fits?” he smirks.
“Don’t.”
He studies your expression.
“You feel it too.”
“No.”
“That was too fast.”
“It’s still no.”
He laughs, but it’s strained now.
“You don’t even hesitate.”
“Because I’ve already thought about it.”
His smile fades.
“And?”
“And it’s not happening.”
He swallows.
“Why?”
“You’re younger.”
“By five years. Not fifteen.”
“It matters.”
“Only because you want it to.”
“It matters because you're my client.”
“I want to be more.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.
“You treat me like I’m a kid.”
“I treat you like you’re my client.”
“And that’s all I am to you?”
You don’t answer.
He searches your face.
“Say it,” he challenges quietly. “Say you don’t feel anything.”
You hold his gaze.
“I don’t feel anything.”
The lie tastes bitter.
He nods slowly.
“Okay.”
But he doesn’t look convinced.He tries again two weeks later. It’s late, the paddock is mostly empty. You’re reviewing revised sponsor terms when he steps inside and closes the door.
“You’re avoiding me.”
“I’m working.”
“You always are.”
“Pretty much yeah that's usually what a job is .”
He moves closer.
“Can I take you for dinner.”
You stand immediately. “Stop.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re crossing a line.”
“Then move it.”
Your breath falters.
“You think this is a game?”
“No,” he says, softer now. “I want to go out with you and you're not giving me a chance”
“You’ll get over it.”
“I haven’t.”
“You will.”
His voice drops.
“You really think I’m that shallow?”
“I think you’re young.”
“And I think you’re scared.”
That hits.
“I’m not scared.”
“Then why won’t you even consider it?”
“Because if this goes wrong, I lose my job.”
“And if it goes right?”
“It won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
He steps closer until there’s barely space between you.
“One date”
“No”
It comes out immediately, too fast, too automatic, like your body is answering before your brain can catch up.
He doesn’t move away, he just stays there, close enough that you can’t ignore the fact that he’s waiting for something from you that you keep refusing to name.
“You didn’t even think about it,” he says quietly.
“There’s nothing to think about.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
A pause.
“You’re lying again.” he says
Your jaw tightens. “I’m not lying.”
“You are,” he says, not accusing, just certain.
You step back immediately, like distance can fix everything.
“Just let it go Lando” you say, voice rising slightly. "pushing me isn't gonna turn my answer into a yes.”
“I’m not pushing you,” he replies.
“You are standing one step away from me and asking me out.”
“I’m asking,” he corrects gently. “Not forcing.”
The distinction makes you angrier.
“Do you hear yourself?” you snap. “Do you understand what this looks like? I’m your PR manager. I’m responsible for your image. For your sponsors. For your career decisions in public. And you want to - what? Complicate that because you’re bored?”
His expression changes instantly, hurt in a way he tries to hide too late.
“I’m not bored,” he says quietly.
“Then what is it?”
A beat.
And then he says it — simple, unguarded, like he’s tired of pretending you don’t already know.
“I like you.”
That alone makes everything go quiet for a second too long.
You don’t answer right away. Not because you’re thinking carefully - because your brain kind of stalls.
Then you recover too quickly.
“You can't,” you say.
It comes out flat. Like you’re shutting a door before it can open properly.
He nods once.
“Okay.”
He says without any argument. And that bothers you more than if he’d pushed.
You look back at your screen, but you’re not reading anything anymore.
“we'll work on it” he says.
“There is nothing to work on Lando ”
A pause.
Then he shrugs slightly,
"We'll see"
You don’t know what to even say to that.So you default to what you always do.
“Goodbye Lando ”
He hesitates like he wants to say something else. Then just nods and leaves.
The next few days you actively tried to avoid Lando, which was hard because well, he was everywhere, but you needed time to sort through this. To snap back. On your third day of mission avoiding Lando, you hear his laugh, you turn to catch a glimpse of him when you see it. One of the newer staff. You notice her laughing with him near the garage. It’s nothing serious. Nothing you can even justify being annoyed about. But you still feel it. Which annoys you more. You’re standing nearby pretending to check emails, but you’re not actually reading anything.He says something. She laughs. He smiles back. And something tightens in your chest before you can stop it. You look away first immediately. Like that fixes it, it doesn’t.
Later that night, he finds you still in the paddock office.
“You’re still here?” he asks, leaning on the doorframe.
“I’ve got work.”
“You always say that.”
You don’t look up. “Because I always do.”
He steps in but doesn’t sit.
Just stays standing there like he’s not sure where he fits in the room anymore.
“Are you okay?” he says.
You pause for half a second.
“I'm fine”
“Don't give me that”
You finally look at him.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to talk to me”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
He sighs.
“Right."
A pause.
“You didn’t like seeing me talk to her earlier.”
That hits too directly. You immediately shut it down.
“I don’t care.”
He doesn’t react to the speed of it. Just watches you.
“You do that thing,” he says.
“What thing.”
“Say no too fast.”
You let out a short breath, annoyed now.
“Lando, don’t start reading into everything.”
“I’m not reading into it,” he says. “I’m just… observing.”
That makes you stand up.
A bit too quickly.
“ I don't wanna do this tonight lando.”
“Do what” he says, a bit sharper now.
“Cross lines that are not supposed to be crossed."
“I'm just asking you why you look like that when I talk to other people.”
That stops you for a second but you recover quickly.
“I don’t look like anything.”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair.
“Okay, sure.”
A pause. Then he adds, softer again
“You’re allowed to just say you don’t like it, you know.”
“I don’t like what?”
“Me talking to other women ”
You don't answer. But your silence was all he needed to know that you didn't like it.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s what I thought.”
"Just leave Lando I'm not in the mood"
“I’m not trying to make your life harder,” he says.
“I know.”
A pause. Then he looks at you properly.
“I just don’t think I can pretend I don’t feel something anymore.”
That hits you in the chest and you don't like it because you can’t answer it cleanly.
"Just go on one date with me please"
He asks quietly. You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you shut your laptop a bit too firmly.
"I don't understand why you're doing this ”
“I told you why.”
"You're unbelievable" she snaps
“You’ve been like this all week,” he says.
“Like what.”
“ Avoiding me, barely talking to me. Then acting like I’m doing something wrong just by being around.”
You let out a breath through your nose, already tired.
“You are doing something wrong.”
That makes him pause. Not offended, just confused.
“What?”
You stand now. Because sitting down makes it feel contained and it isn’t contained anymore.
“This,” you gesture vaguely between you, voice tightening. “This whole… thing you keep doing. Acting like it doesn’t matter what the consequences are.”
“I do know the consequences,” he says.
“No, you don’t,” you cut in immediately. “You know them in theory. Not in reality.”
He opens his mouth, but you don’t let him in.
“You think it’s just you,” you continue, words coming faster now. “But it’s not just you. It’s me. It’s my job. It’s my entire career if this gets out and someone twists it the wrong way.”
He goes quiet at that. You keep going anyway, because stopping now feels worse.
“I am older than you,” you say, voice breaking slightly at the edge of control. “I manage you. I am literally responsible for keeping your image intact and you think I can just—what? Date you and nothing happens?”
“It’s not like that,” he tries.
“It is like that!” you snap, finally losing the careful tone. “To everyone else it is. To PR. To sponsors. To the paddock. To your team. Do you understand how fast that turns into a problem that I carry?”
He steps forward slightly. Not close enough to touch you. But enough that it registers.
“I don’t care about all of them,I'll be by your side I'll protect you just give me one chance” he pleads.
“You don’t get it,” you say. “You’re not the one who loses everything if this goes wrong.”
His expression tightens slightly at that.
“I’m not asking you to risk everything” he says.
“You are, by not stopping” you interrupt.
That’s the moment it tips. Because he exhales like something inside him finally shifts from patience to frustration.
“I did stop,” he says, a bit sharper now. “I backed off. I gave you space. I did everything you wanted and you still look at me like I’m doing something wrong just for existing near you.”
Your chest tightens immediately.
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“It is what it feels like.”
The silence after that is heavier. And when you speak again, your voice is lower, strained.
“This is exactly why it can’t happen,” you say. “Because you don’t even see the weight of it. You think feelings are enough.”
“They are enough for me,” he says immediately. You shake your head once, like you can physically push that away.
“No,” you say, voice tightening again. “No, they’re not. Not here. Not like this.”
He steps closer this time.
“Then what is it going to take?” he asks. “Because I’ve been here. I’ve waited. I’ve backed off. I’ve tried doing it your way and you still—”
“You’re too young for me,” you cut in suddenly.
It comes out harsher than intended. But it lands. He stills. You push forward before you lose the thread.
“I have to think about every single consequence,” you say, voice shaking slightly now. “Every headline. Every sponsor meeting. Every person who will say I’m unprofessional or worse. And you get to just—want me without that weight.”
His jaw tightens.
“That’s not fair,” he says quietly.
“I know,” you say immediately, and it almost breaks there. “I know it’s not fair,but it's the truth"
After a long beat he speaks up again
"So what will it take for me to earn you?"
He asks,eyes almost looking hopeless.
"You can't, you can't assure me that I won't lose my career you can't assure me that I won't get torn apart just for being romantically involved with you, it would just be instant destruction for me."
"And if I could?"
"Could what?"
"Assure you that no matter what happens between us you're career will remain untouched. Then would you date me?"
You pause "You can't do that though"
"That wasn't the question"
The room feels smaller all of a sudden.
“You’re asking me to gamble my entire life on a hypothetical,” you say, keeping your voice even, controlled. “On feelings.”
“I’m asking you if that’s the only thing stopping you.”
“It’s not the only thing.” You look at him properly then, and that’s your mistake. His hair’s messy from pulling at it, hoodie sleeves shoved up his forearms, eyes tired in a way that has nothing to do with jet lag. “You’re younger than me. You’re my driver. I manage your schedule, your image, your interviews. If this goes wrong, it doesn’t just go wrong privately. It explodes.”
“And if it doesn’t go wrong?”
“You don’t know that it won’t.”
“You don’t know that it will.”
You exhale sharply, frustrated. “You’ll be fine, Lando. You’ll still have your seat. Your sponsors. Your fans. If they find out you’re seeing someone older? They’ll call you lucky. If they find out I crossed a professional boundary? I’m done. Blacklisted. Finished.”
His jaw tightens. “You think I’d let that happen?”
“You wouldn’t get a choice.”
Silence stretches between you. He steps closer, not touching you, just close enough that you feel the warmth of him.
“If I spoke to the team,” he says quietly. “If I went to HR myself. If I made it clear this is something I’m pursuing, not you. If I put it in writing that you’ve never encouraged it, that you’ve tried to shut it down every time. If I take the risk publicly so you don’t have to.”
You stare at him. “You’d tell them.”
“Yes.”
“Before anything even happens?”
“Yes.”
“You’d risk the media circus? The headlines?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
Your throat feels tight. “Why?”
He laughs softly, but there’s nothing amused about it. “Because I’m already miserable. You think this is fun for me? You think I enjoy you looking at me like I’m some kid with a crush?” His voice wavers, just slightly. “I know what this is costing you. I know you’re scared. I am too.”
You swallow. “Then stop.”
“I can’t.”
“That’s not good enough.”
He nods, once, like he expected that. “Okay.”
You blink. “Okay?”
“Okay,” he repeats. “Then I’ll do it properly. I’ll speak to the team. I’ll make sure there’s a clear disclosure. I’ll request you get reassigned if that’s what makes you feel safe. I’ll deal with whatever fallout comes with it.” His voice is steady now, resolved. “And if after all that you still don’t want me, I’ll stop. Completely. No more pushing. No more lingering. I’ll be whatever you need me to be. Just tell me it’s not because you’re afraid.”
Your composure cracks.
“Do you have any idea what this looks like from my side?” you burst out, the words sharp and uneven, nothing like the calm, measured tone you’ve perfected over the years.
He doesn’t interrupt you. That almost makes it worse.
“I worked for this,” you continue, voice shaking now, not from anger but from something deeper. “I worked through internships where I wasn’t paid, through bosses who didn’t take me seriously, through being the youngest woman in every room. I built this reputation from nothing. And one rumour—one headline—and it’s gone.”
He swallows but stays quiet.
“You get to be impulsive,” you say, softer now, more honest. “You get to follow what you want because you’re talented and indispensable and the team revolves around you. I don’t have that protection. If this blows up, they won’t say you chased me. They’ll say I blurred boundaries. They’ll say I was unprofessional. They’ll say I used access.”
His jaw tightens. “I would never let them paint you like that.”
“You wouldn’t get to control the narrative,” you snap, then immediately shake your head. “That’s the point. You don’t understand. I’m older than you. That alone changes how people see this. Five years isn’t dramatic to us, but to the outside world? I’m the irresponsible one. I’m the one who should’ve known better.”
The silence stretches.
You drag a hand over your face, frustrated at yourself for even letting him see this much.
“And it’s not just my job,” you admit quietly. “It’s my family. My parents already think this industry is unstable. They think I’m one bad season away from unemployment. If this turns into a scandal, they’ll look at me like I proved them right.”
His expression softens completely.
“And you,” you say, looking at him properly now, “you’re… you. You’re still figuring things out. You’re still growing. You still have so much ahead of you. I don’t want to be the person who complicates that.”
“You wouldn’t,” he says immediately.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“You don’t,” you insist, but your voice is weaker now. “What if you wake up in a year and realize you wanted someone easier? Someone who doesn’t overthink every single thing? Someone your age?”
“I don’t want easier.”
“You don’t know that yet.”
“I know what I feel.”
You let out a brittle laugh. “Feelings aren’t protection.”
“No,” he agrees quietly. “But they’re real.”
You look at him then—really look at him—and he doesn’t look reckless. He looks terrified. Determined. Vulnerable in a way he rarely allows himself to be.
“I’m not rejecting you because I don’t feel anything,” you confess before you can stop yourself.
The words hang between you.
His breath stutters. “You don’t?”
You close your eyes briefly. “Of course I do. I wouldn’t be this upset if I didn’t. I wouldn’t be losing sleep over this if it didn’t matter.”
His voice drops. “Then why does it feel like I’m the only one fighting for it?”
“Because you’re the only one who can afford to.”
That hits him. You see it. You step closer without meaning to, your voice lowering. “If I let myself want this, I lose my objectivity. I lose my guard. And if something goes wrong, I don’t just lose you. I lose everything I built.”
He doesn’t argue. He just says, very softly, “Then let me carry some of that.”
“You can’t carry my career.”
“No,” he admits. “But I can make sure you’re not the one taking the fall. I can go to the team. I can disclose it before anything happens. I can put it in writing that you’ve shut me down every time. I can make it clear this was me. My choice.”
Your heart pounds.
“You’d risk that?” you ask.
“Yes.”
“Even if they advise against it?”
“Yes.”
“Even if it damages your image?”
His answer doesn’t waver. “Yes.”
You search his face for arrogance, for carelessness. There’s none. Just sincerity and something fragile underneath it.
“And if I still said no?” you whisper.
His throat works. “Then I’d stop. I wouldn’t make your life harder. I just… I need to know it’s not because you think I won’t step up.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
“You don’t get how hard this is for me,” you say, quieter now, almost pleading. “I’ve spent years being the serious one. The responsible one. I don’t fall for drivers. I don’t blur lines. I don’t risk stability for something that might fall apart under pressure.”
“I’m not asking you to stop being responsible,” he says gently. “I’m asking you to let me be responsible too.”
The words land heavier than you expect.
You look at him,this man who everyone assumes is impulsive, playful, unserious - and you see how carefully he’s choosing every word. How he hasn’t once raised his voice. How he’s giving you an out even while he’s standing here baring his pride.
“I’m scared,” you admit finally.
“I know.”
“I don’t want to lose everything.”
“You won’t.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“No,” he says honestly. “But I can promise that I won’t let you be alone in it.”
Silence fills the room again, but it’s different now.
“If you’re serious,” you say slowly, “you talk to the team first. Not after. Before. You make it clear I didn’t pursue you. That I’ve tried to keep it professional.”
“I will.”
“This is such a bad idea,” you murmur.
“Probably,” he agrees.
You study him for a long moment.
“You don’t get to be careless with me,” you say softly. “If I let you in, you don’t get to wake up one day and decide it was just a crush.”
“It’s not.”
“You can’t be so sure.”
“I am,” he insists quietly. “I’ve known for a while.”
Something inside you finally give, not because he pushed, not because he cornered you, but because he stayed. Because he listened. Because he understood what this would cost you and offered to shoulder it anyway.
“Talk to them,” you repeat.
His eyes flicker with something fragile and bright. “And when I do?”
⠀⠀⠀SUMMARY. 🪷 ָ࣪ ۰ ˓ You were never supposed to get involved like this. You didn’t even play tennis like what the three of them do! You’re the friend who always end up sitting in the sidelines because you have athletic friends. You definitely didn’t plan on wanting Tashi the way you do. And you keep pretending it’s nothing even if you’re being a hypocrite about it because you kept finding reasons to touch her and be close to her. How couldn’t you when she gave you crumbs of attention where you start reading into it?
⠀⠀⠀NOTE. 𓍢ִ໋ ִֶָ ִֶָ Ahhh yes. I ghosted this long enough. I am actually embarrassed that I did- I was actually thinking about abandoning this but :( I don’t have the heart to do it so expect many late fics…
It's always the three of them from the start they started studying for college... Tashi, Art, and Patrick. There's no ‘you’ in the picture because you're ahead of them, and you don't have the common bond they have, which is tennis. It's actually surprising that you got stumbled inside their established web. It's so established that, at first, you thought they were in a poly relationship. At least that's proven to be wrong when you saw Patrick and Tashi together without Art. A date night outside the campus, and you're in the right place at the right time to catch them in a restaurant when you pass by the glass wall.
You're not... well, you're not desperate to meet them or befriend them. No, you're not desperate for new friends when you already have them, but you can't help but get curious about it, considering many people are talking about them as if they're the tennis team's royalty. In reality? They're kind of like that, especially with the special treatment they received from people. You're no different from their charms. It's hard to say no when the moment you get the chance to talk to one of them, Art specifically, just happens to pick the table where you're studying at the library. You can't blame him, though, since it's a secluded area and you're alone.
Many study sessions happened with him first before you were introduced to the two. You also hear how they met... and that little bet they had about who won the match will have Tashi's number. Who would have thought that would happen? Maybe everyone but not you, since you already sense some tension from the start. Eventually, it led to getting close to Tashi, which turns out to be easier than you expected. Not because she's warm or welcoming, as people say, but because she doesn't care enough to make it hard. Honestly, she just doesn't think you'll hang around for the long term. At least that's what you thought because you're just there one day. Then again, the next. Then suddenly you're part of the group.
It becomes four of you without anyone saying you're part of something. It just happens. You sit with them after practice, even if you don't play. You listen more than you talk at first. Art talks when the quietness starts to linger in the room. Patrick fills it when Art doesn't. Tashi talks when she wants to, and everyone else adjusts around that. Also, you're not dating Art, and that never happens. He's friendly in a way, like he's always making sure not to cross a line he already drew in his head. He studies with you. He shares notes. He asks if you ate. It's all platonic.
Patrick, on the other hand, is easier. Patrick Zweig is always easy. He jokes like he's known you longer than he has. He steals your food without asking because he's shameless. He leans too close, but not because he's going to flirt with you. He will just talk too loudly and say things he probably shouldn't. You don't mind it, not really. As long... as long he doesn't do some "overly friendly" thing you have in your vocabulary that will consider disrespectful to his girlfriend- to Tashi. With him, it never feels like it has to mean something, even though you don't want to admit it. Tashi watches all of it like she's observing the three of you.
She doesn't interrupt, and she doesn't react much either. Sometimes she looks bored, and other times she studies everything, as she always does when it comes to tennis. She answers you without hesitation when you talk to her directly. She doesn't soften her words, nor does she overreact, yet her answers feel simple and easy to follow. You know she's not being mean because that's just how Tashi is. She watches you while you speak, then nods when it makes sense, while tilting her head when she's curious or engaging more. Talking to her doesn't feel awkward, even though she keeps her distance at first.
The four of you end up having a group chat that mirrors how things work in person. Patrick floods it with jokes and dumb tennis posts while Art says Patrick is annoying, but still replies every time. Tashi messages when she feels like it. It somehow manages to shut both of the boys up whenever they argue over small and shitty things. Plans happen there, and gossip happens there, too. Nothing ever feels serious until… well, when the four of you don't get along with something, it always gets fixed right away. You talk less than they do at first, but no one points it out. They still talk anyway and make you feel like you're tagging along anymore, and start feeling like you're expected to be there.
All this time, you never noticed how easy it felt to follow Tashi around until you started doing it too. At first, it was just to be useful as you helped carry her bag from practice and stayed close while she walked to the lockers. The more time you spent beside her, the more you caught yourself watching. Her shirt fits too tightly to her body, and it makes you swallow when she moves around. Your eyes can't help but drift on their own when she bends to grab something, and you hate that you notice. You tell yourself it means nothing, and you tell yourself you're only helping.
Sometimes she asks you for a towel or asks you to wipe sweat from her back after a long drill. You always try to make it fast and gentler than it should be, but your hand stays there longer than it should. You feel heat through the fabric, and the way her shoulder twitches reminds you of how close the two of you are. You feel a little stupid for noticing so much, like you got caught staring. She never reacts, though, and maybe she sees it, but she just doesn't care enough to call it out. You can also remember vividly that there's the day after a match when she asks you to help her in the locker room because her ankle hurts too much to do it on her own.
You kneel in front of her bench and set her shoe aside while she rests her heel on your thigh. Your hands move slowly as you unwrap the tape, and she watches you, as if this part means nothing. Her skin feels warm under your fingers, and you tell yourself to focus on the task. You don't. Instead, you notice how smooth her skin feels under your fingers even after all the times you've touched her. It surprises you and makes it hard to focus on just helping. You press the ice pack gently against her ankle, and she exhales as it relieves the pain. Her knee shifts closer, and her leg stays relaxed in your hands. You keep your head down because looking up feels too intimate.
Your thumb drifts over her skin on purpose, but you yank it back the second it touches her, and your chest clenches instantly. For a second, you imagine leaning forward and pressing your mouth there instead. The idea makes your stomach twist, and you hate how badly you want it. She talks about the match like it's a joke to your existence, and you nod while kneeling between her legs, pretending this means nothing to you. Sleepovers feel worse. She storms over after an argument with Patrick, then drops onto your couch, as the place belongs to her. You end up sharing the bed more than once because she refuses to go back to her place, and your body reacts before your brain catches up.
You watch her as she undresses, and you tell yourself she has no idea while she laughs at something on her phone. Her naked back faces you, and the curve of her spine makes your chest clench in a way that burns. You want to reach out and press your lips along her skin while your hands trace the line of her shoulders, but you don’t move, and you hate yourself for thinking it. Every movement she makes makes you imagine marking her back with scratches or a hickey. You're here, there, pretending to be calm as these thoughts cloud your mind and you feel worse than anyone else in the room.
There's also a time when you helped her zip up a dress for an event, and your hands brush over her skin. Her shoulder leans into yours like she doesn't even notice, and your fingers pause in the middle of you zipping her up, even while your brain tells you to move. You want to remember how she feels against you. The warmth of her body and how her weight rests against you, but she talks about tennis plans like nothing matters at all. You nod while you're clearly distracted, and your heart pounds hard as you try to act normal. Don't forget that it's insufferable for you to watch the way she walks and the way she laughs or the little impatient scoffs she does when Patrick texts annoy her.
It all makes you want her more. You keep telling yourself it starts as admiration, but it feels harder to explain. She never means to tease you, but the way she lets you stay so close feels like an invitation you keep taking the wrong way because you need her. She's the one you notice first, even in the moments when the four of you are together. The day after practice, she plays a friendly match with Patrick and Art, while you end up sitting on the side of the court to watch. It’s two against one, but she knows how the two play, and she's smart, so her score stays ahead. Your eyes are supposed to be in the game, but you can’t stop looking at her instead.
It's actually shameless with the way your eyes focused when her skirt lifts the moment she bends down to reach for the ball. Every step she takes and every turn of her body makes something burn in your stomach. Of course, you tried to shift in your seat to focus on the game, but your eyes follow her without permission. You realize you’re turned on just from watching, with your face heating up because you’re probably worse than a man and not even one, yet you feel like you’d be raging hard if you were. Your hands tighten in your lap because you don’t deserve to do anything else with your hate brewing, and how much you want her just from standing there or moving across the court.
It becomes a routine where every gesture makes you read into it, even the smallest things. You watch her sip water as she fixes her hair, then reaches for something. Each movement she makes affects and pushes a feeling into your chest that makes your stomach turn upside down. How can it start as curiosity and will stay harmless when you catch your fingers twitching the moment she leans forward, with your eyes following the line of her neck? You know it's not curiosity anymore. You're waiting, and you keep waiting. You already plan ways to be closer even when she's not aware of it. It's fucking annoying at this point that you're being Needy Lesnicki while she's your Jennifer Check.
Helping her turns into more than help because it becomes a reason to touch her and to stay longer than needed. It’s almost fucked up how easy it feels to forget Patrick’s her boyfriend when all your attention stays on Tashi. That same boyfriend ends up catching you off guard late at night, after too many drinks, already sitting around the table. Empty glasses crowd every surface, and the music plays too loudly, so people lean closer just to hear each other talk. You don’t notice yourself watching Tashi until Patrick does. She laughs at something Art says, then tips her head back while sweat runs down her neck. Your eyes follow her without stopping, and Patrick catches it from across the table.
He doesn’t stare or call you out, but his gaze stays on you for a moment, as if he's realized something. Art and Tashi stand to grab another round while Patrick stays where he is. He turns toward you as he has finally decided to speak. “You always look at her like that,” he says casually, like he’s talking about the music. He swirls what’s left of his drink. “I don’t think you even realize you do it.” You laugh and reach for your glass out of habit, even though it’s already empty. You roll it between your fingers like you meant to grab it for a reason. “Like what?” you ask. Patrick looks at you with his mouth pulled slightly to one side. It doesn’t feel friendly, and it doesn’t feel like a joke either.
“Like you’re waiting,” he says. He keeps his eyes on you now, like he wants to see what you’ll do with that. “If she were single,” he adds with a lighter tone, like he’s testing you, “what would you do?” Your answer takes longer than you want it to. You keep your eyes off him while you speak. “Probably nothing,” you say, even though it isn’t true. You sigh, then glance toward the bar where Tashi stands with Art. “Or maybe I’d finally stop pretending I don’t want her.” Patrick lets out a small sound through his nose like the answer confirms something for him. He doesn’t push you further. He just smiles and says, “Huh,” like the idea sits easier than it should.
Patrick feels different after that night, and you can’t pretend you don’t notice. Thankfully, he doesn’t tell Tashi, but somehow that makes it worse. Nowadays, he starts to get closer to you, like brushing past you and leaning in as if he owns the space, when the four of you hang out. You can't help thinking about the day you kind of admit to him about Tashi, and it makes you feel stupid that you said anything at all, because you know how Patrick is. His jokes feel different now and make your stomach twist sometimes while he looks at you longer than he should. You justify it by telling yourself it means nothing, and you don’t stop it because part of you wants to be noticed by him in a way you never admitted you wanted.
You know you should address it to Patrick, but you didn't. It gets complicated because you let it happen. He really gets closer in a way that his hands touch you more often in ways that could still pass as friendly if anyone asked. He didn't make it uncomfortable at all because, honestly, you didn't even notice it when it happened, but you only do after it happened. Like his arm around your shoulder or hand at your back, guiding you through a crowd. It's also scream 'Patrick Zweig' in that matter because he's very friendly, or like that in a way, before that 'conversation' happened. You know it doesn’t matter because he’s not the one you want.
You tell yourself this might even help you! You're delusional like that because you think being closer to him means being closer to Tashi, too. Maybe it makes you feel pathetic that you feel that way. Maybe it makes you worse that you don’t stop it. It’s too bad because the moment Patrick starts acting like that, Art notices. Not just notice in a way he can brush it off. He reads the situation and knows Patrick well enough to tell when he’s playing around. Right now, Patrick is doing that, and Art can see it in the way Patrick laughs a little too long at your jokes. He can see it in the way Patrick turns his body toward you when he thinks no one is paying attention.
Patrick doesn’t realize how obvious it looks from Art’s side because he sees all of it play out in front of him, while you laugh a little too much and lean a little too close. He notices because he sees himself in you. Maybe in a way that he was being the one trying to get Tashi to look his way before, but never enough to compete with Patrick. Watching Patrick get closer while you let it happen brings back the same frustration and interest he felt back then. It leaves him on edge whenever eyes are on it, even though he never admits the little jealousy he feels. That's when he... let's say get a little closer without making it obvious to anyone.
Yes, he's careful. Sometimes his hand rests on the back of the chair you're sitting in instead of putting it on your back, while his knee turns toward yours under the table. The three of you got into something complicated without the shit of getting out of it. Patrick thinks he has control over you whenever he makes contact, just to watch how you react. You let it happen while letting Patrick think he's so subtle about it, but you noticed it while your attention always stayed on Tashi. Art thinks he’s keeping it together, yet his thoughts are messy with the ways to pull you back out of the mess between Patrick and Tashi without stepping fully into the image. Honestly, without messing anything at all.
But you? You just want Tashi, and you knew it, but you also didn’t want to make it something that would ruin the friendship. Sometimes you catch yourself smiling at the mess, even though you don't want to feel anything. Your stomach tightens with guilt or want because you know you shouldn’t play along so much. You know, you keep feeding Patrick’s teasing plus Art’s tension. But how can you stop it when it feels unavoidable? It feels just right. And through it all Tashi stays… Tashi. While you stay caught between the three without knowing how it happened. Wanting her doesn’t fade. You don't even know if you want it to fade.
And heavens help you because you were wrong when you thought it couldn’t get worse. It did get worse, and it's something you still remember because it might be the very same day that nothing can take back what happened. Tashi had a match that afternoon, where Patrick stormed off somewhere after a fight he had with her. It started over something stupid. Small, even before it turned into ego-bruising words. You were the only one, and Art watched the game in the end because leaving her alone never felt right. Art also always knows when something feels wrong, so he texted Patrick before the match started to ask if he planned to show up, but he only said he can't. So it was just the two of you there.
The court stayed the same while Tashi played as if she had only shown up with half of herself. You noticed it right away as her eyes kept sliding toward the sidelines more than the ball. It's obvious she's looking for Patrick as she tapped her bounce the ball against the ground before serving, and her shoulders look tense every time she swings. You kept watching her, with your hands on your knees, and something uneasy twisted in your stomach. Art sat quietly beside you, which somehow made it worse because he never said anything; his eyes kept moving between her and you, like he already knew exactly where your thoughts were going.
She doesn't look like herself from the start, and every serve she gave felt off, while every moment of her feet feels like the fight with Patrick. It already took something out of her before the game even began. Then... unfortunately, it happened when the opponent gave the ball back to her, and she took one wrong step, or, instead, bent her knee so the ball hit her knee rather than her racket. Her body folded in half before she even reached the ground, as if she were trying to reach for her knee. She collapsed under her own weight, and you saw the exact second her knee got injured, while your stomach felt sick at the scene you witnessed.
She screamed loudly, where it was the sound of piercing pain and ragged cries. It was not only the pain but also the shock of what happened and the disbelief that hit all at once. She grabbed her leg and pulled it close while crying hard. Her racket was long forgotten across the court as everything stopped around her. It was like her dreams were shattered in that moment. You didn't hesitate when you jumped over the bleachers without thinking, while your heart raced. Art followed right behind you and ran fast too, with a focus on her. Tashi looked at you for one second with wide eyes full of fear before she hid her face against her arms and curled over her bent leg. It thudded uselessly as you realized you didn't know how to help her.
Patrick being gone made things worse, but part of you felt glad he wasn’t there to witness this firsthand, while another part of you hated that it was just you and Art left to handle everything. The fear lies heavily in your chest while it was mixed with panic and the need to do something more than hold her hand or say things that didn’t fix anything. Tashi tried to breathe through it and tried to force herself to suppress what she felt because that’s how she always handled things, but you caught every emotion in her face. You watched each small attempt to stand up, but it ended the same way, with her dropping back down and letting out a sound she couldn’t hold back. Always ending up hugging her leg after she tried, as if it was the only thing keeping her hope for something.
She looked helpless, and she never looked this way until that moment because she never ever lets anyone do her like that. That sight alone wants you to turn back the time where you can prevent her from playing that day. You wanted to fix this for her, even when nothing could change except being there for her and telling her reassurances while your hand smoothed her hair back from her forehead. “It’s okay… I’m right here… I’ve got you,” you murmured, and her lips quivered into a small smile, as if she didn't believe it. Art murmured something about calling the medic and about getting her off the court safely, but your ear ignored all the noise beside the ones she made.
You stayed focused on her as small sounds slipped past her lips. You hated the powerless feeling, and you hated how it made your chest tighten for her. The only thing you could give is your presence and your comfort. You leaned back slightly when the medic finally arrived and kept holding her. She cried softly into your hand, and her face twisted when you moved away. It made you swear under your breath because you wanted to do more and because you wanted to take the pain away from her. You wanted nothing to ever hurt her like that again. Art stayed on the other side as he helped guide her onto the stretcher, but your eyes never left her.
That day changed everything, and Patrick never truly saw Tashi again. After the injury, she didn’t call him and didn’t reply when he tried to message her, which made it clear she didn't want him in her life anymore. You weren’t surprised exactly because she was always firm when she decided to do something, but watching it happen and watching her shut him out so completely made you scared. You and Art tried reaching out through texts and calls while asking how she was before offering to bring food or study with her once she was allowed to move around. She tried her best to respond at first, but her words were short and cold, yet polite enough to keep things civil while staying distant.
It's actually enough to remind you that she's shutting everyone out until nothing can enter that small wall she created for herself to breathe in. It wasn’t long before the replies started coming less compared to the ones that were already short and little. They grew shorter over time, if that's even possible, until she stopped responding at all. Art tried harder than you expected, and he kept showing up on campus, where he offered help with errands while sitting with her in the moments when she avoided everyone else. You couldn’t do that anymore because you’d graduated and left campus behind.
So you can't see her much that anymore because you don't stay live at the university dorm anymore. The distance just cut deeper because of the circumstances, and you had always been ahead of her. Always moving forward, yet now you're stuck and have no way to reach back into her life. You can't help but think about the little excuses you have to be close to her. Like sleepovers when she had a fight with Patrick or wiping her sweat from her neck after a game. Those moments always make your heart flutter, but you never say it out loud. The memory affects you more now that you don't have any of that. It made your chest tighten, and your stomach turn.
She wasn’t just out of reach physically- she was slipping away from you emotionally, too. It made you realize that you never knew what you had meant to her. Well... you know the answer. Friends. That's the most basic and obvious one, but you couldn't stop to think if there was a tiny moment that she questioned something too. The scraps of attention, along with the closeness you once shared, felt easy to lose once Patrick was gone, and Tashi stayed quiet. It hurt more than you wanted to admit. You never asked, and you never dared to think about your place in her life, but now the question starts bothering you- had you only been there for fun? You had always been careful, and you worked so hard to hide what you felt.
Art updates you about Tashi when she asks because, according to him, he still checks in sometimes, but it never feels like enough. The details he provided were always a little, which showed the walls she built around herself. The walls are far taller than you could ever climb. Doubt stepped in first every time your fingers lingered above your phone as you thought about reaching out. Did she even want to hear from you? You wanted to be the one she leaned on and the one she let close again, but she's not letting me you. All of what happened forced you to face the truth during the moments when you felt most alone. You wanted her, and you didn’t know if she had ever wanted you back or if you had been nothing more than someone who passed through her life?
So it didn't really take any effort to keep your distance when you see her. You tried to fool yourself into thinking that catching up is enough. Maybe one nostalgic conversation, then you'd walk away from her. Just like how you practice in your head. Stupid of you to think that when you forgot to do that, the second you felt her skin under your fingertips. You don’t even remember who suggested going to a hotel. You only remember following her and not stopping your track until both of you end up in the elevator to go up to the unit. You didn’t even bother looking around for privacy. The restraint you have literally disappeared the moment the elevator doors close behind you and Tashi.
Your lips find hers because you can't stand waiting with your hands already on her body. Fingers tangling in her hair while her lips pressed against yours. She groaned and pushed you harder against her chest while tilting her head. “Fuck… I was hoping you’d catch me first,” she murmured against your lips the moment she pulled a little. You could feel her hot breath against your lips, which made you whimper and grab the back of her neck tighter before your lips crushed hers again. “I-I can’t wait anymore,” you rasped. Her hand slid down your side, and you shivered when her fingers brushed your hips.
The elevator continued moving, and she growled before pushing you against the wall. “You’re so greedy,” she said with her teeth nipping your bottom lip. You gasped while you let her pull your lips back to hers. “I need you, Tashi,” you admitted, and your voice trembles as your body pressed into hers. She teasingly smirked against your lips. “How much, hm? Only a little?” You didn't answer her because it's also the same time the doors opened where you stepped out with your hands still on each other, while your mouths still attached to each other. Both of you walked down the hall and didn’t even make it to the end when her back hit the wall as your mouth kept devouring her while you pulled her closer.
Your lips opened to suck and bite her lower lip. It made her moan into your mouth and let you slip your tongue inside. Your tongues tangled together to push and drag against each other. Tongues rolling and spit mixing together with the kiss until your mouths feel sloppy. You nipped and sucked her lips hard while she groaned before sucking back hungrily. The way her teeth grazing yours makes it enough to sting. “Shit… you’re insane,” she breathed while letting her hands rake down your back and dig into your hips. You pressed your mouth to hers again to let your tongue shove deep into her while she sucked hard enough to make your knees feel weak, and your hips jerk forward.
“Mhmhm- yeah,” you growled while grinding into her as your hands clutched her waist and tasted her mouth like it was all you’d ever need. She tipped her head back as one hand held your waist firmly while the other was grasping your hair to keep you right there. “Don’t think for a second I’m letting you get away,” she growled as her thigh slid between yours and pressed hard enough to make you gasp. Your body shook against hers with your chest pinned to hers, and you whispered, “I don’t want to. Not even for a second…” You were already desperate when you two reached the hotel room door with your fingers, trying your best to get the keycard and to open it.
Her mouth stayed on yours the whole time just to steal breath and sound with every kiss. “Hurry… Tash- hurry, I need-” you gasped, but she cut you off when she took your lips again before you could finish. The door opened, and she pushed you inside while keeping her mouth on yours the whole time. She turned you by the waist and shut the door behind you without breaking the kiss. Your back met the door as she pressed into you right after her lips moved slowly and deeply, like she had all the time in the world. The door barely clicks shut before she’s on you again, and there’s nothing gentle or careful about it.
Her mouth finds yours like she held it back for years and finally snapped. Your back presses hard against the door, then it rattles as she hisses into the kiss, but refuses to slow down. “God,” Tashi mutters against your mouth. “You always-” You don’t let her finish as your hands slide up her sides to pull her closer. You kiss her deeper and messier, trying to make up for the months you didn’t touch her. She responds instantly with fingers digging into your hips. Her thumbs press like she needs an anchor. You move first and nudge your feet forward while keeping her close. She leans into you and backs up slowly. One hand slides along your waist for balance. The other stays tangled in your hair.
Your fingers trace down her spine to keep her pressed against you as you guide her steps. Each time she stumbles, you steady her with your chest flush to hers. She bumps lightly into the walls and corners of the hallway. When her foot catches on the rug, you hiss into the kiss and tighten your hold. “Careful. We’re gonna break something,” she gasps and laughs breathlessly into your mouth. “I don’t care,” you murmur against her lips as you tug her closer. She turns slightly with her shoulders brushing yours. Your bodies twist together while you step around the hallway corner. She tilts her head, then presses her mouth to yours until your body turns into hers. The kiss forces you back as your balance slips and the space closes fast.
Your hands catch under her top and tug at the fabric, but she does not hesitate. She grabs it herself and yanks it up over her head in one hard motion, then lets it drop somewhere behind you. There’s barely time to breathe before she is on you. Her grip finds the hem of your shirt while she pulls it up your ribs and over your shoulders. The fabric leaves your body fast and disappears to the floor. A sound breaks from your throat as you stumble together around a chair, but she keeps control and drives you back. Your back meets the wall, and she pins you there with her weight. Cool air hits your bare skin while her eyes stay locked on you like she wants to take everything in at once. Your chest lifts fast and unevenly while heat spreads through you and leaves no room to think.
Tashi doesn’t waste a second, and her hands slide around your back while she leans closer. Her fingers slip under your bra straps, then find the clasp as she keeps you pressed to her. The catch gives way fast before you can speak, and the bra opens under her hands. She removes the cups so your chest falls free while she presses closer. Her mouth moves down your neck with heat and intent until it reaches your nipple. She takes it into her mouth slowly at first, and your body lifts into her while your hands grab her shoulders to keep her close. A soft sound slips from you between kisses while your hands move over the curve of her waist, then along her ribs before sliding into her waistband and pulling her closer.
Her mouth stays on your nipple as she makes a quiet sound against your skin, then her tongue moves once before her teeth catch just enough to pull a gasp from you. Her fingers hold both your hips as she pulls back from your chest and leans in just enough to give you a quick peck at your lips, like she only wants the taste. Her mouth leaves yours and drifts down along your collarbone, where you respond right away by leaning into her, even when she pulls back like you’re trying to keep her close. One of your hands stays firm at your hip while the other slides around your back and up your spine until it cups the back of your neck. “Fuck… Tashi,” you breathe as your voice turns rough while your lips brush hers again, and you pull her closer.
“Yeah?” she murmurs against your skin. “You like that, don’t you?”
You can’t answer, and you just answer with your hands sliding into her hair to pull her up to your mouth again, but she dodges it on purpose. She laughs against your chest teasingly before her lips drift down to suck one of your nipples and tug lightly while she hums just enough to make you squirm. “Just because you want it doesn’t mean you get it,” she murmurs like she knows it’ll get under your skin. You make a small sound of protest and tug at her again. “Tashi, come on,” you whine impatiently. She stays right where she is, and her fingers slide down your side, then hook firmly at your hip while her arm tightens around your waist. Your thighs press together without thinking, and she feels it immediately.
“See,” she says, quietly lifting her head just enough to look at you. “That’s why I won’t.”
Her tongue slides over your nipple again before she pulls back just enough to grin at you and say, “Ask better.” She stays right where she is just to make you wait, and it almost makes you mad how much she enjoys it. “Fuck- Tashi- stop teasing me,” you snap while pressing closer to her, even though you know she won’t listen. Her lips clamp around your nipple before she sucks it eagerly like she can’t get enough, with her tongue swirling and nipping at the tip that makes your back arch. She flicks her tongue over the tip before removing her mouth there to drag her lips along your chest.
You suck in a breath before you grab her hair when you realize she’s going to leave marks on your skin. “Tashi-” you breathe out weakly while your body betrays you. “You’re gonna leave marks,” you murmur with the effort to sound disapproving, yet your voice betrays you when it comes out gently. Butterflies rush through your stomach as she keeps going while your eyes watch what she's doing and it makes you want more. She doesn't hear a thing you said when she started to leave tiny marks around it and trail it up to your collarbone until her mouth brushes your neck. “I want to see it on you,” Tashi whispers as her lips brush your skin before her eyes look at you as if she's daring you to argue. “You think you can stop me?”
It takes her five or maybe more before she gets satisfied with the hickeys she left there, before she moves her head down to the curve of your shoulder just to give a few kisses on it. “Pretty,” she whispers against your shoulder and trails kisses again to go back down to your chest until her lips close around your nipple. Your hand stays in her hair as you feel her lips wrap around your nipple as she needs it. Your chest arches towards her more while your fingers dig into her shoulders. You still try to push her away regardless of how your body reacts, but she only leans closer against you. Her other hand cups your other breast and works your nipple between her fingers as she claims it. You tug at her hair before muttering her name with frustration and need, “Tashi- stop it-” She ignores you and drags her tongue over your nipple again until you gasp.
You try again harder this time by shoving her a little, but you can’t get her off you because her weight keeps you pinned. She moves her mouth from your breast to your collarbone, which makes your stomach twist. You groan and press yourself as close as possible to her mouth while feeling like you’re about to throw a tantrum because you can’t take it anymore. The need you have to take this to bed is screaming in every bone of your body. “You’re such an asshole-” you breathe, “Tashi- seriously- fuck- you’re killing me.” She smiles against your skin like she’s enjoying how worked up you are. Her mouth keeps marking your chest while her hands stay busy like she’s seeing how far she can push you.
The way she licks and sucks it makes your head spin. Your pussy throbs while your knees press together as your chest lifts with each broken breath. You want more than what she gives you as she keeps you pinned against the wall. “Mmhm…” she hums with your nipple in her mouth, while the other is receiving attention from her fingers. Her free hand moves lower without warning and slips under your waistband before placing it right against your clit. You freeze for a second as your hips jerk at her touch. Her fingers rub slowly enough to make your body shiver while your back arches further against the wall. “God,” she murmurs against your skin while her lips tease your nipple. “You’re so wet already.” Your face heats at her words while your stomach twists with frustration and need.
You push at her shoulder to shove her off for a second to breathe and get a grip, but she doesn’t move. “Tashi, I- stop it, seriously, we need to move,” you growl out. Being pinned to the wall makes you embarrassed and needy at the same time. She presses closer and her lips skim your collarbone, then her mouth trails down your chest as she murmurs, “Move where? You like it too much to leave me alone.” Your legs almost fold as you press into her hand that is placed under your panties. Your body betrays you even though you try not to give her satisfaction. You groan softly as you grab her waist to try to pull her back just enough to break the contact, but it’s not enough to get her off you. “Tashi, bed now, I can’t take this here, I need-” Your voice turns into a whine as she keeps teasing you with her mouth on your chest.
Her other hand is still doing little circles that steal your breath away while your pussy pulses harder from it. Your face heats up while your chest rises faster because the feeling keeps getting stronger. You stay under her weight while she breathes softly against your skin and looks at you with that smug expression like she knows exactly how much she’s affecting you.
Her lips leave your chest, and her fingers slip from your nipple in a way that makes your body tense. The other hand slips out from under your waistband, and your hips follow after it like you’re trying to chase the breadcrumbs of please she gave you while it twitches in frustration. A sound leaves your mouth before you can swallow it down. It comes out almost pleading, which only makes it worse since you were the one asking for the bed minutes ago.
She smirks down at you, then tips her head while pushing her hair back like she’s proud of how worked up you are. “I thought you wanted the bed,” she teases while her fingers hover just above your chest right where her mouth had been, and tracing the skin like she’s deciding whether to touch you again. Your lips pout in response. Your chest heaves as something flutters tight in your stomach. “I do! I want it!” Your voice comes out rough and needy when you speak. “Exactly,” she murmurs with a raised brow, “so we’re going there.” She starts walking towards the bed, and the way her hips move makes it very clear she knows you’re watching. You huff and pout, yet your eyes stay glued to her back, which has you press your thighs together.
The teasing smile on her face didn't disappear even though you couldn't see it. Your hands twitch at your sides with the want to touch her again and feel her against you. She takes her time with every step and makes no move to hurry even though she knows making you wait drives you crazy. She glances back over her shoulder, and that small smile on her mouth says she is taunting you to react. “Don’t pout too much,” she murmurs in that teasing tone, “or you’ll lose focus before we even make it to the bed.” She stops near the bed and turns back to face you with that look on her face. Her fingers slip into her waistband, and she slowly pushes it down her legs until it falls at her ankles. She keeps her panties on, letting them rest on her hips, so that’s left on her is just her bra and panties.
Seeing her like this makes your cheeks heat up like a girl having a crush for the first time. She doesn’t look away and makes sure her eyes meet yours. She holds your gaze with that enjoyment like she wants you to make a move. Her bra fits her perfectly, and it becomes impossible to ignore the second she shifts. You can't stop looking at her, and your body is craving every inch of her. Your breathing turns uneven by the time she reaches the bed. The hair on your skin rises because she hasn’t even touched you yet, and your body is already reacting. She climbs onto the edge of the bed and sits at the center as she owns it. Her hand pats the space beside her like it’s both an invitation. "Come here," she teases as her voice turns soft but stays firm. "You’ve been whining enough."
You keep pouting while you're hesitating and only let out a frustrated sound when you watch Tashi still tapping the bed. The need between your thighs makes your legs move toward her anyway. Your hands rest on her shoulders, and you grip her shoulders to steady yourself. She looks up at you with a smug grin, like she knew you would give in eventually. “Don’t just stand there, baby,” she murmurs, and her hand finds your hip first, then slides to hook into your waistband while the pet name makes you sick. Not in a vomiting way, but rather where your stomach couldn't explain what you feel. “Mm,” she hums with dark eyes, “you heard me, now let me take care of you.” She doesn’t even hesitate when her fingers slip under the waistband of your bottoms and your panties to pull them down in one smooth motion.
The fabric slides down past your hips then it crowds at your feet, where it leaves you naked in front of her. “Go on,” she says patiently with her gaze fixed on you, “step out of those for me, baby.” She gestures to the fabric pooled at your feet, and then you step back so she can look at you fully from head to toe. Your chest rises fast while your thighs press together, but her gaze stays fixed on you without breaking even when you move backward. She trails her eyes over you and pauses on the marks she made while a small smirk forms as she watches how your nipples hardened from her teasing. Her fingers twitch at her side like she wants to reach for you again, and you shiver when the thought crosses your mind.
“Look at you,” she murmurs in a low voice, “so wet already… You can’t hide it from me, baby.” The effect she has on you is wild because why is your cunt pulsing by just hearing her words even if it's embarrassing to think that she does that to you? Standing there fully naked under her gaze leaves you open to her completely. Tashi shifts from the edge of the bed and settles into the middle of it while her back rests against the headboard. Her posture is relaxed, but her eyes remain focused and playful as she watches you. She pats her thigh and tilts her head slightly to call you closer. “Come on, baby,” she says softly in a low and inviting voice “get on.”
You went up to the edge of the bed, and your toes pressed into the soft mattress as you knelt on it. The hesitation is present for a moment as your eyes move down to her thighs. Your gaze drops to the one where her knee was injured years ago, and instinct makes you want to avoid it. “I… I’ll sit on the other one,” you murmur as you try to sound gentle, but your voice shows that you’re nervous about it. Tashi chuckles and tilts her head slightly. “It’s fine, baby, really… You can sit wherever you want. My knee can handle it.” You shake your head while your teeth press into your lip as stubbornness keeps you from changing your mind. You lower yourself slowly onto her other thigh and avoid the other one that makes you hesitate.
The bed dips under your weight as your body settles into her thighs. Your hands move to her shoulders without thinking for balance, and you feel her gaze follow every movement as you sit. She hums in approval and lets her hand rest on your hip for a brief moment while she watches you adjust. A smirk pulls at her lips as her eyes travel over you. “Good girl,” she murmurs softly before looking you over once more. “Perfect.” You move your hips a little and press your pussy against her thigh as you grind there on purpose. Tashi makes sure she's touching you with one hand placed on your hip to keep you steady while her other hand is between your legs and guides them open before her thumb presses on your clit.
The sudden pressure makes your hips thrust, and a sound slips past your lips. “You like that, baby? ” she murmurs as her thumb keeps moving while she watches your face. “Is this what you’ve been wanting? ” You bite your lip, and your face feels hot as you try to keep control of your pleasure. Your hips press harder into her hand while you move your hips in circles without thinking. “T-Tashi… god… yeah, I…” Your voice falters into a needy whine, “I want more… I need you-” She hums under her breath and smirks while pressing her thumb deeper as she rubs in patterns meant to make you desperate.
“You’re so greedy, baby. Always want more, huh? ”Her other hand tightens on your hip as a reminder of who’s in charge while her thumb brushes in lines over your clit as your thighs start to shake. You whimper and press closer even though she already has you exactly where she wants. “Yes… yes, Tashi… please…” You manage to say while embarrassment creeps in and your breath comes in ragged gasps. Your heart pounds against your ribs while she keeps holding and letting you guide your own movements. You grind and rut against her thigh like you've lost all patience for pretending you don't want this for a long time. Cunt rubbing into her thigh to follow the friction it makes against you while she doesn’t stop you.
Her hand leaves your hip, then slides up to your chest, where her fingers close around your breast and squeeze just enough to pull a whimper from you. She rolls your nipple between her fingers with steady control while her other hand stays in place. Her thumb moves over your clit in slow circles until your thighs begin to shake. She doesn’t kiss you or speak right away, and instead, she just watches with heavy eyes while you move against her leg. She takes in every broken sound you let out as you grind yourself on her thigh. You get bold, and it even surprises you. Your hands move up to her chest and onto the bra, where you tug the fabric down until only one cup slips aside to show her breast.
A pleased sound escapes you like you just claimed a prize. She exhales through her nose and tightens her grip on your wrist while her other hand’s thumb presses more firmly against your clit. “You just can’t help yourself,” she mutters. You grin at her with the need to push her more as your fingers keep teasing her nipple while you whisper, “Hmhm I know… I’m not sorry about it.” She keeps holding your wrist firm in her hand as she lifts it toward her mouth and tips her head to take your fingers between her lips. Her tongue moves over your fingers to draw them into her mouth while her thumb stays pressed against your clit. Her eyes never leave yours the whole time as she watches the reaction on your face.
Even with her mouth around your fingers, she lets you move your other hand freely, so you use it to grope and then knead her exposed breast. You roll her nipple between your fingers while your hips grind against her thigh like you can’t get enough. She makes a quiet sound against your fingers, and it makes your stomach tighten. She doesn’t pull away when you press closer to take what you want while she keeps controlling the pace. You rub desperately against her thigh before your face buries into her neck to hide your expression as you whimper. Your fingers keep working against her nipple, and her body craves more contact, if that's even possible.
Her thumb works over your clit at a pace that matches yours. She put pressure on your sensitive bud to make you look up at her when rubbing wasn't enough to get your attention.
You didn't budge, and you stayed nuzzling her neck because you refused to meet her eyes. The sounds you make end up swallowed or muffled since you keep being stubborn and acting up on purpose. She finally pulls your fingers from her mouth before she murmurs in a low voice, “Look at me, baby.” You let out a bratty sound and shake your head before biting at her neck. It's your stubborn attempt not to listen to her. “No, I don’t want to,” you replied. She pulls her thumb away from your clit and tips her head, then brushes her lips through your hair.
“You think you can hide from me? ” she asks you quietly. “Do you even hear how loud that whine was? ” You whine again, with your face pressed against her neck. “It’s not fair. You’re teasing me…” She presses both of her hands against your hips to stop you from moving while her voice drops. “I said, look at me. Stop hiding or I’ll stop.” You freeze under her firm hold for a brief second before your chest rises unevenly and your body trembles with helpless need. “No... You’re mean,” you whine into her neck with your face hidden as your body moves against her thigh. “So mean.” Tashi laughs as she breathes against your skin. “Am I now, baby? ”She caresses your hip while her other hand lifts from your side just to guide your own hand to your clit.
The action alone made you whine. “Rub it,” she murmurs in a soft voice. “Use your fingers.”
You don't need to be told twice, and your fingers move over your folds while you keep grinding down on her thigh. You move your hips faster because rubbing your clit won’t be enough for you, and try to ride her in the way you like. Her nails dig into your hips hard enough to sting and strong enough to make you gasp. Her gaze never leaves you as you struggle not to take control, but stubbornness runs in your body despite how her hand forces you not to do it. You still try to move faster, and you grind harder against her thigh, but she pushes her nails into your hips. “Trying to go faster, baby? ” she murmurs. Her voice carries a soft tone that makes you focus back on her.
You whine and fuck her thigh anyway and do your best efforts to keep your pace in the way she wants. She laughs, and it almost sounds like she's taunting you from it. Tashi leans closer before her lips brush your ear. “Careful, don’t hurt yourself,” she teases. She holds you tighter against your hips to keep you steady. The way she touches you and the way she speaks to you makes your stomach twist with your cunt clenches around nothing. You realize she succeeded in guiding you without saying much. Tashi finally managed to gently push your face away from her neck and make you look at her. Your chest pulls back from her chest and leaves you more exposed for her to see. Her hand moves down and brushes over your folds.
You let out a whine when her fingers brush over there, and your hips jerk against her before you can stop yourself. She spreads your folds with two fingers that form a 'V' shape. It gives her a clear look at how wet you are before she teases you, “You’re soaking, baby. Want me to make it even better?” The way her voice affects you goes straight to your pussy, and it throws your body off enough that your hips falter before moving harder against her thigh. You barely catch your breath when she pushes two fingers inside you slowly so you can adjust around them. The sudden fullness from her fingers makes you almost stop using your own fingers on your clit, but you don't get to do it when she speaks again, “Want me to do it for you?”
You whimper and move closer to her even though she already has you where she wants you. “Yes-p-please…” You manage to say as your breath comes out ragged and your heart pounds against your ribcage while she keeps your hips moving. Your hand stays between your legs along with her fingers moving inside you. The feeling has you pushing against her hand to roll your hips to get her deeper inside you, and a whine escapes your mouth. She watches you with a small smirk, and she stops the fingers working on your clit with her thumb, and you gladly remove it for her. She starts moving her thumb in slow circles. Every touch she does feels like she pulled it to make your hips desperately rut against her.
“You feel that? ” she murmurs against your ear in a soft voice, “So tight and so wet… just how I like it, baby.” Your back arches a little while her fingers keep moving inside you and filling you at a slow pace that makes your breath stick in your throat. She keeps holding you as she controls how much you can take while her thumb keeps rubbing your clit. Your body reacts on its own, where your pussy keeps clamping tight around her fingers, which makes it harder to thrust it inside without extra force. Every up and down of her thumb on your clit makes the pressure in your lower stomach build until it’s too much. She holds your hips firmly so you can’t move even if you try.
You fall apart under her hands as your thighs shake. She keeps thrusting her fingers the way she wants while you grind against her because she makes it clear who's in control.
A moan slips out along with your hips lurching against her thigh when her fingers slide deeper inside you and it curls just right. She keeps moving over your clit before she witnesses how your body takes over and you ride her more desperately. You turn your face away because you can’t handle the way she watches you, and you bite your lips to suppress the sounds trying to break out. She doesn't stop you from what you're doing because she doesn't have to. Well, she enjoys what she's looking at too. The way you fuck her on her thigh is enough for her to lean back a little against the headboard and just watch you fall apart under her hands that give you pleasure.
“You’re so tight, baby,” she compliments in that calm voice as her fingers thrust deeper inside you after she pulls them out. She doesn't pull it out completely, though, but it was enough not to remove the tips inside. The words she said to you make you clench around her right away, and your body feels goosebumps on your spine before you can stop them. “I-I… Tashi, so… s-so good…” You whine as your voice breaks and your pussy tightens around her again. You feel good, and it's obvious how your words come out shaky, but there's a little embarrassment to it. Her smirk grows when she hears it. “You like that? You’re doing so well,” she says.
Her other hand slides up from your hips to your chest, then kneads it slowly with your nipples brushing against her palm while you grind against her. “Look at you… pretty, so good for me, baby… God, you feel amazing.” Every word coaxes a gasp or a whine from you, and then your body moves before your mind can catch up. Slick trails down her thigh as your hips jolt on their own, with no way to stop it. You open your mouth to say something, and your voice cracks, “I-I… I can’t… s-so much, Tashi…” Her thumb keeps rubbing your clit like she didn’t even hear you. “Shh… you’re doing perfectly, baby.” Your head tips back as you bite your lip to stay quiet. The way she praises you and how her thumb keeps moving made your hips rut harder against her thigh to chase what she was giving you.
Your hand moves to reach and try to stop her thumb from rubbing your clit, but she murmurs against your ear, “Don’t touch it.” You wrap your arms around her neck instead to pull her closer, just because you need more skin contact. Your body starts to shake when it gets too much, and you squeeze her thigh between yours as you grind down on it. Your eyes start to water because it feels too good. You try to stay still, but her fingers keep thrusting inside you, and every rub of her thumb on your clit makes your thighs squeeze on her thigh. Your pussy clenches around fingers too as you whine and start shaking from what she's doing to you. She breathes softly against your hair, and her warm breath brushes your scalp while her thumb gently glides over your clit.
A second later, she pushes her fingers back inside with the perfect curl. “Mmm… that’s it, baby… just like this,” she murmurs softly. “You’re so good… feel so good about me…” Her words really affect your head, and her fingers move inside you. Your head falls back against her shoulder, and you press your face into her skin while you grind against her thigh. You keep crying from pleasure, and it blurs your sight while your hands cling to her shoulders. Your hips keep moving on their own and grind harder even though you already feel too much. The slickness you made on her skin makes it easy for you to grind against her. Each thrust of her fingers inside you with her thumb rubbing your clit releases another broken sound that leaves your throat.
Your body jerks at the feeling, and you stay right on the edge of your orgasm, but it doesn’t happen yet. The way you shake is getting harder to stop, and your tears make her skin more soaked because it's not just a few droplets anymore. It started to flow continuously over your cheeks while your hips kept rocking against her thigh, and you didn’t even try to slow down.
She hums near your ear and touches your hair with her free hand before she uses it to guide your face gently to look up at her. Her other hand keeps working between your legs without planning to stop until you're done. “You’re okay, baby… I got you. You’re doing so good,” she murmurs against your temple while her fingers curl and move inside you as if her actions will also comfort you.
The slick coming from your cunt is gushing out on her thigh as she keeps working her fingers in and out inside you. You gasp and grab her shoulders when your hips push down harder against her. Mmf- ah-! ”A sound comes out of your mouth as your pussy squeezes tight around her fingers before you come over them and soak her palm. Your legs clamp around her thigh as your hips keep jerking and your whole body trembles through it. You cry out, and the sound turns into messy, shaky whines while you cling to her shoulders. Her hands don’t stop as she works you through your release, where she keeps rubbing your clit while her fingers move inside you.
Your body presses closer into her chest while your face hides deeper against her neck and your back arches more as you move yourself harder over her thigh. Your hips begin to stutter against hers while your pussy tightens around them as the feeling becomes too much. It leaves you with an empty head where you don't know if your body is reacting that way because you want it more or you're trying to get off from the pleasure. Messy and loud moans keep spilling from your mouth, which probably will embarrass the hell out of you if she makes a comment on that later. Your legs squeeze her thigh and do not let you go while you're shaking from overstimulation. “T-Tashi-” you murmur quietly as your pussy clenches tightly again around her fingers while your hips grind slowly against her palm and thigh.
“Mhm? " she responds as if she doesn't know what she's doing to you, especially with her fingers that keep thrusting inside you and won't stop yet even though your cum already soaks her hand wet. Your chest is heaving against hers as your legs shake, and you're sure she can feel your panting as if it were her own with how close you are to her.
She gives you a few pushes and pulls of her fingers, along with her thumb gently rubbing on your clit, before she decides to slowly remove her fingers from your pussy. It started releasing the remaining cum from your hole, and it drips down onto her thigh, which blends together with the one already spilled there with your slick that made her thigh damp.
The feeling of her skin against you made you not want to pull away from her chest. Also because you're still trembling and a few tears flow on your cheeks as you bury your face against her shoulder while you're holding her tight. Tashi sighs and wraps one arm around your back. She starts caressing your skin gently before she starts drawing imaginary shapes and tracing your spine while her other hand holds your hip. “So good,” she murmurs softly, but her voice almost sounds like she’s teasing you. “Look at you, baby… so pretty like this.”
Her words got you whimpering softly into her shoulder while you're trying to catch your breath from the activity you two just did.
You can just feel and guess that she's grinning against your hair when you hear the quiet sound of satisfaction from her while she's holding you close. Then she leans down a little, and her lips brush your ear. “That was fun… we should do this again next time.” The moment you heard her words made you freeze against her with your heart dropping before you pulled away from her to look at her. Your lips form a little pout while your eyes are still glossy from the tears you just shed. “Next time? ”you ask quietly while your voice comes out like you didn't like what you heard to the point it made your stomach turn upside down. Disappointment doesn't fail to show in your feelings. While here you are sweaty and sticky from how she just made you cum, her words make your chest tighten.
She laughs at your expression as she thinks that you're just acting cute in front of her. Her hand brushes your hair away from your face before she says, “Yeah… you did so well though.” You don't know if you're being sensitive because of the post-sex emotions you're having or if you're just expecting something. You end up just giving her a small nod that almost looks reluctant. Your cheeks are burning hot, and you whisper, “Yeah… next time.” Your hand remains resting on the side of her neck just to have her close to you. The way her warmth feels against you and her words made your mind start to race about maybe this means nothing more than fun to her.
❤︎ |6k| Summary: An awkward morning turns sweet when Lando takes his first steps at the rehabilitation center. Later in the evening Lando reveals his feelings for Y/n both to her, but also to his parents.
The first thing you were aware of was warmth. Not the gentle, ambient warmth of a sunlit room, but a deep, radiating heat that seemed to emanate from a single point, spreading through your entire body like a slow, pleasant fever. The second thing was the weight. A heavy, solid weight across your waist and a leg tangled possessively with yours, anchoring you to the bed, to him. You shifted slightly, a soft sigh escaping your lips, and the arm around you tightened, pulling you impossibly closer. You were cocooned in Lando, wrapped in his scent and his warmth, and a feeling of profound, bone-deep contentment washed over you, so potent it was almost dizzying.
You weren't awake, not fully, but you were drifting in that hazy, liminal space between sleep and consciousness, a place where the edges of reality were soft and blurred. Here, there were no ethical dilemmas, no professional boundaries, no fear of consequences. There was only the steady beat of his heart against your back, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest with each breath, and the overwhelming sense of rightness, of coming home.
Lando, however, was awake. He had been for a while. He had opened his eyes to the pale, pre-dawn light filtering through the curtains and had immediately been struck by a sense of disbelief so profound it had stolen his breath. For a moment, he thought he was dreaming. He had dreamed of this so many times – waking up with you in his arms – that the reality of it felt surreal, fragile, like a soap bubble he was terrified of popping.
He shifted his head slightly on the pillow, his gaze drinking you in. Your face was turned away from him, pressed into the pillow, your hair a wild, soft tangle spread across the white linen. He could see the elegant curve of your neck, the delicate line of your shoulder where the duvet had slipped down to pool at your waist. He could feel the soft, even puffs of your breath against his arm. He watched the gentle flutter of your eyelids as you dreamed, and a wave of emotion so intense it felt like a physical blow washed over him. It was a cocktail of awe, gratitude, and a love so deep and so pure it scared him.
He remembered the despair of the morning before, the crushing humiliation of failing to dress himself, the raw, helpless tears he had shed in front of you. He remembered the anger, the resentment, the feeling of being less than a man. And then he remembered you. Kneeling on the floor in front of him, your touch gentle and sure as you dressed him. Your arms around him as he sobbed, your voice a soothing balm on his wounded pride. He remembered the breakthrough in the gym, the phantom feeling in his legs that was the first spark of hope. And he remembered the look in your eyes afterwards, the shared memory that had hung between you, thick and electric.
Last night hadn't just been about sex. It had been about healing. It had been about him reclaiming a piece of himself he thought was lost forever. It had been about you letting go of your fear and choosing him. It had been about them, together.
He couldn't resist. He slowly untangled his arm from around you, his movements careful so as not to wake you. He propped himself up on his elbow, his eyes never leaving your face. He reached out with his free hand, his fingers hovering for a moment, hesitating. He wanted to touch you, to memorize the feel of your skin under his, but he was still afraid it wasn't real, that you would vanish.
Gently, he brushed a stray strand of hair away from your cheek, his fingertips ghosting over the soft skin of your temple. You stirred, a soft murmur escaping your lips, and a shy, hopeful smile touched his mouth. He did it again, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw, his touch reverent. He leaned in, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He couldn't not kiss you. It was a physical need, a compulsion as strong as breathing.
He pressed his lips to yours, a soft, tentative touch at first. It was a question. A prayer. When you didn't pull away, when you sighed softly against his mouth, he deepened the kiss. It was slow and deep and impossibly tender, a kiss that spoke of all the words he couldn't find, all the emotions that were churning inside him. It was a kiss of gratitude, of wonder, of a love that was still new and fragile but already stronger than anything he had ever known.
You felt the kiss in your dreams, a warmth that spread through you, pulling you slowly towards consciousness. You responded instinctively, your lips parting under his, a soft sigh of contentment escaping you. Your eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, you were disoriented, your mind still fuzzy with sleep. All you could see was his face, so close to yours, his eyes closed, his brow furrowed in concentration. And then it all came rushing back. Last night. This morning. Everything.
Your heart swelled, a feeling so intense it was almost painful. You lifted a hand, threading your fingers through the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and kissed him back. It was your turn to pour your emotions into the kiss, your turn to show him how you felt. You poured in your regret for yesterday morning, your pride in his progress, your overwhelming affection for the man he was. It was a silent conversation, a perfect, heartfelt exchange that said more than words ever could.
When you finally pulled apart, you were both breathing heavily. His eyes were open now, and they were shining. Shining with a light so bright and so full of love that it took your breath away.
"Morning," he whispered, his voice husky with sleep and emotion.
"Morning," you smiled back, your thumb stroking the soft skin behind his ear. "I could get used to this."
"Me too," he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I really could."
You lay there for a while longer, just looking at each other, the silence comfortable and intimate. But reality, in the form of a bladder and a schedule, eventually intruded. "We should probably get up," you said, though you made no move to leave his arms. "Big day today."
"I know," he sighed, but he was smiling. "Walking day."
The words hung in the air between you, charged with a new significance. This wasn't just a physical milestone anymore. It was the first day of the rest of your lives.
You helped him into his chair, the movements now imbued with a new level of intimacy. As you guided his legs, one at a time, over the side of the bed, your hands lingered on his skin. As you helped him position himself in the chair, your gaze met his, and you shared a small, secret smile. You pulled on his clothes, the routine task now a tender act of care. You chose his McLaren t-shirt, a symbol of the life he was fighting to get back to, and a pair of comfortable sweatpants. As you dressed him, he didn't take his eyes off you. He watched your every move, his expression soft and adoring, a lovesick look that made your heart flutter and your cheeks flush. He was looking at you like you hung the moon and the stars, and it was the most wonderful, overwhelming feeling in the world.
"What?" you asked, your voice soft as you smoothed the fabric of his t-shirt over his chest.
"Nothing," he smiled, reaching out to take your hand. "Just… you."
You squeezed his hand, your heart swelling. "Come on, Norris. Let's get you some breakfast."
You wheeled him down to the kitchen, the atmosphere between you charged with a secret, happy energy. You were both acutely aware of the change, of the new dynamic that existed between you. You were no longer just therapist and patient. You were something more.
You started preparing his usual oatmeal, your movements efficient, but you could feel his gaze on you, a warm, steady weight. You were just adding the berries when you heard footsteps on the stairs. You and Lando exchanged a quick, slightly panicked glance. The secret was still new, still fragile, and you weren't ready to share it with the world. Not yet.
You immediately adopted your professional mask, your expression becoming neutral, your posture straightening. Lando seemed to understand, his own expression shifting into one of polite indifference. It was a performance, a sudden, clumsy shift back into your old roles, and it felt awkward and stilted.
"Morning!" Cisca's cheerful voice filled the kitchen. She was followed by Adam, who was already scrolling through something on his phone. They both looked bright and happy, their faces glowing with a quiet optimism.
"Morning," you replied, your voice a little too bright. "Sleep well?"
"Like logs," Adam said, looking up from his phone to smile at you. "Excited for today, Lando?"
"Can't wait," Lando said, his voice carefully neutral. He picked up a piece of fruit from the bowl on the table, his movements deliberately casual.
You placed the bowl of oatmeal in front of him, your hands brushing briefly. The touch was electric, a secret spark in the mundane moment. You pulled away quickly, your cheeks flushing.
Breakfast was a strange, surreal affair. You and Lando were hyper-aware of each other, of every glance, every accidental touch. You talked about the plan for the day, about the walking therapy, your voice a steady, professional monotone. But underneath the words, a silent, desperate conversation was taking place. Every time his parents looked away, Lando's eyes would find yours, a silent, questioning look that asked, Is this okay? Are you alright? And you would respond with a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, a reassuring glance that said, I'm here. We're in this together. It was a dance of concealment, a performance for an audience you desperately didn't want to have. The air was thick with unspoken words, with the memory of his hands on your skin, the sound of his whispered promises. It felt both thrilling and terrifying, a delicious secret that burned on your tongue.
You could feel Cisca's gaze on you, more than once. It wasn't suspicious, not exactly, but it was… knowing. It was a look that held a soft, amused light, a look that suggested she saw far more than you were letting on. You found yourself fidgeting, stirring your own coffee with a little too much force, avoiding her eyes as much as possible. Lando, on the other hand, seemed completely oblivious, his focus entirely on you, his lovesick expression barely concealed behind a mask of casual interest in his breakfast.
The drive to the rehabilitation facility was another exercise in controlled tension. You drove, your hands gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly. Lando sat in the passenger seat, his long legs folded to accommodate the space. He didn't speak, but he didn't have to. He kept his hand on the center console, his pinky finger just barely brushing against yours. The small, point of contact was a lifeline, a constant, grounding reminder that last night was real, that you hadn't just imagined it.
The facility was a modern, bright building, all glass windows and polished floors, smelling faintly of antiseptic and hope. You had arranged to use one of their specialized physiotherapy gyms, a large, open space equipped with parallel bars, treadmills, and a bewildering array of resistance equipment. His parents had insisted on coming, and you had agreed, knowing how much this moment meant to them.
As you helped Lando transfer from his chair into the specialized walking frame, his parents hovered nearby, their faces a mixture of hope and anxiety. "Now, remember," you said, your voice calm and steady, the professional mask firmly back in place. "This is all about control. We're not aiming for distance. We're aiming for quality of movement. Use your arms to support your weight, but try to engage your core. Feel the floor with your feet. Don't rush."
He nodded, his jaw set with determination. You positioned yourself on one side of him, his father on the other. His mother stood back, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her eyes wide and fixed on her son.
"Alright," you said, meeting his gaze. "On three. One… two… three."
He pushed down on the handles of the frame, his biceps straining with the effort. You and Adam provided a steadying hand on his back, not lifting, just supporting. Slowly, painstakingly, he lifted his body. His legs, which had been still for so long, trembled with the effort of bearing even a fraction of his weight. He took a shuddering breath, his face a mask of intense concentration.
"That's it," you murmured, your voice low and encouraging. "You've got it. Now, shift your weight to your right. Lift your left foot. Just a small step."
He did. It was more of a shuffle than a step, his foot dragging a few inches along the polished floor. But it was movement. It was a step. A collective, shaky breath was released in the room. Cisca let out a small, choked sob.
"Lando," she whispered, her hand flying to her mouth.
He didn't respond. His entire being was focused on the monumental task in front of him. He shifted his weight again, his movements slow and deliberate. He lifted his right foot, and it joined the left. He had taken two steps. He was standing. He was walking.
Tears were streaming freely down Cisca's face now, silent, happy tears of pure, unadulterated joy. Adam's grip on his son's back tightened, his own eyes shining with a pride so profound it was almost painful to witness. "That's my boy," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Look at you, son. Look at you."
You continued to guide him, your voice a steady, calming presence. "Good. That's perfect. Again. Shift, lift, place. You're doing amazing."
He was. He was a machine. Fueled by adrenaline and a fierce, unyielding determination, he moved again, and again, and again. Each step was a victory, a small miracle of muscle and nerve and will. The parallel bars stretched out before him, a seemingly insurmountable distance, but he was conquering it, one painful, glorious inch at a time. You watched his face, the sweat beading on his forehead, the vein throbbing in his temple, the fierce, focused light in his eyes. He was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.
After what felt like an eternity, but was probably only five minutes, he reached the end of the bars. He was panting, his body trembling with exhaustion, but he was standing tall, a triumphant, exhausted grin on his face.
"I did it," he breathed, looking at you, his eyes shining.
"You did it," you smiled back, your heart so full it felt like it might burst.
That's when his parents descended. Cisca was first, rushing forward to wrap her arms around him, burying her face in his chest, her body shaking with sobs of relief and happiness. "Oh, my baby," she cried. "My beautiful boy. You're walking. You're really walking."
Lando wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight, his own composure finally cracking. You saw a single tear trace a path down his cheek, a testament to the enormity of the moment. Adam was there a moment later, his big hand clamping down on Lando's shoulder, his face a mess of conflicting emotions. He was trying to be stoic, trying to be the strong father, but the pride and love shining in his eyes gave him away. He pulled his son into a rough, one-armed hug, kissing the side of his head.
"We're so proud of you, son," he said, his voice gruff with unshed tears. "So damn proud."
You stood back, giving them their moment, your own eyes wet. This was what it was all about. This was why you had pushed him, why you had endured the sleepless nights and the emotional turmoil. Seeing him here, standing in his parents' arms, was the greatest reward you could ever ask for.
After a few minutes, when the initial wave of emotion had subsided, you stepped forward again. "Alright, champion," you said, your voice gentle. "Let's not push it. Time to head back."
The journey back was slower, more labored, but he made it. Every step back was a confirmation, a solidifying of the incredible achievement. When he was finally back in his chair, he was drained, but his eyes were bright with a new kind of energy. The energy of hope.
The drive home was different. The tension was gone, replaced by a light, buoyant sense of celebration. Cisca and Adam chattered excitedly in the back seat, replaying every moment, every step, every expression on his face. You and Lando sat in the front, your hands now openly clasped on the center console, his thumb stroking the back of your hand in a slow, rhythmic caress. The secret was still there, but it felt different now. It felt less like something to be hidden and more like something to be savored, a private, precious joy in the midst of a public celebration.
Back at the house, the atmosphere was euphoric. Adam broke out a bottle of champagne, pouring glasses for everyone, including you. "To Lando," he said, raising his glass. "Our miracle worker."
"And to y/n," Cisca added, her eyes shining as she looked at you. "The real miracle worker."
You felt a familiar flush of shame, but this time it was mixed with something else. A warmth. A sense of belonging. You clinked your glass with theirs, the cool, bubbly liquid a welcome distraction.
You were all gathered in the living room, the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows, bathing the room in a golden glow. Lando was in his chair, looking relaxed and happy for the first time in weeks. He was watching you, his expression soft and open, the lovesick look from the morning back in full force. You couldn't look away. The champagne, the emotion of the day, the warmth of his gaze, it all combined to lower your defenses. You were looking at him like he was the only person in the room, and he was looking at you like you were his entire world.
It was in that moment, surrounded by his parents, buoyed by the champagne and the euphoria of the day, that something inside Lando shifted. The fear, the hesitation, the need to keep this precious thing to himself, it all fell away. He saw the love in your eyes, and he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his soul, that he couldn't, and wouldn't, hide it anymore.
He took a sip of his champagne, his eyes never leaving yours. "I have something to say," he said, his voice quiet but clear but it cut through the celebratory chatter like a knife. All eyes turned to him. Cisca and Adam fell silent, their expressions shifting to one of curious anticipation. You felt a jolt of adrenaline, a nervous flutter in your stomach. You knew that tone. It was the same tone he had used before, a tone that preceded something momentous, something that would change everything.
He took another slow sip of his champagne, his gaze still locked on yours. It was as if the rest of the room had faded away, as if you were the only two people in the universe. He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was thick with an emotion so raw and so pure it made your heart ache.
"I've been trying to figure out how to say this for a while," he began, his eyes searching yours. "I've been scared. Scared of what it means, scared of what you'd think, scared of… everything. But today… today changes things. Everything."
He paused, his thumb stroking the rim of his glass. "I've spent months feeling broken. Feeling like half a man. And then you came along. You didn't just fix my body. You… you reminded me who I was. You pushed me, you challenged me, you believed in me when I didn't believe in myself. You made me want to fight. You made me want to be whole again."
He set his glass down on the table beside him, his hands now free, his movements deliberate. "But it's more than that. So much more. It's not just about what you've done for me. It's about who you are. It's about the way you laugh, the way your eyes light up when you're proud of me, the way you bite your lip when you're concentrating. It's about the way you see me. Not as a patient, not as a project, but as a man."
Your breath hitched in your throat. Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your ears. You knew what was coming. You knew, and you were terrified, and you had never wanted anything more.
He leaned forward, his elbows on the arms of his chair, his entire being focused on you. "I'm in love with you, y/n."
The words hung in the air, suspended in the golden light of the room. They were so simple, so direct, and yet they carried the weight of the world. It was the first time he had said it. The first time either of you had dared to give this fragile, terrifying thing a name. The sound of it, spoken aloud in front of his parents, was so shocking, so overwhelming, that for a moment, you couldn't breathe. You just stared at him, your eyes wide, your mind struggling to process the sheer, unadulterated beauty of it.
A single tear escaped, tracing a slow path down your cheek. You didn't even realize you were crying. All you could see was his face, his eyes shining with a love so fierce and so true it was almost blinding.
You opened your mouth to say it back, to tell him that you loved him too, that you had loved him for what felt like an eternity, but you were cut off by a soft, knowing chuckle.
It was Adam.
You and Lando both turned to look at him, confused. He was leaning back on the sofa, his arm around Cisca, a wide, amused grin on his face. Cisca was smiling too, a soft, maternal, deeply happy smile that held no surprise whatsoever.
"We know," Adam said, his voice gentle but firm.
Lando frowned, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What? You know… what?"
"That you're in love with her," Cisca supplied, her voice soft. She looked at you, her eyes full of warmth and affection. "We've known for weeks, darling."
Your cheeks flushed with a heat so intense it was almost painful. You felt a wave of mortification wash over you, so strong it made you dizzy. They knew? How could they know? You had been so careful, so professional. You had hidden it, or so you thought.
Lando looked utterly bewildered. "How? I mean… how did you…"
Adam's grin widened. He exchanged a look with his wife, a look of silent, shared amusement. "Well, son," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Let's just say you two aren't exactly quiet."
It took you a moment to process his words. And then, like a lightning strike, the memory of last night came flooding back. The sound of his groan, the guttural sound of his pleasure, the sounds you had made in response. The memory, which had been a source of such intense, private joy, suddenly became a source of public, excruciating humiliation.
"Oh my God," you breathed, the words barely audible. Your face was on fire. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't think. You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole.
Lando's cheeks were flushed a deep, crimson red. He looked from his father's grinning face to his mother's sympathetic one, his expression a mixture of horror and disbelief. "You… you heard…?" he stammered, unable to even finish the sentence.
"We didn't mean to," Cisca said quickly, her voice gentle and reassuring. "The walls are thin. And it was only for a moment. We heard enough to know our son was happy." She looked at you then, her eyes soft and kind. "And that you were the reason why. That's all that matters to us."
That was it. That was the final straw. You couldn't take it anymore. With a small, choked whimper of pure, unadulterated embarrassment, you buried your face in Lando's chest. You hid your burning cheeks against the soft fabric of his shirt, your arms wrapping around his neck, wishing you could disappear.
Lando's arms came around you instantly, holding you tight against him. He rested his chin on the top of your head, his body a warm, solid shield. You could feel the frantic, embarrassed beat of his heart against your cheek. He was just as mortified as you were, but he was holding you, protecting you, and in that moment, it was all that mattered.
"We're so sorry," he mumbled, his voice muffled by your hair. "We didn't… we didn't think…"
"It's alright, son," Adam said, his voice losing its teasing edge and becoming genuinely gentle. "It's more than alright. We're happy. Truly."
You stayed like that for a long time, hidden in his arms, your face pressed against his chest, trying to will away the blush that felt like it would be permanent. Lando held you, his hand stroking your back in slow, soothing circles. Slowly, the mortification began to fade, replaced by a slow, dawning sense of reality. They knew. They knew, and they were okay. They were happy. The secret was out. And somehow, impossibly, it felt like a relief.
Later that night, after a dinner that was both excruciatingly awkward and surprisingly comfortable, you all found yourselves in the living room. Adam had put on a movie, some action blockbuster that was mostly noise and explosions, but no one was really watching. The atmosphere was still charged with the events of the day, with the unspoken truths that now hung in the air, acknowledged and accepted.
You and Lando were on the couch, a careful, respectable distance between you. But it was a pretense, a flimsy facade. You could feel the heat of his body next to yours, a magnetic pull that you had to actively fight to resist. He was watching the screen, but you could feel his attention on you, a constant, warm presence.
After a few minutes, he shifted closer, his arm brushing against yours. He leaned in, his lips close to your ear, his voice a low, conspiratorial whisper. "Come closer."
Your heart leaped. You looked at him, and his eyes were soft and pleading in the flickering light of the television. You glanced over at his parents, who were engrossed in the movie. Adam was leaning forward, his eyes fixed on the screen, and Cisca was curled up beside him, a blanket over her lap.
You took a deep breath and gave in. You shifted, sliding across the couch until you were pressed against his side. He immediately wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer. It felt like coming home. You rested your head on his shoulder, your body relaxing into his, the scent of him a familiar, comforting presence.
But that wasn't enough for him. He tugged gently, maneuvering you with a surprising strength until you were lying on top of him, your body draped over his, your head nestled in the crook of his neck. It was a bold, possessive move, a public declaration of his feelings, and it sent a thrill through you. You were half-lying on him, your legs tangled with his, his arms wrapped securely around your waist, holding you close. You could feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against your chest.
You lay like that for a while, just listening to the sound of his breathing, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. The movie was just a distant noise, a meaningless backdrop to the world that existed just for the two of you. You felt safe, cherished, and completely, utterly content.
After a few minutes, you shifted, turning in his arms until you were facing him. You were still lying on top of him, your bodies pressed together from chest to knee. You propped yourself up on an elbow, your hand resting on his chest, right over his heart. In the dim, flickering light of the television, his face was a landscape of shadows and soft highlights. His eyes, dark and intense, were fixed on yours, and in them, you could see everything. The vulnerability, the love, the sheer, unadulterated adoration that still made your breath catch.
The sounds from the television—the roar of an engine, the crash of an explosion—seemed a world away. Here, in this small, intimate space you had created, there was only the sound of your two hearts beating, a slow, steady rhythm that was the only music you needed.
You looked at him, at the man who had broken your heart and then pieced it back together, stronger than before. You thought of his confession in the living room, the raw, beautiful words that had changed everything. And you knew you couldn't let another moment pass without giving him the same gift he had given you. You had to say it.
You leaned in closer, your lips just barely brushing against his ear, your voice a soft, hesitant whisper, meant only for him. "Did you mean it?"
He tensed slightly beneath you, his arms tightening around your waist. He knew exactly what you were asking. He turned his head, his nose nudging against your temple, his breath warm against your skin. He didn't speak, not at first. He just hummed, a low, deep rumble in his chest that vibrated through you. It was a sound of absolute certainty, a wordless affirmation that was more powerful than any spoken declaration. It was a yes. A resounding, unequivocal, soul-deep yes.
A wave of relief so profound it was dizzying washed over you. You had known, of course, but hearing it, feeling it in that simple, intimate sound, made it real. It solidified it, cementing it into the foundation of your new reality.
You pulled back just enough to look at him again, a soft, shy smile playing on your lips. You wanted to kiss him, to pour all of your love, all of your gratitude, all of your hope into a single, perfect kiss. But his parents were there. You could feel their presence, a silent, watchful audience just a few feet away. So you compromised. You leaned in and pressed a soft, gentle kiss to his cheek. It was a sweet, tender gesture, a public display of affection that was still discreet, still respectful of the company.
But Lando, it seemed, was done with discretion.
The moment your lips touched his skin, you felt a shift in him. A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated want. Before you could pull away, before you could even process what was happening, his hand was tangling in your hair, his fingers wrapping around the back of your neck. He used his grip to guide you, to turn your head, and then his mouth was on yours.
It wasn't a sweet, gentle kiss. It wasn't a shy, tentative peck. It was a claiming. A deep, passionate, breathtakingly possessive kiss that stole the air from your lungs and sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated desire straight to your core. His lips were firm and demanding, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to tangle with yours in a dance that was both familiar and thrillingly new. It was a kiss that said, She's mine. I'm not hiding anymore. This is real.
You were lost. You melted against him, your hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt, your body responding with an immediate, traitorous ache. You forgot about his parents, about the movie, about the world outside of his arms. All that mattered was the taste of him, the feel of him, the overwhelming, all-consuming love that poured from him into you.
You were so lost in the kiss that you didn't hear it at first. It was a soft sound, a quiet little sigh of pure, unadulterated delight. But it was enough to pull you back to reality. You broke the kiss, panting, your cheeks burning, and turned your head towards the sound.
Cisca was watching you. She had a hand pressed to her heart, her eyes shining with tears of joy, a wide, beaming smile on her face. She wasn't shocked or scandalized. She was… she was charmed. Utterly and completely charmed.
"Aww," she sighed, the sound soft and full of maternal warmth.
Your face, which you thought couldn't possibly get any hotter, immediately went into nuclear meltdown. You felt a wave of mortification so intense it was almost painful. You had been caught. Again. You buried your face in Lando's chest, a groan of pure embarrassment escaping your lips. You couldn't look at her. You couldn't look at anyone.
Lando, on the other hand, just laughed. It was a low, rumbling, deeply amused sound that vibrated through your body. He tightened his arms around you, holding you close, his chin resting on the top of your head. He wasn't embarrassed. He was proud. He was reveling in it.
"Alright, alright," Adam's voice cut through the moment, a mock-stern tone that was laced with amusement. "Let's keep it PG-13, you two. There are impressionable parents present."
You felt a fresh wave of heat wash over you, but this time, it was mixed with a strange, giddy sense of relief. The teasing, the gentle ribbing, it was all so normal, so… family. It was the reaction of parents who loved their son and were happy he had found someone who made him happy. It wasn't judgment. It was acceptance.
You stayed hidden in his arms for a few more moments, gathering your courage. Then, slowly, you lifted your head. You risked a glance at Cisca, and she just smiled at you, a warm, encouraging, beautiful smile that made your heart swell. She gave you a small, conspiratorial wink, and you felt the last of your embarrassment melt away, replaced by a warmth that had nothing to do with shame.
You turned back to Lando, your eyes meeting his in the dim light. He was still smiling, but his expression had softened, the amusement replaced by a deep, tender love. He looked at you like you were his entire world, and in that moment, you knew you were. You leaned in, not to kiss him, but to rest your forehead against his, your noses touching.
You closed your eyes, blocking out the world, and whispered the words you had been waiting all night to say. The words you had been waiting your whole life to say to someone, to him.
"I love you too, Lando."
His arms tightened around you, a soft, contented sigh escaping his lips. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. You could feel it in the way he held you, in the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against your own. You could feel it in the air around you, in the soft, happy silence that had fallen over the room. You were home. You were finally, exactly where you were meant to be.
synopsis: when tashi duncan sends a dinner invitation, nobody declines. that includes you, her former flame and best friend, and your husband, patrick. a very awkward reunion over dinner ensues when past feelings resurface.
tags: 18+ mdni, features artashi/patashi/artrick (& all of them x reader), brief breast/nipple play, f!receiving oral, foreplay & lots of making out, dom!tashi through most of it, bratty!reader, everybody wants to fuck each other, mostly tashi x reader bc i'm yuripilled
wordcount: 9.2k words
notes: HAPPY ANNIVERSARY! was very glad to be able to revisit these evil bisexual idiots. dynamics are a lot harder to write when it's a foursome buttt this is what you get take it or leave it :P & i’d like to apologise for edging you with the last scene but i’m sure i’ll circle back to this eventually so they can all fuck nasty in peace <3 i have drafts for a few more flashbacks that didn’t make the final cut bc this has been in my drafts for months so if you want any of those maybe i’ll clean them up and post them at some point. all of this taking place at dinner and i dont mention food once... alright
VALENTINE’S DAY at a place like this is either very romantic or a very bad idea. There is no in-between.
The restaurant you find yourself at is polished within an inch of its life: floors gleaming, glasses so thin you’re already nervous to hold them wrong, and candles flickering in little gold halos in front of couples that make them look more in love than they probably are.
You wonder distantly if that’s the point.
You’re acutely aware of your husband’s hand resting on the small of your back as the hostess leads you through a maze of white tablecloths. He’s dressed up for once in a rented two piece suit. The tie you picked out for him rests in the passenger seat of his Honda CR-V, hastily torn off before you exited the car because “I’m not a fucking priss, babe. This makes me look stupid.”
Not a priss, he said, right before leading you into a restaurant that neither of you can afford to dine in with a couple that neither of you should be seeing.
“Breathe,” Patrick murmurs into your ear.
You don’t realise you haven’t been until you try. Your chest feels tight, like you’ve just spent twenty minutes running laps instead of sitting in your car to hype yourself up. It was your idea to say yes, so you refuse to let him know you’re panicking to avoid some petty jab about being a pussy over dinner.
You could have declined. You could have laughed and told Tashi you had plans. You could have pretended that spending Valentine’s Day with your husband’s ex-girlfriend—who is also your ex-girlfriend—and your own ex-boyfriend—who is now her husband—wasn’t some kind of elaborate emotional suicide mission.
Instead, you’re here, ready to face the guillotine. And isn’t this about to be a shitshow?
You see them immediately. They’re settled in a corner booth that somehow manages to feel both intimate and exposed to all the eyes in the room. Art Donaldson is not what you remember from college. He looks like he belongs here now, in a navy suit with a crisp collar and posture so straight you have to force yourself to stand taller to match it.
It hurts to look at him, akin to the way it’d feel to press on an old bruise to check if it still hurts.
It does, your brain adds helpfully.
Tashi sits next to him. You almost laugh, because of course she looks like that. You’ve seen her on magazines, TV screens, every social media platform you own, but the severe cut of her hair now makes your footsteps falter. She looks older. More mature than the young prodigy you used to giggle with in her dorm bed. Her dress is dark with an elegant cut, and you catch a glimpse of those long legs beneath the table, the strap of her heel glinting under the cloth.
For a second, you’re seventeen again, standing across the net from her and trying not to flinch when she smiles like she already knows exactly how the match is going to play out. You hate that your stomach still flips.
The most notable thing about them all—even if you have to squint to see it from this distance—is the matching wedding bands on their hands. You twist your own subconsciously. It’s a beautiful ring. Patrick managed to convince his father into giving it to him somehow. It still doesn’t feel like it’s enough to scream married couple when your husband is glancing around the room to eye the cleavage of the women you pass.
You force a smile on your face. It’s fine. He’s fine. You’re fine.
Art looks up at first, his smile faltering when his eyes find the pair of you. The crack in the polish lasts a microsecond before he rises to his feet to offer you a greeting. “Hey.”
Patrick’s hand tightens against your back as you stop in front of the table.
“Hey,” you echo, forcing something light into your voice. “Happy Valentine’s.”
Tashi’s mouth curves into something that’s not quite a smile. “Bold choice,” she says. “A double date.”
You laugh, because what the hell else are you supposed to do? “Your idea.”
“Yes,” she says smoothly. “It was.”
You sit. Patrick pulls your chair out for you, and you can’t remember the last time he’s done that without being prompted. You know he’s auditioning for Husband of the Year purely because of your company, but it makes your heart stutter nonetheless. Art waits until you’re both settled before taking his seat again.
Two married couples. Four people who have, at various points in their lives, slept in each other’s beds; whispered promises; thrown rackets and said things that can’t be unsaid.
The waiter appears and Tashi orders two bottles of wine. Something red—you don’t recognise the name, only that it sounds fancy enough that it has to be excessive (and way too expensive for your bank account.) But you have a feeling you’re going to need it.
The first ten minutes are polite. Too polite.
“How’s the tour?” Art asks Patrick.
“Fine,” he shrugs dismissively. “Nothing glamorous. Mostly challengers. You know.”
The word lingers between you all. Challengers. While Tashi has managed to make a household name out of Donaldson, your husband is still playing challengers. You almost snort.
Tashi’s gaze flicks to you, sharp but curious. “And you?”
“Coaching some juniors,” you say. “Playing some smaller events when I feel like it.”
You don’t mention it’s because you can’t afford it consistently. For the most part, rent falls on you when Patrick is halfway across the country. Coaching keeps you both afloat.
There’s the faintest twitch in her jaw. She doesn’t say it aloud, but you know why: you’re coaching of your own volition while it’s the path that the universe thrust unfairly upon her. Your stomach twists guiltily.
She tilts her head slightly. “Not playing seriously?” The words are mild, but the implication isn’t.
You force yourself to hold her gaze. “Depends what you mean by serious.”
“I heard you had a good run last spring,” Art says, stepping in the way he used to when things got too heated. You manage a grateful smile in his direction. “Charleston?”
He’s been paying attention. You don’t know how to feel about that.
“Semis,” you confirm. “I lost, though.”
Tashi’s fingers tighten around her glass and your stomach sinks. God, you hate that you still want her approval.
“To who?” Patrick asks, though you know he knows the answer—he’d been there, after all. He just wants to hear you say it. You don’t give him the satisfaction.
“Tough draw,” you say instead. Tashi’s mouth curves slightly and you know she can see right through you. “Everyone played well.”
Art offers you a reassuring smile. It almost makes up for the scoff Tashi is biting back. The waiter arrives with the wine, sparing you from elaborating any further. You practically gulp down your first glass.
By the time you’ve all started on the second, the edges of restraint begin to blur, polished facades falling away. Art has loosened his tie, posture softened. Tashi’s shoulders have grown less rigid, one arm draped along the back of the booth behind her. Patrick’s hand rests loosely over your knee, thumb ghosting along the bone absently as he recounts some disastrous afterparty in Cincinnati. His version of events is so dramatic you wonder if he even remembers you were there to know otherwise.
You aren’t really listening, anyways. You’re focused on the way Art is looking at you. His expression is hard to read—not quite longing, nor regret. It’s something softer you can’t quite put your finger on.
Whatever it is makes you feel uncomfortable enough to remember the last time he was in your dorm all those years ago. You can picture it perfectly.
APRIL 8TH, 2007
Your room feels too crowded to have an argument in.
It barely feels big enough for the two of you when things are good. When Art would sit cross-legged on your bed with his back against the wall, trainers kicked off, explaining some minute adjustment to your backhand while you pretended to listen. When you’d steal his hoodie and argue it fit you better. When you’d both pretend you weren’t exhausted from practice just to stretch the night out a little longer.
“How is she?” You ask. You didn’t mean to open with that, but there it is.
He sighs, standing in front of your desk. The distance between you feels cavernous. “Rehab started yesterday.”
“I know.”
Of course you know. Everyone does. It was all around campus, and all over the tennis network. Commentators were using words like devastating and tragic and career-altering. You can still hear the sound it made before she tumbled to the floor when you close your eyes, that piercing scream ringing out over the court.
“She’s in pain,” he continues. “They’re saying at least nine months minimum before she can even think about competing.”
Nine months. That’s a lifetime in sports.
“And?” You prompt.
“And she’s not taking it well.”
You almost laugh at that. No shit. Tashi had been built on momentum. She was always moving, always doing something, and now she can’t even walk without crutches.
“I’ve been over there most nights.”
“I know,” you repeat.
“You know?”
“I’m not stupid, Art.”
He shifts his weight, defensive already. You hate that you can already see it coming. “You haven’t been answering my texts,” he deflects.
You lift your gaze to him. “You’ve been busy.”
“That’s not fair.”
You let out a slow breath through your nose. “What part?”
He frowns. “I can’t just disappear on her because you’re feeling insecure.”
There it was. “Insecure?” You repeat incredulously.
“Yes. Insecure!”
You stand up quickly. “That’s what you think this is?”
“I think you’re making this about you.” Your chest tightens at the accusation. “Her career just imploded,” he continues, voice raising slightly. “She might never come back the same. And you’re upset that I’m helping her?”
“I’m not upset that you’re helping her.”
“You could’ve fooled me.”
“I’m upset that it’s like I’m not even there anymore!”
“What?”
“You act like it, Art.”
“That’s not true—“
“Yes it is!”
“You’re imagining things.”
You hate that phrase. You have to fight the urge to just storm out of your own dorm at those words alone. “I watched you at the hospital,” you continue quietly. His mouth presses into a thin line. “You didn’t even realise I’d left.”
He looks away. “I thought you went to call your coach.”
“Yeah, I did. After I left.”
Art exhales sharply. “She was coming out of anesthesia.”
“I know.”
“She was scared.”
“I know.”
“She asked for me.”
“And you went,” you finish.
“What did you want me to do?” He asks, frustrated. “Ignore her?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know! Just… just remember that I’m there, maybe?” It sounds childish even to your own ears, words smaller than they felt. You want to tell him he’s been a bad boyfriend for months. That he’s not as committed to this as you are, and his priorities lie elsewhere. But in your anguish, all you can do is sound like a toddler throwing a tantrum about not getting enough attention.
Art runs a hand through his hair, agitation creeping into his voice. “You’re acting like this is some sort of love triangle.”
“Isn’t it?” You stare at him.
“No!” He denies instantly, eyes flashing.
“It always has been, I think—“
“That’s bullshit.”
“Is it?” You challenge. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve been waiting for an excuse.”
“An excuse for what?”
“To go back. Patrick’s out of the picture. Why the fuck not?”
His expression hardens. “I was never with her. And he has nothing to do with this.”
Never with her. Not officially, sure, but you’ve seen the way they move around each other since starting at Stanford. There has always been something simmering beneath the surface, but Tashi was with Patrick, and Art struck up a relationship with you shortly after. But you’d be blind not to recognise there’s unfinished business there following the Junior Open.
“I’m not in love with her,” he adds.
You hold his gaze. “Say it again.”
“I’m not in love with her.”
“You’re lying,” you laugh, an ugly and bitter sound, shaking your head. “No. No, I’m losing you both. Oh my god.” You drag your hands over your face in frustration. You refuse to let him see you cry, but you can feel it building up.
“What?”
“You think this is about jealousy? I’m not that shallow, Art,” you say. “She hasn’t spoken to me since the surgery. She looks at me like I broke her knee myself.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
You’d gone to see her once, bringing flowers after her surgery. You remember trying to sit at the edge of her hospital bed like you used to sit on the floor of her dorm, legs tangled, talking about rankings and dreams and futures together. She’d barely uttered a word to you the entire time. The resentment had been suffocating.
“I can’t compete with an ACL tear, Art,” you say bitterly.
“You’re not competing.”
“I am! I’m always competing with her.”
“You’re twisting this because you want me to choose!”
“Yes.” It’s embarrassing to admit, but you are. Denying it would be futile. You love Tashi, maybe even more than he does, but you can’t put yourself through this any longer.
“I’m not doing that,” Art says, shaking his head. Your heart sinks, even though you expected that answer. “I’m not abandoning her.”
“I’m not asking you to abandon her.”
“You are.”
“No. No, I’m just asking you to tell me I matter more!”
“You do.”
“Then prove it for once!”
He falls silent. You can practically see the walls forming behind his eyes. The compartmentalizing and logic, trying to figure out a way to escape this conversation with both of you.
“You don’t trust me,” he says finally, and you hesitate, because you don’t know anymore. You want to trust him, but wanting can only go so far when he’s proven time and time again that she comes first. “That’s it.”
“That’s not it,” you say, trying desperately to salvage the results of an ultimatum you gave him.
“I can’t do this.”
“So- so, what? You’re breaking up with me, then?”
“I’m saying if you think so little of me—“
“This isn’t about thinking little of you,” you cut in. “But I know you, Art. And I know that if she was the one asking you to choose her right now, you would.” He doesn’t answer and you feel something inside you give way. “I can’t be second.”
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
“You’re not.”
“Then I will be. As soon as she asks.”
Silence swallows the room. Distantly, you hear someone laughing down the hallway, a door slamming, and life going on outside your room while you’re stuck going in circles with this conversation.
“I love you,” he says suddenly, like that could still fix it.
“I know.” That’s the worst part. You know he loves you. You also know he loves her, and the difference between those two loves is about to ruin everything.
“Maybe this is just bad timing,” he offers.
You stare at him in disbelief. As if timing is why Tashi got injured on the court. As if timing hadn’t just exposed every crack that had been forming in your relationship for months.
“Yeah,” you force out. “Maybe.”
Art turns towards the door. You see him pause, and for a second you think he might come back. Might close the distance and kiss you and promise something concrete, and finally just choose you for once in his life. But he doesn’t.
His hand rests on the doorway. “I never meant to hurt you,” he says meekly.
“I know.”
Art leaves anyway, the door clicking shut behind him. In the quiet of your too-small dorm room, you’re left to realise that Tashi’s injury hadn’t just torn her ACL. It had torn straight through the middle of you and Art, too.
FEBRUARY 14TH, 2019
The memory dissolves like the sugar at the bottom of your wine glass. You down the rest of it. Art is still looking at you the same way he used to when he was trying to read your mind. You wonder what he sees now.
Regret? Guilt? Longing?
“God.” Patrick leans forward suddenly. “Remember when we were Fire and Ice?”
Art groans immediately, his gaze falling away from you. His cheeks flush in embarrassment. “Don’t.”
Tashi’s mouth curves upwards. “I liked it.”
“Of course you did,” Patrick says, ego stroked.
“It was juvenile,” Art says.
“Uh, no. It was cool,” Patrick corrects.
You watch them fall back into that old rhythm like muscle memory. For a moment, they don’t look like two grown men with mortgages and press obligations and complicated wives. They’re just like two boys in locker rooms, convincing themselves the world isn’t ready to see how they play.
“You guys were insufferable. The entire junior circuit hated you,” you chip in.
“The girls loved us!” Patrick protests.
“You loved the attention,” Tashi says.
“You ate it up, too,” you say, shaking your head at her. “The two of them orbiting you like idiots.”
Patrick grins. “We weren’t orbiting—“
“Yes, you were,” you and Tashi say at the same time. It earns a shared look between you, instinctive, the kind that used to happen across nets or over dorm beds. You swallow thickly. Art notices. His smile fades slightly.
“US juniors,” your husband continues obliviously. “That final was brutal.”
Tashi’s gaze shifts to you. “You almost had me.”
Almost. Like almost means shit in tennis. You remember the heat of it: screaming crowds, your legs trembling in the third set, the look of determination on her face opposite you.
“You broke me in the second. That was light work for you,” you say, injecting lightness into your voice.
“You let up,” she counters.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. You always got in your head playing me. You could beat anyone else, but every time I was across that net, you doubled under the pressure.”
Your chest tightens, and you force out a quiet laugh. “You’ve always thought that.”
“Because it’s true.”
Art clears his throat gently, sparing you. “I liked the afterparty.”
Patrick laughs loudly. “God, what a night.”
You remember it too vividly. Tashi’s blue dress on the dance floor, fingers brushing against yours, two sets of eyes following your every move.
“You two were practically chest-bumping over her,” you say, and you hate how bitter it comes out. You clear your throat, continuing lightly, “It was embarrassing to watch.”
“Competition,” Patrick smirks over the rim of his glass.
“It wasn’t like that,” Art says, rubbing the back of his neck.
His wife arches an amused brow. “No?”
He hesitates, and Patrick laughs again. “It was exactly like that.” There’s a beat of silence between you all, the memory hanging between you, before he braces his elbows on the table. “Remember what happened when we went back to the hotel?”
“Yeah. You knocked over an ice machine,” Art rolls his eyes.
Patrick waves a dismissive hand. “Irrelevant. I mean after.”
Your pulse ticks faster. “Wha happened after?”
Art closes his eyes briefly, because he knows where this is going. You’d made an excuse on the walk back from the beach. “I don’t want to be a part of your ego boost of a two-man, Tashi,” you’d laughed, shoving her up the path. “I’m too tired for that.”
“We kissed,” Patrick grins, lazy and unbothered. Art’s cheeks flush faintly red and Tashi catches your eye over the table.
“You what?” You say, feigning mild surprise.
Patric rolls his eyes. “Don’t act shocked. I bet she told you the morning after.”
“I’m not shocked,” you reply. “I just don’t think I’ve ever heard you admit it.”
Art exhales. “It wasn’t planned.”
Tashi’s lip twitches. “Nothing about that night was planned.”
“You didn’t seem mad about it,” Patrick says, looking at her.
“It was stupid,” Art adds.
“And then you all went to sleep?” You ask. Tashi stifles a snort into her wine glass.
“Yeah,” Patrick affirms.
You lean back into the booth. “That’s not what happened.”
Both men look at you, puzzled. Patrick’s hand squeezes your knee questioningly. “What do you mean?”
“I went to her room,” Tashi clarifies. She doesn’t look at either of them, gaze fixed on you.
Art blinks. “Her room?”
“What, to brag?” Patrick laughs uncertainly.
You shake your head. “She said she couldn’t sleep. Said the adrenaline wouldn’t come down.”
“What does that mean?” Art’s throat bobs. Patrick’s expression shifts from confusion to dawning comprehension.
“Art,” Tashi presses, sending him an amused look.
“What?”
SEPTEMBER 10TH, 2006
By the time the knock finally came, you’d half-convinced yourself she wasn’t going to show. Too busy with her new entertainment for the night while you were left to huff and puff over your loss alone, your second-place trophy glinting mockingly where it sat on the hotel dresser.
You recognise the two deliberate taps to your door immediately, shooting up out of bed like you haven’t been agonising over it for the last hour.
“Hi,” you say, trying not to sound breathless.
“Hi.” She leans against the doorway instead of walking in immediately. “Can I come in?” That part is new. Usually, she doesn’t ask. You step aside anyway.
She walks in slowly, eyes flicking curiously over the space. It feels like she’s already been here before. She has, sort of—different hotels, different rooms, the same agonisingly familiar pattern. By the end of the tournament, she’d always ended up in your bed at least once.
“You played well,” she says, like she hadn’t told you the same thing hours ago. She runs a lazy finger over your finalist trophy and you groan, slumping onto your bed petulantly. You’ve tried not to look at it since you got back.
“You played better,” you shoot back.
“I know.”
The lack of smugness almost makes it worse. She slips off her shoes and picks up your trophy to inspect, probably with the intention of getting a rise out of you, before perching on the edge of the dresser.
“How was your fan club?” You cross your arms.
Her mouth twitches. “Exhausting.”
“Poor you,” you say, lip jutting out in faux-pity. “It must be so hard having every boy in a ten mile radius in love with you.”
Tashi laughs. “They were arguing by the end of it.”
“Over you?” You huff a laugh despite yourself. Her amusement is infectious, regardless of how petty you’re feeling.
“Obviously.”
“And?” You study her face carefully.
“And what?”
“Did you have a good time?”
She doesn’t answer right away. She pushes off the dresser to sit on the edge of the bed instead, trophy abandoned, her palms smoothing over her thighs absentmindedly. Your eyes are drawn to the movement before you can stop them, fingers itching to reach out and touch that smooth skin yourself.
“We went back to their room,” she says. There it is—the thing she’d really come here to rile you up with.
“I assumed.” A beat of silence passes before you finally give in, pressing for more. “And?”
“You want details?” She tilts her head playfully.
“No.”
A small smile graces her lips. “They kissed me.” You nod once. “Both of them,” she adds. Your jaw tightens in a way that might be imperceptible to anyone else, but she knows you too well not to notice. “That bothers you,” she observes.
“No, it doesn’t,” you deny instantly. It does. A little. But not in the way it might have months ago.
“Oh, it so does.”
“Does not,” you insist. “You’re here now, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she agrees. “I am.”
That’s always been the unspoken rule between you. Whatever happens in public—the flirting, the rivalries on court, the boys trying to get into either of your pants—it doesn’t follow you through the door unless she wants it to.
“Did you have fun?”
“A little.”
“Only a little?”
“You know how much fun I have with you.” Her fingers find your jaw, thumb smoothing out the slight jut of your lip. “Don’t pout.”
“I’m not—“ You start to argue, then give a reluctant huff. “You made me wait.”
“I was busy.”
“Yeah, I know.”
She laughs at the petulance in your tone. “Don’t roll your eyes at me. It was worth the wait, wasn’t it?”
“It will be if you kiss me already.”
She catches that hopeful lilt in your voice like a hook, and her smirk softens into something more tender. A second later, she crawls to straddle you, one leg on either side of your thighs. You suck in a sharp breath, fingers finally curling into the soft flesh of her thighs. And finally, finally, her mouth slots against yours.
You melt instantly. You always do. The whimper into her unbearably soft lips is undignified, her tongue sliding over your bottom lip before your brain can even catch up. It’s still maddeningly slow, and you make a quiet sound of protest when she pulls back to murmur:
“You really are jealous. I can feel it.”
The tease in her voice makes heat pool low in your belly. “Tashi,” you groan into the space between kisses, half-exasperated and half-desperate. You try to draw her back in for more, and she relents enough to bite playfully at your lip.
“That wasn’t a denial.”
Any witty protest is undermined by the gasp that her palming at your tits over your pyjama top draws out. Your hands slide up from her thighs to grip the back of the jacket she still hasn’t taken off.
“Why do you taste like tobacco?”
“Patrick smokes. They both do, actually.”
“Ugh. Gross.”
“Jealous,” she taunts again.
“M’not jealous,” you manage as she kisses her way along your jaw.
“You’re kissing me like you want to eat me.”
“I do.”
She pauses, breath hot by your ear as she debates whether to take that literally or not. Then she leans back, unzipping her jacket to reveal no shirt underneath, just a skimpy little bralette that does nothing to conceal the way her nipples are hard with arousal. Your brows knit together.
“Why are you— no shirt?” You say eloquently, too starstruck by the sight of her breasts in your face to speak properly for a moment. “Was that—“
“For them?” She interjects, smirking down at you. You nod. “God, no. For you.”
Your stomach twists in a way that shouldn’t feel so appealing. She shrugs the jacket off, guiding your hands up to cup her breasts.
“You want to eat me, huh?” She teases. Another shaky nod is all you can muster. “Words. You were so good with them earlier.”
You don’t have it in you to glare at her right now. “Yeah. I do. Can I?” The way her breath hitches when you pinch her nipple over the thin fabric is more satisfying than it has any right to be.
“How bad do you want it?”
You bite back a groan of frustration. Your brain is already fogged over, but you manage to make an attempt to sound less wanton than you actually feel. “Please, Tashi.”
She tsks softly, right on the playful side of condescending. “You can do better than that.”
A huff of impatience, and you fight the urge to pinch her nipple harder just to be a brat. Disobedience never gets you anywhere when she’s in a mood like this. The deal is whoever wins is in charge, and Tashi wins more often than not.
Not that you mind.
“Please, I need it,” you say, eyes shining pitifully up at her. “I’ve been thinking about it all day. You looked so hot on court. And at the afterparty, in that dress… fuck.”
“Were you thinking about it when I was with them?” She presses.
“Yes. God, yes.” Your head thumps against her chest, mouthing at the stiff peak of her nipple over her bralette. “The last two hours have been torture. I thought you’d stay with them all night.”
She arches into you with a sharp inhale, fingers finding the back of your neck as you suck harder. By the time you pull back, the fabric is stained dark with saliva.
“Thought about it,” she says, just to see the look of offence on your pretty face. “I’m joking. Take it off for me.”
You obey without hesitation, fingers slipping beneath the underband of her bra to drag it up and over her head. It’s barely hit the floor by the time your face is pressed against her again, a sigh of longing slipping past your lips as they drag up over her breasts.
“You’re so beautiful.”
She seems pleased by the compliment—not in a smug way, either. A girlish sort of bashfulness that’s quickly quashed as her hand guides your head down to kiss her abdomen. “How about you show me how beautiful you think I am?”
You smile against her, nose nuzzling against her soft skin. “Yeah? Can I?”
She slides off your lap to stand, and you have to stop yourself from reaching for her. Instead, your fingers curl back into the sheets, waiting as her fingers hook into her shorts. She eases them down slowly, enough to make your mouth water and your thighs clench together in anticipation. When she steps out of them, her panties follow, an even more agonisingly slow drag down her legs until they hit the floor.
You lick your lips.
“Lay back.”
“Huh?” You reply, dazed.
“Lay back,” she repeats, amusement lacing her voice.
You scramble back to do as asked, hastily adjusting a pillow for your head as you settle against the mattress. You feel it dip before you see her above you, swinging a leg over your torso as she comes to straddle your chest. You’re granted with the sight of her sweet cunt, already shining with arousal. You feel like a dog inhaling the scent so eagerly, lashes fluttering, but she only grins down at you.
“This is supposed to be my reward for winning, but something tells me you enjoy it just as much.”
“Uh huh,” you hum in affirmation.
And she’s absolutely right—you have no issue with losing every match if this is what you get. She shifts up higher, her knees braced on either side of your head, sinking down onto your face. Your eyes flutter shut, a muffled moan pressed against her when your mouth latches onto her. She’s always tasted divine. Good hygiene and diet, you imagine, or maybe you’re just so tragically in love with her that every part of her is like nectar.
“Fuck. There we go,” she sighs softly as you lap up into her.
It should be a little humiliating just laying there, nose nudging at her swollen clit as she rolls her hips against your tongue. Once upon a time she was concerned about her supple thighs suffocating you when she took her perch above you, but Tashi quickly learned you were right where you wanted to be.
Your hands come up instinctively to hold onto her, but she smacks them away like one would discipline a dog. “No. You gave up today.”
“I didn’t—” You try to argue, though it’s hard with your face smothered in arousal and the folds of her cunt pressing against your lips every time you open your mouth.
“Yes, you did. Any time you lose your footing against me, you give up.”
Her hips shift again and you latch onto her clit, alternating between flicking your tongue and sucking as if that might make her disappointment in you fade away. It lasts about all of two minutes before another thought occurs to her.
“It’s your forehand holding you back. You roll it in when you should be driving through it. You’re not losing because you’re worse,” she says. You’re actually a little offended that she’s coherent enough to speak through her pleasure when you’re currently worshipping her pussy to the best of your ability. “You’re losing because you’re passive.”
Somehow, that jab digs its heels into your chest, and you have a feeling she’s talking about more than just the final today. Your head falls back against the pillow to breathe again, panting up at her.
“... Are we still talking about tennis?” You ask, breathless.
She blinks down at you, caught off guard by the question. “We’re always talking about tennis,” she dismisses, right before her cunt hits your face again.
FEBRUARY 14TH, 2019
“—She used to call it sitting on her throne after she won,” you recall, laughing as you lean back into the booth. The memory warms your chest in a way the wine hasn’t quite managed to yet.
For a second, it’s just you and Tashi again. Not this table, not the wedding rings, not the years in between and the unanswered texts. Just her rolling her eyes at you while you both know she’s pleased to be talking about your time together again.
Next to you, Patrick is looking between you both with his brows drawn together, confusion sitting awkwardly on his face. Art’s expression is almost identical as he shifts uncomfortably.
“Wait, what are you talking about?” He says.
Patrick gives a short laugh beside you, though it sounds a little forced. “Is this an inside joke? You’ve lost me. Her throne?”
You glance between them, then back at Tashi. There’s a split second where you debate downplaying it to keep things neat and digestible… but the wine is doing its job. And so is the way she’s looking at you—dark eyes amused, a little daring, and it’s enough to push you over the edge.
“What? You guys didn’t know?”
Patrick’s confusion deepens. “Know what?”
Tashi leans back, completely at ease as her arm drapes back behind her husband again. “That I went to her room,” she says mildly.
Art frowns. “Yeah, you said that part.”
“And stayed,” she adds.
There’s a stretch of confused silence before you see the moment it clicks for them both. “Stayed,” Patrick repeats.
Art blinks. “You mean—“
“Use your words, Art,” Tashi says, lifting a brow.
“You… didn’t just talk,” he says stupidly, his throat bobbing.
You snort into your glass. “God, no. She might have left you both high and dry, but I got laid.”
Patrick barks out a laugh, sharp and disbelieving. The thought of you, his wife, having a sexual history with his ex-girlfriend is both as baffling as it is thrilling. “No fucking way.”
“What? Is that surprising?” You glance over at him.
“Yes,” he answers immediately. “Yes, absolutely it is.”
Art is still processing, trying to figure out the timeline of it all. If you were sleeping with Tashi, and then Tashi dated Patrick, and you dated Art… the entire thing is confusing. “You guys—“ he gestures vaguely between you both, “—that was… a thing?”
“On and off,” Tashi shrugs, lips curving up.
“More on than off,” you add, unable to help yourself.
She shoots you a look. “Don’t exaggerate.”
“I’m not!”
Patrick leans back in his seat, dragging a hand over his mouth in a poor attempt to hide his grin. “That’s crazy.”
“You never said anything,” Art says.
You shrug lightly. “You never asked.”
“That’s not—“ He stops himself, shaking his head. “I feel like that’s something you mention.”
“Why?” You counter. “You guys were busy with your own thing.”
There’s a flicker of something between him and Patrick, easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it, but you are. You share a look with Tashi over the table.
“We didn’t have a thing,” Patrick denies, though his mouth is twitching.
“Sure,” Tashi hums.
“We didn’t,” Art says, shooting her a look.
“Okay,” she says, clearly not believing him in the slightest.
“You shared hotel rooms for years,” you laugh.
“Because we were touring together,” Patrick says. “It was cheaper.”
“And?” You press, brow raised.
“And nothing.”
Tashi lets out a soft, knowing laugh. “Right.”
“Nothing happened,” Art denies again, jaw tightening just slightly. You almost feel bad, but the way he can’t meet anybody’s gaze—Patrick’s least of all—is just too endearing for your tipsy mind.
“Didn’t say it did,” Tashi replies smoothly.
Neither of you push it further. You don’t need to. The implication hangs there the same way the rest of your history together does: unresolved. Instead, you take another sip of wine, letting the tension settle into something playful again.
“Anyway,” you say lightly, “the point is—“
“That you ditched us,” Patrick cuts in, pointing a finger at Tashi good-naturedly.
Tashi just smirks. “I upgraded,” she replies haughtily, lifting her chin.
You choke on a laugh while Art shakes his head like he doesn’t know whether to chuckle or be annoyed. “That’s unbelievable,” he says.
“You survived.”
“Barely,” Patrick mutters. This time, you catch the faint edge of something beneath the humour. You don’t think it’s anger. More like curiosity. He’s always been more open-minded towards that sort of thing, and you have no doubt he would have gotten off to that knowledge if he’d been told sooner. Then he just laughs, shaking his head. “Jesus. My wife and my ex—“
“Your wife and your ex that’s also your friend’s wife,” you correct sweetly.
“Ex-friend,” Tashi chips in.
“You’re making this worse,” he bemoans.
Finally, Art joins in on the laughter. “This is a lot.”
“Welcome to the table,” you jest.
The laughter doesn’t die down right away. Patrick’s raucous as always, and a nearby couple glances over in mild irritation, but none of you care enough to quiet down. For all your anxieties about tonight, you’re glad it got to this point where the past isn’t a sharp, fragile thing to be danced around. Now you can joke about it without feeling hollow inside.
Some time later, another round of drinks appears—this time something stronger, in four little glasses. You don’t remember anyone explicitly ordering it, but Tashi thanks the waiter like she did.
“Shots?” Patrick says, already reaching.
“Absolutely not,” Art replies immediately.
“Yes,” Tashi counters at the same time, and he looks surprised. You have a feeling it’s unlike her new polished self, the Tashi on all the billboards and sports magazines, but he doesn’t comment on it.
“Oh, come on. Just one,” you say.
“You too?” He says, sending you a betrayed look.
“Don’t be a bore.” You nudge the glass towards him, and he relents with a sigh.
“Patrick’s a bad influence on you.”
Tashi watches the exchange in amusement, then lifts her own glass. “To terrible decisions.”
“To terrible decisions,” you echo.
Patrick’s glass clinks against yours before he downs it. The burn hits fast, and you wince, sputtering out a laugh as you set the glass down. Patrick coughs dramatically at your side.
“Jesus—what the hell is that?”
“Expensive,” Tashi says lightly.
“Of course.”
She leans back, stretching slightly, then glances around like she’s just remembered where she is. “This place is boring.”
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” you laugh.
“Exactly.”
Patrick nods immediately in drunken agreement. “Too polite in here. Everybody looks like they have sticks up their asses.”
“It’s a restaurant,” Art points out.
“And we’re done with it,” Tashi decides, rising to her feet before anyone can argue.
“We are?” You blink up at her.
“With the restaurant? Yes. With the night? No.”
“What does that mean?” Patrick says.
She picks up her wine glass, tipping her head back to gulp down the rest of it. “Let’s go somewhere more interesting.”
“Like where?” Art replies warily.
Mischief sparks in her brown eyes. “Where do you think?”
The journey to her hotel room doesn’t take long. Across the street, up the elevator, all of you cramped together and giggling. You cling to Art’s arm as you stumble down the hall on their floor, and you don’t even realise it’s not your husband until Tashi laughs at you. She doesn’t seem to mind, though. Just loops her arm through yours and tells Patrick to hurry up as he lags behind.
When you get into the room, you make a beeline for the arm chair, slumping down with a sigh. “Take my shoes off for me.”
“Take them off yourself,” Patrick groans, collapsing onto the bed.
Art and Tashi are a little more dignified, not that you’re surprised. Art shrugs off his jacket to hang up while she takes off her heels next to him.
“There’s wine in the fridge if you want any,” she offers.
“I think I’d die,” you lament, leaning forward to clumsily unbuckle your heels. It takes a moment to get them off before you stretch out your legs, wiggling your toes. Patrick’s face down in a pillow now, a silence falling over the room. Then you sit up suddenly. “Do it for me.”
“Do what?” Art says, peeling his tie off.
“Recreate it.”
“Be a bit more specific, babe,” Tashi indulges with a laugh. The pet name makes your heart stutter.
“The… the hotel thing. The three of you.”
Patrick lifts his head, intrigued. “What do you mean?”
“Like, when I wasn’t there. Pretend I’m not here and it’s the night of the Junior Open.”
“Well, we just drank shitty beer and sat around the floor,” Art says, a little uncertain, though he’s smiling over at you with flushed cheeks.
“No. No, not that part,” you say, waving a hand. “The kissing part. You said you all made out.”
“What? No,” he laughs.
“You don’t have to,” you shrug, though your tone suggests otherwise. “Just thought it’d be funny.”
Tashi watches you. She knows you well enough to hear what you’re not saying—that it’s not just curiosity, not just a joke. “Funny,” she echoes, amused.
Patrick swings his legs off the bed, sitting up fully now. “C’mon, man. For old time’s sake.” Nobody seems surprised that he’s up for it without question.
“This is a terrible idea,” Tashi snorts.
“Everything tonight has been a terrible idea,” you point out, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back. “Are you going to give me a show or not?”
She seems amused by your drunken confidence. Art looks to her questioningly—a lap dog, even now—before she nods. “You heard the woman. Give her a show.”
She moves to sit on the bed, patting either side of her. Art hesitates, but just like in 2006, as soon as Patrick moves he’s right there with him. Both of them bracket her sides, hands in their laps, the smell of alcohol heavy on their breaths. Tashi glances between them both, before her gaze settles back on you.
Suddenly, it feels a lot more real when they’re all in front of you. You exhale heavily, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact. “It was like this?”
“Mmm. They were both so desperate.”
“Who’d you kiss first?” You can’t help but ask.
Tashi smiles, turning her head. Patrick leans in slightly, breath ghosting over hers, but she turns before their lips can meet. Her mouth finds Art’s instead. He kisses the same way you remember—a little tentative at first, before his confidence builds and his hand finds her thigh, his kisses growing more fervent.
When she finally breaks apart and turns to Patrick, you find yourself unsettingly okay with it. A part of you thought you would have been jealous. You’ve been married to Patrick for four years, dating for even longer, and yet now your stomach is twisting with arousal at the thought of him kissing her.
He doesn’t ask for permission. As soon as her head turns, his mouth is on hers. He’s hungrier than Art, not just because they haven’t kissed in years. It’s how he always kisses. Sex with Patrick always feels like some all-consuming kind of lust, and your brain feels foggy watching Tashi shudder when his tongue shamelessly slides against hers.
You find your gaze flicking curiously towards Art for his reaction. He doesn’t seem as off balance as you would have thought, though that might be the alcohol talking. He’s just as enraptured by the sight of the pair of them devouring each other, his hand still squeezing Tashi’s thigh.
A string of saliva connects them when they break apart, and you wet your own lips. “So this is it? You just made both of them take turns kissing you?”
Art turns pink before she can reply. “Do you really think I’m that boring?” She laughs. She leans back, head tilted ever so slightly to expose her neck. And while she makes eye contact with you, Art and Patrick lean in, kissing along opposite sides of her neck.
It’s not shocking—nothing about tonight has been shocking, really—but it makes the wetness building up between your legs worse. The part that really undoes you is Tashi’s eyes staying on you. It feels like this isn’t just a reenactment for your benefit. It’s like you’re part of it, even from across the room. Always part of it, even back then.
A quiet exhale escapes her when Art’s grip tightens on her thigh, thumb pressing in unconsciously under the slit of her dress, while Patrick’s hand slides higher along her arm, fingers curling at her shoulder. They don’t look at each other, but they’re aware of each other. You can see it in the way they move: careful not to collide, but not exactly avoiding it either.
“Shit,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else.
Tashi’s mouth curves faintly at the sound. “You’re looking between them like it’s a match,” she says.
“Feels like one,” you swallow thickly.
She huffs a quiet laugh, breath hitching slightly as Patrick’s mouth presses just under her jaw, teeth grazing boldly. “And who’s winning?”
Your gaze flicks between the three of them, slower now to take it all in properly. “You.”
“Always,” she replies.
Her hands lift to find their jaws, guiding them back upwards. Your breath catches, fingers curling into the plush arm of your chair when their mouths meet together. All three of them. It’s a strange sight, all of them alternating between lips and tongues, but it makes your heart beat rapidly in your chest nonetheless.
You aren’t sure how long it goes on for before she leans back again.
“You know what to do,” she prompts both men.
Art blushes furiously, ready to protest. “Tashi—“
“Art.”
His complaint dies on his tongue. Patrick is smirking, though you aren’t sure why until it becomes clear what you know what to do means. He leans across her, where Art hesitates for a moment before he does the same. Your jaw almost drops when they kiss, and Tashi grins at the delight in your eyes.
You’ve never been blind about Patrick’s attraction towards men. He’s ogled them shamelessly for years, and you’ve always had your suspicions about how close he was with Art. Tashi made more than enough jokes at Stanford about teenage boys sharing beds during their formative years turning out a certain way.
It’s a different thing entirely to see him making out with a man. Especially when that man is Art, who’s still a furious shade of red but melting into the kiss. It’s drunk and sloppy, but it might be the single greatest thing you’ve ever seen.
You don’t realise Tashi’s talking to you until she says your name. Dazed, you manage a, “Huh?”
“I said don’t you feel left out?” She repeats.
“Well—” You swallow, shifting a little so your thighs press together. “I’m having fun watching.”
“You’d have a lot more fun kissing me.”
It takes you aback, but you’re nodding your head eagerly before you can really process it. You almost trip on your discarded heels in your haste to get up. Tashi slides back from between the two men, ignoring their questioning look.
“You look nice tonight,” you offer clumsily when you sit next to her, tongue feeling thick in your mouth.
“Nice?” She laughs, hand settling on your knee to give it a comforting squeeze. “You used to call me beautiful.”
“Well, you were. I mean— you are,” you correct yourself.
“Don’t get shy on me now. You were so confident ordering us around,” she teases.
“She’s always like that,” Patrick chips in. Art’s panting against his jaw, pressing kisses every now and then while trying to keep his gaze on the pair of you. “So bossy but as soon as she gets a little attention, she doesn’t know what to do with herself.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that,” Tashi snorts. He rolls his eyes, tilting his head back to catch Art’s mouth again.
“You’re beautiful,” you repeat, softer now, as she cups your jaw with her other hand. Her expression shifts slightly into that bashfulness you’ve missed so much. It boosts your confidence enough for you to lean in first, closing the distance like you’ve done a hundred times before.
It’s soft at first, slipping back into something that feels like it never really went away. You hear Patrick make a low, amused down somewhere behind you, but it’s distant. Everything is, except the way Tashi’s hand slides to the back of your neck, steadying you.
“You see? Wasn’t that hard,” she murmurs against your lips.
You huff out a quiet laugh, breath catching. “Shut up.”
She smiles into the next kiss, a little sharper this time, more like the version of her that thrived on pushing you. It pulls a soft, involuntary sound from your throat before you can stop it. The hand on your jaw tips it gently to the side so she can kiss her way along your cheek and to your ear. When your eyes open, you’re met with the sight of Art in the same position, your husband’s mouth sliding down his neck while one hand works at the top few buttons of his shirt.
“Do you miss him?” She breathes, low in your ear.
“Mmm?”
“Art. Do you miss him? Miss kissing him?” she continues, biting the lobe of your ear playfully. “Miss fucking him?”
“Yeah,” you sigh, shivering when she licks a stripe down your neck.
“Invite him over, then. I’m sure he misses kissing you, too. I know I did.”
You call his name, but it comes out more of a moan than anything when Tashi sucks against your neck. She stifles a laugh. “Art,” you repeat, a little louder. He looks towards you, pupils blown wide. Whether it’s from arousal or the alcohol, you can’t tell. “Come here. I want to kiss you.”
Art obeys, despite Patrick’s groan of protest, though your husband follows him across the bed. Tashi continues to lavish your neck with attention while Art leans in with that same hesitance before melting into you. Your drunken mind deduces that he tastes better than Patrick. Not that Patrick tastes bad, but you’re used to kissing someone who tastes of tobacco, not just wine and traces of mint.
“Man, this is like a wet dream,” Patrick sighs.
“We should probably stop while we’re ahead,” Art adds half-heartedly, though he doesn’t stop kissing you.
“Yeah? You want to stop?” Tashi reaches across, fingers sliding between his legs to palm his bulge. His breath hitches against your mouth.
“No. No, I’m just saying…”
“Stop talking. Don’t ruin this for me,” Patrick says.
So Art doesn’t. Clothes start to come off in pieces, entirely uncoordinated. You’re half-laughing and half-serious in a way that only happens when there’s too much history and too much alcohol in the room. Patrick tugs at the hem of your dress like he’s done a hundred times before, a bit distracted, his attention splitting between the three of you.
Tashi doesn’t hesitate, though. She moves between all of you the way she always has, slipping her hands under fabric, pushing shirts off shoulders and guiding more than asking.
You catch yourself laughing at something—nothing, really—as Patrick loses his balance trying to step out of his shoes, collapsing half on top of you and mouthing at your shoulder instead of getting up again.
“God, we’re a mess,” you say, breathless. “I really want to fuck you, though.”
“You fuck him all the time,” Tashi says with an eye roll, her fingers currently making quick work of Art’s belt.
“No. No, I mean all of you.”
And she’s about to take you up on that offer when her phone buzzes where it was discarded near the head of the bed. Tashi freezes, brows furrowing slightly. “Hold on—“ She says, already reaching for it.
“Don’t tell me you’re taking a call right now,” Patrick groans against your shoulder.
“It’s probably important,” Art adds, though you can tell by his frown and the bulge in his pants he’s just as disappointed as Patrick.
Tashi looks at the screen, her expression shifting. “Oh my god.”
“What?” You ask, sitting up a little straighter and shoving Patrick off. He collapses into Art instead.
She turns the phone around without a word. It’s a photo, bright and blurry, taken by someone with too much enthusiasm. A card smeared in glitter and doodled hearts, with a grinning little brunette holding it up to the camera. Scribbled across the front, it reads:
HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY MOM!
For a second, everyone is quiet. Then you laugh, not because it’s funny—though you suppose it is, in a way—but because the contrast is so absurd it knocks the air right out of you. Patrick follows a second later, loud and incredulous.
“Are you serious? Right now? This is why we haven’t had kids,” he laments. You smack his arm, but you’re still laughing.
“That’s—shit. That’s timing,” Art exhales his own laugh.
“I told her I’d call her before bed,” Tashi huffs, but she’s smiling down at the screen when she turns it back to her.
“Well, that’s one way to kill the mood,” Art says, glancing around at the half-undressed state of all of you.
“Speak for yourself,” Patrick mutters, adjusting himself shamelessly.
“No, I think that’s pretty definitive,” you laugh, tugging the straps of your dress back up. Your heart is still hammering in your chest.
“Probably for the best.” Tashi meets your eyes, something warm flickering there again. There’s a quiet agreement in the room, unspoken but shared. The tension doesn’t disappear entirely, but at least none of you are groping each other anymore.
“I need water,” Patrick declares.
“Same,” Art says, and the pair of them shove at each other on their way to the fridge, sporting matching tents in their slacks.
You watch them, lips curving up faintly while Tashi texts her mom back. Some things change, some things don’t.
“Hey,” you say lightly, looking back at her. “Tell her I said happy Valentine’s.”
Tashi glances up at you, a smile tugging at her mouth. “I’m not sure how to explain who you are, but I will.”
The night ends less explosively than it might have had things continued. But when Tashi settles back next to you, phone extended to show you the picture again while Art and Patrick bicker behind you, you don’t think you’d change a thing.
❤︎ |5,9k| Summary: Lando is very frustrated and angry from morning until evening. But what happens under the sheets at night just might help his mood get a bit better.
The silence that followed was a physical weight, pressing down on you, stealing the very air from your lungs. You stood frozen in the doorway of his bedroom, the finality of his words echoing in the cavernous space of your own shattered heart. "Get out." "My session is over. Right?" The professional jargon, twisted into a weapon of dismissal, was the cruellest part. He had taken your shield, your ethical code, and used it to build a wall between you, a wall you had handed him the bricks for yourself.
You wanted to say something. Anything. To beg for his understanding, to explain the crushing fear that was paralysing you, to take back the words that had extinguished the light in his eyes. But what could you say? You had made your choice. You had chosen his future, his recovery, over the fragile, terrifying, beautiful possibility of 'us'. You had done the right thing. It felt like dying.
You turned, your movements stiff and mechanical, and walked out of the room. You didn't look back. You couldn't. You closed the door softly, the click of the latch sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet hallway, a final, definitive period at the end of a sentence that had barely begun. You leaned your forehead against the cool wood, your body trembling with the force of your suppressed sobs. You could feel him on the other side, a presence of pure, wounded silence. You had done this. You had broken him to save him.
You walked down the grand staircase, each step a monumental effort. The house was different now. It was no longer a sanctuary of shared secrets and stolen moments. It was just a house. A beautiful, expensive house that belonged to your patient's parents, where you were an employee. A guest who had overstayed her welcome in every possible way.
You didn't sleep. You lay in your own bed, in your own small apartment, staring at the ceiling, the events of the day playing on a torturous loop in your mind. The feel of his lips on yours, the sound of his contented sigh, the warmth of his skin. The terror in his mother's cheerful voice, the shame that burned through you as you lied. The hope in his eyes when he said, "I really like you." The devastation in them when you replied, "It's wrong."
You cried until you were hollow, until your eyes were raw and your head ached. You replayed his words, his accusation that you were hiding behind your job, his assertion that you made him feel like a man again. He was right. He was so right. And that was precisely why you couldn't be with him. Because a man like that deserved a future without complications, without the shadow of an ethical breach hanging over his head. He deserved a clean slate, a full recovery, and you were a risk you couldn't let him take.
The next morning, you drove to the Norris house with a sense of dread so profound it felt like a lead weight in your stomach. Every part of you screamed to turn around, to call in sick, to do anything to avoid facing him. But you couldn't. You were his physical therapist. You had a job to do. And you had just told him, in no uncertain terms, that that job was more important than he was. You had to live with that. You had to prove it.
You let yourself in with the key they had given you, the sound of the lock turning feeling like an accusation. The house was quiet, his parents probably still asleep. You climbed the stairs, your footsteps heavy, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. You paused outside his bedroom door, your hand hovering over the handle. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself, adopting the professional mask you would now have to wear every single day for the foreseeable future. You were y/n, the physical therapist. Nothing more.
You pushed open the door.
The room was dim, the curtains drawn against the bright morning sun. He was in bed, a lump under the duvet, his back to you. You could tell by the tense set of his shoulders that he was awake.
"Lando," you said, your voice carefully neutral, devoid of any warmth. "It's 8 a.m. Time to get up for your session."
He didn't move. He didn't speak. The silence was a response in itself, thick with hostility and hurt.
You walked further into the room, your footsteps soft on the carpet. "Lando. Come on. We have a long day ahead of us. Upper body focus today, remember?"
He shifted slightly, a minimal, resentful movement. "I'm awake," he muttered, his voice muffled by the pillow. It was rough, sleep-deepened, and laced with a coldness that made you flinch internally.
"Good," you said, keeping your voice brisk. You moved to his wardrobe, pulling out his training clothes - a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants and a McLaren-branded t-shirt. You laid them out on the end of the bed, your movements efficient and impersonal. "Let's get you dressed. I'll give you a minute to sit up, and then I'll help you with your pants."
You turned to give him that minute, to fetch his chair from the corner of the room, when his voice, sharp and angry, cut through the tense air.
"No."
You stopped, turning back to look at him. He had pushed himself up into a sitting position, his hair a wild mess, his eyes red-rimmed and shadowed. He was glaring at you, a look of pure, unadulterated defiance.
"No?" you repeated, confused. "Lando, we need to get you ready for training."
"I'll do it myself," he said, his jaw set, his gaze unwavering.
You stared at him, a flicker of disbelief warring with your professional assessment. "Lando, I don't think that's a good idea. Getting your pants on is… it's a very specific movement. You need to be able to lift your hips, to shift your weight. It's a lot of core and hip flexor engagement. You're not there yet. It's too difficult."
You were trying to be gentle, to be clinical. But he heard only condescension. He heard you telling him what he couldn't do.
"Shh!" he hissed, the sound sharp and violent. He held up a hand, a gesture of dismissal that was more cutting than any shout. "Just… stop. Don't tell me what I can and can't do. I said I'll do it myself."
He turned his attention to the clothes on the bed, his movements jerky and stiff as he reached for the sweatpants. He was shutting you out. He was building a wall with his own two hands, and you were the reason why.
"Lando, please…" you started, your voice softening.
"Go and wait outside," he interrupted, his voice low and dangerously quiet. He didn't look at you. His entire focus was on the task he had set himself, a mountain he was determined to climb alone. "I'll call you when I'm ready."
You knew that tone. It was the same frustrated, angry tone he had used in the early days, when his body wouldn't do what his mind wanted it to. But this was different. This wasn't frustration with his injury. This was anger at you. And you knew, with a certainty that settled like a stone in your gut, that pushing him would only make it worse. He needed to prove something. To himself, and to you.
"Okay," you whispered, the word barely audible. You backed out of the room, pulling the door almost closed, leaving just a sliver of space. You didn't want to leave him completely alone, not when he was attempting something so potentially frustrating and demoralizing. But you would respect his wish. You would give him his space.
You stood in the hallway, your back against the wall, and waited. The house was still silent. You could hear the faint, distant sound of a bird singing outside. Inside, there was only the sound of your own breathing, and the muffled sounds of struggle coming from the bedroom.
It was agony. Every soft grunt, every frustrated sigh, every rustle of fabric was a twist of the knife. You could picture him perfectly. He would be sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to maneuver the pants over his feet, his face a mask of concentration. He would try to lift one leg, to guide the fabric up, but without the ability to stand, to shift his weight, it would be like trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing. He would try to lift his hips, to pull the pants up, but his core, while stronger, wasn't strong enough for that sustained, unilateral movement. He would be failing. Over and over again. And with every failure, his anger would grow, his certainty that you were right would curdle into more resentment.
You checked your watch. Five minutes. Seven. Ten minutes. You knew you should go in. You knew that letting him struggle for this long was counterproductive, that it could lead to a setback, to a spiral of frustration. But you also knew that if you went in now, you would be confirming his belief that you saw him as helpless, as a patient who couldn't do anything without you. He was trying to reclaim a piece of his independence, a piece you had inadvertently taken from him last night. You had to let him try.
You were just about to give in, to open the door and offer your help, when you heard it. It wasn't a shout. It wasn't an angry curse. It was your name.
"Y/n."
His voice His voice was quiet, stripped of all its earlier anger. It was small, thin, and threaded with a defeat so profound it made your heart ache. It was the sound of a white flag.
You pushed the door open without a sound. The scene that met your eyes was exactly as you had pictured it, but a thousand times worse. He was still sitting on the edge of the bed, half-dressed. One sweatpants leg was bunched around his ankle, the other was tangled uselessly in his lap. His t-shirt lay on the floor, forgotten. He was slumped forward, his head in his hands, his entire body radiating a silent, trembling exhaustion.
But it was his face that broke you. When he finally looked up, his eyes were red and swimming with unshed tears. The wetness was already pooling, making the brown of his irises look darker, more vulnerable. He wasn't crying, not yet, but he was on the very edge. The sight of that unshed grief, that raw, helpless frustration, was more painful than any angry outburst could have been.
You didn't say a word. You didn't offer platitudes or ask if he was okay. You simply walked across the room, your movements slow and deliberate, and knelt on the floor in front of him. You gently took the tangled sweatpants from his lap, your fingers brushing against his. He flinched but didn't pull away. With a quiet efficiency that spoke of years of practice, you untangled the fabric, guided it over his feet, and began the slow, careful process of dressing him. You lifted his legs one at a time, pulling the pants up to his knees. Then, you placed your hands on his hips. "Lift," you murmured, your voice soft.
He did, a small, weary movement, and you pulled the pants the rest of the way up, settling them around his waist. You didn't look at him. You just focused on the task, on the simple, tangible act of helping him.
When you were done, you remained kneeling on the floor, your hands resting lightly on his knees. You could feel the fine tremor running through his entire body. You looked up, finally meeting his gaze. A single tear had escaped and was tracing a slow, salty path down his cheek.
You didn't hesitate. You leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him, pulling his head down to your shoulder. It wasn't a romantic embrace. It was a gesture of pure, unadulterated comfort. He was stiff for a moment, his body rigid with resistance, but then, he crumpled. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his arms coming around you, and the dam broke. Silent, racking sobs shook his frame, his tears soaking the collar of your shirt. You held him tighter, one hand stroking his hair, the other rubbing soothing circles on his back.
"It's okay," you whispered, your voice thick with your own unshed tears. "It's okay, Lando. It's not expected that you can do this yet. This is hard. This is one of the hardest things. Don't ever think you have to do this alone."
He just shook his head, his grip on you tightening, as if you were the only solid thing in a world that had tilted on its axis. You held him until the sobs subsided, until his breathing evened out, until the only sound was the quiet rhythm of your two hearts beating in tandem.
When he finally pulled back, he wouldn't meet your eyes. He just wiped his face with the back of his hand, a gesture of boyish vulnerability that was at odds with the man he was. "Sorry," he mumbled, his voice hoarse.
"Don't you dare apologize," you said, your voice firm but gentle. You stood up, grabbing the t-shirt from the floor. "Come on. Let's get this on. I'm starving."
Breakfast was a quiet, tense affair. You made him his usual oatmeal with berries, and coffee for both of you. You sat at the kitchen table, a careful distance between you. His parents came down as you were finishing, their cheerful morning greetings a stark contrast to the heavy silence hanging between you and their son. They seemed to sense the atmosphere, shooting you and Lando curious glances, but were wise enough not to comment. Lando was monosyllabic, answering their questions with one-word replies, his gaze fixed on his bowl. You filled the silence, updating them on the plan for the day's training, your tone bright and professional, the perfect therapist. It was a performance, and you both knew it.
Training was a welcome escape. In the gym, you could fall back into your roles. You were the coach, he was the athlete. The physical exertion left no room for the emotional turmoil. And he was magnificent. Fueled by a mixture of anger, frustration, and a desperate need to prove something, he pushed himself harder than ever before. His arms, already showing remarkable improvement, were on fire today.
"Again," you'd say, spotting him as he struggled through the last of a set of shoulder presses. "Come on, Norris. You've got one more in you."
And he would. He would grit his teeth, a vein throbbing in his temple, and power through it, a guttural roar escaping his lips as he completed the rep. You did pull-ups, bicep curls, tricep extensions, chest presses. You worked every muscle in his upper body with a ferocity that left him dripping with sweat and trembling with exhaustion. His mobility was returning with a speed that sometimes startled you. You had him rotate his arms in full circles, extend them fully above his head, bring them together behind his back. He did it all, his movements becoming smoother, more confident with each repetition.
By the end of the session, he was a wreck, but his eyes were shining with a familiar, competitive light. The despair from the morning had been burned away, replaced by the raw, endorphin-fueled satisfaction of a hard-won victory.
You took him to the living room afterward, where his parents were waiting. They were eager for a report, their faces hopeful.
"So?" Cisca asked, leaning forward on the sofa. "How did he do today?"
You glanced at Lando, who was sitting in his chair, wiping his face with a towel. He wouldn't look at you, but he was listening.
"He did exceptionally well," you said, and you meant it. "His arms are back to full mobility. The range of motion is exactly as it was before. The only thing that's changed is that they've obviously lost some muscle mass from the period of inactivity." You chose your words carefully, wanting to be honest but also manage their expectations. "So he might still have a little trouble with some movements, or feel a lot of soreness, because we're training every part of his arms and the connecting nerves in ways he hasn't used them in a while. But the underlying strength and mobility is there. It's remarkable."
You took a deep breath before delivering the next piece of news. "In fact, he's progressing so well with his upper body and core stability that I think we're ready to start some walking therapy tomorrow. We'll take it very slowly, of course. He'll need a lot of support, but I think, if everything goes to plan, he should be able to take a few steps with help."
The effect was instantaneous. Cisca gasped, her hands flying to her mouth, her eyes flooding with tears of joy. Adam, who was always more reserved, shot to his feet, a wide, incredulous grin spreading across his face.
"Walking?" Cisca whispered, her voice choked with emotion. "He's going to walk?"
"Tomorrow?" Adam added, looking from you to his son as if he couldn't quite believe it.
"We're going to try," you corrected gently. "It's a huge step, and it won't be easy. But yes. Tomorrow, we try."
Cisca was up and across the room in a flash, pulling you into a hug so tight it nearly knocked the air out of your lungs. "Oh, y/n! Thank you! Thank you! This is… this is the best news we've ever had! You're amazing! Absolutely amazing!"
Adam was right behind her, wrapping his arms around both of you in a group hug. "She's right," he said, his voice thick with a father's overwhelming gratitude. "We don't know what we'd do without you. You're working miracles with our son."
You were trapped, engulfed in their joy and gratitude. You felt a familiar wave of shame, the now-constant companion to their praise. You had done your job, yes. You had pushed him, you had trained him, you had guided him. But you had also broken his heart this morning. You were a fraud, accepting their thanks for the very thing that was tearing you apart.
Over his mother's shoulder, you risked a glance at Lando. He was watching you from the other side of the room. His face was an inscrutable mask. He was still angry, you could see it in the tension around his mouth, in the coldness of his eyes. He was still heartbroken. But as he watched his parents embrace you, as he listened to their words of praise and gratitude, something shifted. The hard line of his jaw softened ever so slightly. A flicker of warmth, of something that looked almost like pride, entered his eyes. He was angry at you, yes. But he couldn't deny the truth of his parents' words. You were helping him. You were giving him his future.
The afternoon session was different. The raw, anger-fueled energy from the morning had dissipated, replaced by a quiet, intense focus. The news of the impending walking therapy had hung in the air between you, a tangible promise of a future that was suddenly, breathtakingly close. It was a shared goal, a common enemy you were tackling together, and in that, a fragile truce had formed. The hostility was gone, but the intimacy from yesterday was still a distant memory. You were colleagues again. Efficient, professional, and miles apart.
"Alright," you said, setting up for the final set of exercises. "Hip thrusts. Let's focus on form. I want you to really feel that glute activation."
You positioned him on the mat, his back against the bench, a resistance band looped around his thighs. You explained the movement, demonstrating with your own body. "Drive through your heels. Squeeze at the top. Control on the way down."
He nodded, his expression serious. He placed his hands on the floor for stability and began the exercise. He pushed up, his hips lifting off the mat. It was a good, solid movement. But then, something changed.
His breath hitched. His eyes widened, flicking to yours. "Wait," he breathed, pausing at the top of the thrust. "I can… I can feel it."
You frowned, moving closer to adjust his form. "Feel what? The glute contraction?"
"No," he said, his voice a mixture of awe and confusion. "More than that. I can feel… my quads. And my hamstrings. It's… it's not just a ghost. It's… there."
You knelt beside him, your professional curiosity overriding everything else. "Where, exactly? Pinpoint it."
He did the thrust again, slower this time, his eyes closed in concentration. "Here," he murmured, his hand moving to the front of his thigh. "And here," his other hand tapping the back. "It's faint, like a low hum. But it's there. It's responding."
It was a breakthrough. A significant one. The nerve signals were starting to reconnect, to find their way through the damaged pathways of his spinal cord. It was the physical manifestation of hope. You should have been ecstatic. You should have been taking notes, planning the next phase of his recovery.
But you weren't.
Because as he lay there, his hips raised in a controlled, powerful thrust, his face a mask of intense concentration, all you could think about was yesterday. In this very room. On these very mats. The memory was so vivid, so visceral, that it stole your breath. The way his body had moved beneath yours, the raw power in his arms as he held you, the guttural sounds he had made as he found his release.
You felt a flush creep up your neck, a warmth that had nothing to do with the exertion of the session. You watched him, watched the rhythmic lift and fall of his hips, the way his t-shirt stretched across his chest, the bead of sweat trickling down his temple. And you knew, with a certainty that made your stomach clench, that he was thinking the exact same thing.
His eyes, when they opened and met yours, were dark. The professional focus had been replaced by something else. Something raw and primal and hungry. The air between you, already charged with the tension of the day, suddenly felt thick, electric, and suffocating. He continued the exercise, his movements slower, more deliberate, and it was no longer just a physical therapy movement. It was an imitation, a memory, a promise. Each thrust was a question, and the look in his eyes was an answer. You were both lost in it, drowning in the unspoken, in the memory of what it felt like to be joined like that. Your body responded with a treacherous, immediate ache, a deep, pulsing need that you fought to ignore. You were his therapist. He was your patient. This was wrong. This was dangerous. But it didn't matter. All that mattered was the look in his eyes and the memory of his body moving against yours.
You ended the session abruptly, citing his fatigue as an excuse.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of forced normalcy. You helped him with his stretches, ran through his core exercises, and reviewed the plan for tomorrow's walking session, your voice a careful monotone of professionalism. But the air in the gym was still thick with the ghost of that moment, the memory of his dark eyes and the rhythmic movement of his hips. You both felt it, a silent, pulsing current between you that refused to be ignored.
By the time evening came, the tension had coiled into a tight knot in your stomach. You went through the motions of his evening routine, helping him transfer from his chair to the shower chair, your hands careful and impersonal, even as your skin tingled where it touched his. You washed his back, your movements brisk, your eyes fixed on the tiled wall. You could feel his gaze on you, heavy and intense.
After his shower, you helped him into his bed. It was the most fraught moment of the day. The memory of last night's kiss, of his whispered confession, hung between you like a shroud. You were supposed to be leaving, to be walking out that door and reinforcing the boundary you had so cruelly established this morning. But your feet felt like they were cemented to the floor.
You were tucking the duvet around his waist, your eyes deliberately avoiding his, when he spoke. "Don't go."
His voice was quiet, but it cut through the silence with the force of a shout. You froze, your hands still on the blanket.
"Lando…" you started, your voice barely a whisper.
"Please," he said, and the single word was laced with a vulnerability that shattered your resolve. "Just… stay. For a minute."
You looked at him then. Really looked at him. He was propped up against the pillows, his hair still damp from the shower, his eyes wide and pleading. There was no anger in them now, only a raw, desperate longing that mirrored your own. You had spent the day telling yourself that you were doing the right thing, that you were protecting him. But looking at him now, you knew you were only protecting yourself. You were a coward.
Slowly, you sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight. The silence stretched, taut and fragile.
"I'm sorry about this morning," he said softly, breaking it. "I was an idiot."
"No," you shook your head, your voice thick with emotion. "I was. I was cruel."
"You were scared," he corrected gently. "I get it. But you were wrong. You don't get to decide what's a risk for me. That's my choice."
You didn't have an answer for that. Because he was right. He was so, so right.
He reached out then, his hand finding yours where it rested on the blanket. His fingers curled around yours, warm and strong. "I really like you, y/n," he whispered, echoing the words he had said yesterday. "And I think you really like me too."
You couldn't deny it. You didn't want to. You leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering closed. "I do," you breathed. "God, Lando, I do."
That was all it took. He surged forward, his other hand coming up to cup the back of your neck, pulling you down to him. The kiss was desperate, hungry, a week's worth of pent-up longing and frustration exploding in a single, breathless moment. It was nothing like the sweet, tentative kiss from yesterday. This was a claiming. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you, and you responded with an equal fervor, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.
You shifted, swinging your leg over his body to straddle him, the duvet a barrier between you that you immediately wanted gone. You broke the kiss, panting, your hands moving to the hem of your t-shirt. You pulled it over your head in one fluid motion, tossing it aside. His eyes darkened as they roamed over your bare skin, his hands coming up to trace the line of your ribs, to cup the weight of your breasts in his palms.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your core.
You leaned down, capturing his lips again as you reached between you to unbutton your jeans, shimmying out of them and your underwear until you were naked, straddling him. You could feel him, hard and ready, beneath the thin fabric of his boxers. You rocked against him, a slow, deliberate movement that had him groaning into your mouth.
"y/n," he gasped, his hands gripping your hips. "Please."
You needed no further encouragement. You slid off him long enough to pull his boxers down, freeing him. He was magnificent, long and thick and already weeping with need. You positioned yourself over him, your hand guiding him to your entrance. You sank down slowly, taking him inch by inch, a shared moan of pure, unadulterated pleasure escaping your lips as he filled you completely.
You started to move, a slow, sensual rhythm, but then he surprised you. His hands, which had been resting on your hips, suddenly tightened their grip. He planted his feet flat on the mattress and, with a grunt of effort, he thrust up into you.
You cried out, your head falling back as a wave of intense pleasure washed over you. He did it again, harder this time, his hips pistoning up to meet yours. He was using his arms, his hands, his core, all the strength he had been so painstakingly rebuilding, to fuck you. He wasn't just a passive participant anymore. He was an equal. He was a man.
"Oh, God, Lando," you gasped, meeting his thrusts, your body moving in perfect sync with his. "Yes… just like that."
His hands roamed your body, tracing the curve of your spine, cupping your breasts, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, insistent circles. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
"Come for me, y/n," he growled, his voice a low, sexy rumble. "I want to feel you come around my cock."
His words were your undoing. With a cry of his name, you shattered, your body convulsing as wave after wave of exquisite pleasure crashed over you. He followed you over the edge a moment later, his own release a hot, pulsing flood inside you as he buried his face in your neck, his body shuddering with the force of his orgasm.
You collapsed against him, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat. You lay like that for a long time, your hearts beating a frantic, synchronized rhythm against your ribs. You felt sated, boneless, and more content than you had ever felt in your life.
You lifted your head, looking down at him. He was smiling, a lazy, satisfied smile that made your heart melt. "Hi," he whispered.
"Hi," you smiled back, leaning down to kiss him softly. "That was…"
"Amazing," he finished for you. "But I'm not done with you yet."
You felt a renewed stirring of desire as he rolled you, his movements surprisingly strong and sure. He flipped you onto your side, facing away from him, and then he was spooning you, his chest pressed against your back. He lifted your top leg, draping it over his hip, opening you to him.
"I want to try something," he murmured in your ear, his voice thick with renewed desire.
He entered you from behind, a slow, deep penetration that had you gasping. He began to move, a slow, steady rhythm that was completely different from before. It was deeper, more intimate, and somehow even more intense. He wrapped one arm around your waist, holding you close, while his other hand roamed your body.
You felt his hand hesitate, hovering over your breast. You could sense a flicker of his old frustration, a moment of uncertainty. Without a word, you reached up, your hand covering his, and gently guided it to your breast, pressing his palm against your skin.
He let out a soft sigh, his body immediately relaxing against yours. He began to palm your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple in a rhythm that matched his thrusts. It was a gesture of such simple, unspoken trust and gratitude that it brought tears to your eyes.
He increased his pace, his thrusts becoming harder, more demanding. You met him, pushing back against him, your bodies moving together in a primal, ancient dance. The pressure built again, a slow, insistent heat that spread through your veins.
"Lando," you moaned, your hand reaching back to tangle in his hair. "Don't stop."
"I won't," he promised, his voice a strained whisper against your ear. "I won't ever stop."
His words sent you over the edge again, your body clenching around him as you came with a soft cry. He followed you moments later, his own release a deep, shuddering groan as he held you tight.
You lay there afterwards, tangled in each other's arms, the room silent except for your soft, even breaths. You were exhausted, completely and utterly spent, but you had never felt more alive. You drifted off to sleep in his arms, a feeling of profound peace settling over you, a sense that you were finally, exactly where you were meant to be.
Down the hall, in their own bedroom, Cisca and Adam were getting ready for bed. They had been quiet, trying not to disturb
Down the hall, Adam was already in bed, reading a book on his tablet, when Cisca emerged from the ensuite bathroom.
"Is he settled?" Adam asked, not looking up from his screen.
"I think so," Cisca said, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips as she sat on the edge of their bed. "Though, I did notice y/n followed him into his bedroom."
Adam glanced up then, a thoughtful expression on his face. "He can manage the last few feet to his bed on his own now, you know. He's been doing it for a week."
"I know," Cisca said softly, pulling the duvet back. "But maybe he wanted the company."
They shared a look, a silent conversation passing between them. They had both seen it for weeks – the lingering glances, the subtle shifts in mood, the way the air seemed to crackle when they were in the same room. They had suspected something was blossoming between their son and his dedicated therapist.
Just as Cisca was about to switch off her lamp, a faint sound drifted down the corridor. It was muffled by the distance, but it was clearly Lando's voice. It wasn't a sound of pain or frustration, but a low, guttural groan of what could only be pleasure.
Adam's eyes met Cisca's. A slow grin spread across his face, a mixture of surprise and pure, unadulterated delight. Cisca's hand flew to her mouth, but her eyes were dancing with amusement, not shock. Another, softer sound followed, confirming their suspicions.
Adam let out a quiet, breathy laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "Well, I'll be damned," he murmured, his voice thick with a father's pride.
Cisca's cheeks flushed, but she was beaming. "Oh, Adam," she whispered, her heart swelling. "I'm so happy for him."
They didn't linger on the sounds or listen for more. They didn't need to. The brief, accidental confirmation was enough. It wasn't weird or uncomfortable for them; it was a moment of pure joy. Their son, who had been through hell, who had focused so single-mindedly on his career that he'd never once brought a girl home or even spoken of one, had finally found someone.
He was healing, not just his body, but his heart.
"Come here," Adam said, wrapping an arm around his wife and pulling her close.
Cisca snuggled against him, a feeling of deep contentment washing over her. "He was just waiting," she whispered into the darkness. "He was waiting for someone special."
Adam kissed the top of her head, a wide smile still on his face. They fell asleep that night with the quiet, happy knowledge that their son was not just walking again, but truly living.
summary: You could’ve kept your mouth shut about Atlanta, but where’s the fun in that? Now you’ve got dirt on Art Donaldson’s marriage, and you’re making everything worse. Exposing his wife was supposed to be entertaining, not land you tangled up in all three of them.
pairings: art donaldson x tashi duncan ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ⠀x patrick zweig x afab!reader
warnings: 10.6k words. mature themes. unprotected p in v. double penetration (same hole). group sex (f/m/m/f). scissoring/tribbing. alcohol use/intoxication. cheating/infidelity. blackmail implication. manipulation. toxic relationships. power imbalance. dubcon elements. degradation. oral sex (f/m receiving). handjob. fingering. clitoral stimulation. nipple play. breast play. deepthroating/gagging. cum play. internal ejaculation. multiple orgasms. overstimulation. squirting. spit play. read responsibly.
note: belated happy 2nd anniversary challengers ily all <3
Following Art Donaldson’s career like it’s your second job is easy, yet he doesn’t know a single thing about you. It’s actually fun to think about how these three think they’re so private when the history is right there if you look hard enough. You remember the ‘Fire and Ice’ when Art and Patrick were basically inseparable before everything went south. Everyone knows Tashi Duncan was the IT girl of WTS Juniors and was supposed to have a big name when she entered professional tennis, but only people like you remember she dated Patrick until that one college tennis match that made her quit tennis.
After that, you never saw them together as if they disappeared from each other’s lives until Art suddenly popped up again as a rising star with Tashi as his wife and coach, while Patrick is nowhere to be found. Hearing about this made you follow his career again, and you’re genuinely looking forward to seeing how far he goes, but watching him climb the rankings actually managed to drain your wallet since you’d fly out to catch a match at least once or twice a year. The Atlanta Open was one of those trips, and the guy was already engaged to Tashi by then, but luck ended up on your side when you booked the exact same hotel as them.
Not that you’re being a stalker or something, because you’re not, and you only realize that after all the things that happened in that tournament. You aren’t also stupid enough to travel alone, but you have a friend who likes to wander off, which made you drink alone and have your friend meet you at the hotel bar a day before the opening matches. You’re not even blaming your friend that you ended up with those drinks alone when you saw Tashi Duncan herself walk in to grab a drink alone. You might be alone, but the sight was gold, and it was tempting to ask for an autograph, yet keeping your distance turned out to be the best decision of your life.
If you’d bothered her, she probably would’ve left right away, but instead, you sat back and didn’t expect Patrick Zweig to appear at her table suddenly. Seeing Art Donaldson’s fiancée kiss his old friend and leave together was way better than any autograph could ever be. Selling that story to a tabloid probably would’ve put a massive chunk of cash in your bank account if you were a journalist, but you kept your mouth shut about the whole thing. A part of you actually hoped the wedding would get canceled because Tashi confessed, or if she got caught red-handed, but the big day went on anyway.
Now they’ve got a beautiful daughter and a perfect public image of having a good marriage. Sometimes you just lie back and think about how easy it’d be to tell the world the truth. What could possibly happen if you finally decided to stop being so nice and just leaked everything you saw that night? It eventually led you to create a burner email and hide behind a VPN to make sure nobody could track you back to it. Finding the right addresses for Art and Tashi was easy enough, but tracking down Patrick Zweig took some stalking since he isn’t exactly living in the spotlight lately.
‘I know what you did at the Atlanta Open.’ was the simple email you sent to Tashi and Patrick, but Art got a slightly different message because he’s the one actually in the dark, so you sent him a cryptic note saying, ‘I know something about your wife that you really should’ve known years ago.’ Art was actually the first to take the bait, which totally caught you off guard, because that email was cryptic and didn’t imply what his wife did. “Who is this and what exactly are you talking about?” popped up in your inbox instead of a panicked reply from Tashi or Patrick because that’s what you were expecting.
Although you know that Tashi seems like the type to keep her mouth shut and not mention suspicious emails to her husband because that’d make him start asking questions she can’t answer. It took you many drafts of emails you could send, but you ended up with “Someone who knows the truth about Atlanta,” and you waited for him to become more curious. “If you’re trying to spread lies or harass my family, I can easily have my legal team find you,” was the only thing he replied, and it felt like a pathetic attempt to scare you off.
A laugh escaped you as you typed, “I’ve got no plans to go public as long as you’re willing to cooperate,” but then, as expected, Art demanded actual proof. It made you realize you didn’t actually record that hotel bar encounter, but you’re determined to get through the craziness you started. It’s easy to sway him away from the lack of proof you have because suggesting a face-to-face meeting is something to make him more eager to know it. It was definitely a risky move, since he could’ve been baiting you into a trap with the cops there to meet you, but you sent the message anyway.
“I’ll tell you every detail, but we have to do this in person,” was the ultimatum you left in his inbox. Art didn’t offer any more threats or excuses, but simply sent back a date and a location, which was in the New Rochelle tournament. It honestly confused you when you read that, because why would a top player like him even be at a challenger’s event, but you decided to go along with it anyway. “Fine, I’ll see you there,” you replied, and you’re already planning your trip to meet him. If he’s willing to meet in a place like that, then he must be a lot more desperate to hear what you know than he’s letting on.
That desperation is exactly why you’re now sitting in a bar in new after his match with Patrick ended in a tie. It’s a bad decision to be in a bar, but it’s a bit of a metaphor, considering you also caught Tashi in the same environment. Having drinks close to the two of you after you reveal that information might be good because hearing your wife cheated on you is something that makes you want to get wasted. The late-night meeting at a local bar felt even more rushed, too, but you were already there and waiting at a corner table.
A brief email earlier was just you describing your clothes and the specific color you were wearing, so he could spot you easily. Being the first one to arrive gave you a chance to see him walk in, and it was almost funny that you were still checking your phone for email notifications while he was standing right there. “I didn’t think you’d actually show up,” you said when he stopped in front of your table with a look that was way less confident than his TV interviews. He didn’t sit down immediately, but his eyes were darting around the room to make sure nobody else was watching the two of you.
Art took a seat while looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, but he leaned in anyway. “I’m here so you can start talking now,” he muttered quietly, like he didn’t want people to hear it. “I’m not here because I want to destroy your life or mess with your reputation,” you said before taking a sip of your drink to gain more confidence while you’re looking at him straight in the eyes. Art didn’t seem convinced at all, and he just stared back with a tight jaw. “Just tell me what you want and stop wasting my time,” he demanded, his voice impatient. The glass clinked against the wood when you put it down, but you still didn’t give him the full story right away.
“This happened back at the Atlanta Open, and I wasn’t even trying to follow Tashi around, but I accidentally saw something I shouldn’t have,” you explained while watching his expression turn even more sour. He looked like he was about to lose his mind because he couldn’t stand the way you hold back the information. “Stop talking in circles and just tell me,” he said while keeping his volume low to avoid drawing any attention from the other people in the bar. “Your wife cheated on you,” you finally said while watching his reaction for any sign of a breakdown. Art didn’t even flinch, but instead, he stared at a spot on the wall behind you.
“She was with Patrick Zweig, and I saw them kiss before they left together,” you added to make sure he understood what you just said. He doesn’t look surprised because he already has his own memory of what he saw that night. He was there too, but he only saw them sitting together before a fan distracted him for an autograph, and they were gone by the time he looked back. “Is that all?” he asked as he suddenly reached the table to grab your glass. Art tilted his head back and finished the rest of your drink in one long gulp without looking away.
He slammed the empty glass back onto the table before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I already knew they were together that night,” he admitted, and he sounds completely exhausted. Your eyebrows knit together because you didn’t expect him to be so calm about his wife’s betrayal, and you didn‘t expect him to admit it... Is he really this vulnerable tonight that he just said that information to a stranger? He just exhaled through his nose before his eyes finally met yours with a look that was hard to read. A look of pity crossed your face because Art immediately let out a scoff before rolling his eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m fine,” he muttered as he pushed himself up from his seat. “How about I buy you a round of drinks since you’ve been so honest with me?” he suggested and headed over to the bar counter before you could even answer. A simple nod was all you gave as you watched him walk away, since you genuinely felt bad for the guy. He returned to the table carrying a full bottle of tequila and a tray of lemons instead of ordering a couple of individual shots. A little chuckle escaped your throat when you noticed he only grabbed a single shot glass. “You’re planning on finishing that entire thing by yourself tonight?” you asked while watching him peel a sticker off the cap.
Art didn’t bother responding, but he just poured the first glass up to the brim while looking ready to black out. “You’re drinking with me, and we’re sharing the glass,” Art insisted before he took the shot he’d just poured. He didn’t even reach for the plate of lemons on the tray while he shoved the empty glass toward you. “Those are for you because you look like you’ll need them,” he added while watching you with a challenging look. Being called weak made you feel competitive, so you refilled the glass and swallowed the tequila in one go.
You didn’t touch a single lemon but just let the heat hit your throat while setting the glass down hard. “So you’ve actually known about them this entire time?” you asked while watching Art grab the glass back from your hand. He didn’t look surprised that you were keeping up with him, but he just tipped the bottle to fill it again. “I’m not as blind as everyone thinks I am,” he muttered before he brought the rim to his lips for another shot. “I’m probably saying things I shouldn’t tell a total stranger,” Art muttered before he swallowed the liquid in his glass.
He stared at the bottle as if it had the answers to his problems. “I think Tashi is with him again right now because she sneaked out of the hotel while I was in bed,” he confessed with a voice that sounded completely defeated. The thought of them together made him look like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin. “Fuck, I really didn’t need to hear that much detail,” you said as you shook your head at the mental image he just gave you. Art looked up from the table while his face showed a bit of regret for oversharing. “Sorry, I’m just out of it, but what’s your name anyway?” he asked while waiting for a response.
You gave it to him without thinking much about it, but he just gave a short nod as he processed the information. He filled the shot glass again while sliding it back over to your side of the table for your next turn. “Well, it’s nice to meet you even if the situation is shitty,” he added while watching you pick up the glass. “Did you ever actually try to do anything about what happened?” you asked before you finished the shot in your hand. Art sighed as he took the glass back to refill it. “I didn’t exactly walk in on them back in Atlanta, but I’ve had these suspicions for a long time, and you just confirmed they’re real,” he explained while looking down at the liquor.
You gave a nod because his situation felt messier than you’d imagined. “So did you ever decide to get back at Tashi by cheating too?” you blurted out since the question was already stuck in your head. Art looked up quickly, and he seemed almost offended by the suggestion. “God, no. But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been tempted before,” he admitted while his fingers tapped against the table. He leaned back slightly, but his eyes never left you. “I just never actually went through with it because that’s not the kind of guy I am,” he added while he took another drink.
“That kind of guy doesn’t usually end up sitting in a bar with a stranger,” you joked, but he only exhaled a humorless laugh because he knew you were right. Both of you sat at the table for a while longer, and he drank more until he became much more talkative than when you first met. It’s all fun, but you decided he’d had enough for one night when the tequila was half gone. “I’m walking you back to your hotel before you decide to finish the rest of this right here,” you told him, and grabbed your bag. Art didn’t put up a fight, but he stood up and gripped the bottle to take it with him.
“It’s a bit of a walk from here, but I could use the air anyway,” he admitted as you both headed toward the door. You felt the cold air against your face when you stepped out onto the sidewalk, and the streetlights flickered above. He walked right beside you without stumbling, but he watched you more closely than before. “I appreciate you not leaving me alone at that bar,” he muttered and looked over at you. You just kept walking with him while the hotel appeared in the distance, and the walk took some time. “I didn’t think you’d actually bring that bottle out with you,” you muttered when you saw Art tilt his head back and almost look like he’s chugging on it.
You hadn’t noticed him grab it before you left the bar, but now he walked down the street with it in plain sight. “What the hell are you doing, Art?” you asked and looked around the sidewalk to check if anyone was watching. You worried someone might take a photo and affect his reputation in a second. Art just looked at the bottle, then shrugged because he didn’t care about the risk anymore. “I’m just trying to get through the night without losing my mind,” he replied and held the glass out toward you. You took it from his hand to stop him from drinking more, but you ended up taking a long sip yourself.
The alcohol burned your throat while you both kept walking toward the hotel, and you could finally see the bright lights from the front of it. “You’re a bad influence,” he joked and walked close to you until a car pulled up right in front of the hotel entrance, and you could clearly recognize who had just left inside since the two of you were just two steps away from the hotel. Tashi stepped out of the passenger side and was about to slam the door when Art jogged towards her. He grabbed the handle and yanked the door wider, and you hurried after him to try to grab his arm.
“Art, just stop for a second,” you pleaded because you didn’t want a scene in public. Tashi glared at you like you were some intruder trying to play house with her husband, but she didn’t say a word. Art ignored everyone while he leaned into the car to look at Patrick sitting in the driver’s seat. “Get the fuck out of the car, Patrick,” he ordered without even raising his voice. Patrick just stared back at him and didn’t move from behind the wheel, which made the whole thing look even worse. You felt like you should leave, but you kept your hand on Art’s shoulder while Tashi watched both of you with narrowed eyes.
“Get in the car right now, Art,” Tashi snapped and looked around the street to check for anyone with a phone out. She looked completely fed up with him, but he just stared at her before pointing toward you. “She’s coming with us, or I’m staying right here,” Art said and climbed into the passenger seat without waiting for her to agree. You felt awkward under Tashi’s gaze, but you hurried into the back seat anyway while Patrick pulled away from the curb. “Gas isn’t cheap, and now I’m stuck playing chauffeur while you two act like idiots,” Patrick grumbled as he steered the car through the empty streets.
Art gripped the armrest and didn’t even look at him. “I’ll pay for the fucking gas, so just keep driving,” Art barked back, and his voice sounded mean. Tashi sat in the back next to you with her arms crossed while the two men started to bicker even louder. You watched the back of Art’s head and wondered how this night ended up so messy. “You don’t get to tell me where to go,” Patrick muttered as he took a fast turn onto a side street. “I’ll tell you whatever I want when you’re the one who keeps showing up uninvited,” Art shouted, and you just sat there while they kept arguing at each other.
“Why’re you so pissed off?” Patrick asked while he gripped the steering wheel and looked at the road. Art let out a dry laugh and then turned to glare at him. “Why do you think, Patrick? You just fucked my wife,” Art spat, and his voice sounded like he wanted to hit something. Tashi sat up straight in the back seat, and her eyes went wide before she looked at you with a look that said you shouldn’t be listening. “I didn’t cheat on you, Art,” she lied, but she sounded defensive while she gripped her knee. Art shook his head and looked out the window.
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot you didn’t just do it today, but you also did it back in Atlanta,” Art said, and then he turned his head to look at you. “Tell them what you saw,” he ordered while he waited for you to speak up. You just shook your head because you didn’t want any more trouble, and you’re quiet in the corner of the seat. Tashi kept her eyes on you like she was waiting for you to mess up, while Patrick just kept driving the car away from the hotel. “Just tell them what you saw so they can’t lie about it anymore,” Art said while he turned around to look at you again.
You swallowed because you didn’t want to be the one to say it, but you looked at Tashi and Patrick anyway. “I saw you two together in Atlanta, and you were all over each other before you left the hotel together,” you whispered while your hands never left your lap. Tashi takes a deep breath as if she’s stopping herself from doing anything stupid while she grips the back of Art’s seat. “You’re the one who sent that email, aren’t you?” she says and stares at you like you were nothing. “How much money do you want to keep your mouth shut?” she asked while her voice rose. Art let out a loud laugh, and he shook his head at his wife.
“She’s not looking for a payout, Tashi,” he snapped before he turned his attention back to both of them. “If you were so desperate to fuck him, you should’ve had the balls to ask for an open marriage,” Art shouted at Tashi while Patrick kept driving. “We could’ve just done this as the three of us instead of you sneaking around behind my back,” he added while he glared at Patrick and Tashi. “You can do whatever you want, Tashi,” Art said while he looked out the window as if he didn’t want to see what happened next.
Tashi turned toward you and put her hand on your shoulder while she leaned in close. Her face stopped just an inch from yours while she looked you in the eyes. “Tell me if I can’t,” she whispered as she waited for you to say something. You looked at her lips, then back at her eyes, before you nodded. She moved forward and pressed her mouth against yours while you heard Patrick start to laugh in the front seat. You tried to keep the kiss gentle, but she bit your lips, as if she was taking her anger out on you. “Look at that, the girls are kissing,” Patrick taunted while he glanced back at Art.
“Maybe you should come over here and kiss me too,” he added, but Art just rolled his eyes and didn’t look at him. Tashi gripped your shoulder harder as she kept her mouth on yours while the car drove along the empty road. “Where’re you staying?” Tashi whispered while she pulled away from your mouth. You gave her the address of your hotel as you tried to catch your breath. “Drive there, Patrick,” she ordered while she looked at the two men in the front. Tashi leaned back against the seat and looked at Art with a smug expression.
“She’s already a better kisser than both of you put together,” she said while she kept her hand on your leg. Art didn’t say a word as he stared out the window, but Patrick just chuckled. “Well, I can’t wait to find out how her mouth feels on mine,” Patrick said while he checked the GPS on his phone. Heat spread across your face because you weren’t used to being talked about like that by people you barely knew. Tashi didn’t let go of you while the car turned onto the street leading to your hotel. You thought they’d just drop you off and keep fighting elsewhere, but the car ride ended with all four of you heading up to your room together.
Now you’re sitting in the middle of the mattress in just your bra and panties with the three of them surrounding you. Art is on your left, and his hand wraps around your ankle before he pulls your leg toward him. “I told you we should’ve just done this,” Art muttered while he crawled closer to you. Patrick stands by the edge of the bed and kicks his pants off, then he climbs onto the mattress right behind you. “You liking that view, Tashi?” Patrick said as his fingers gripped your waist from behind. Tashi is on your right, and she leans over you until the skin of her bare chest touches your side.
“I’m not stopping for anyone,” she said while she reached for the edge of your panties. You feel the heat from their bodies because they crowd you from every side on the bed right now. Art uses his free hand to grab Tashi’s neck, and he yanks her into a hard kiss right in front of you. They’re still at your sides, but they lean in across your lap while they make out. Tashi’s fingers slip past the elastic of your panties as she starts rubbing your clit. Patrick is behind you, and his hands move from your waist up to your tits so he can knead them.
He starts kissing your nape while he lets out a grunt. “I’ve been wanting to do this since the car,” Patrick muttered as he bit the skin of your shoulder. You let out a shaky breath because the feeling of all three of them touching you at once is a lot to take. Art pulled away from Tashi for a second so he could look at you. “Don’t get too quiet now,” Art said while he watched your reaction to Tashi’s hand. Tashi kept her hand moving as she tilted her head to see your face. “She’s already getting wet,” Tashi whispered while she pulled your panties down lower and left them there against your legs.
Art grabs the waistband of your panties to continue what Tashi left and pulls them down your legs before he tosses them onto the floor. Patrick reaches around to unhook your bra as he pulls the straps off your shoulders, letting it fall away. One of your tits is free, so Art leans in and latches his mouth onto your nipple while he sucks hard. Tashi watches him while she slides two fingers deep inside your cunt. “You really thought that email was gonna work on us?” Tashi asked while she pumped her fingers. She leans closer to your face as her hand keeps moving.
“It felt like you were trying to blackmail us,” Tashi muttered while her eyes stayed on yours. You try to shake your head and open your mouth to tell her that wasn’t it at all. Patrick doesn’t let you speak because he shoves two of his fingers into your mouth to keep you from answering. “Mmfph-!” you muffled while your back arched against his chest, and Patrick pushed your tongue down. Patrick kisses the top of your head, then he leans down to your ear. “Keep your mouth shut about that email unless you want us to stop,” Patrick whispered while he let you suck on his fingers.
You can’t even explain yourself as Tashi stretches you out from the inside with her hand. Art doesn’t let go of your tit while he uses his tongue to swirl around the tip. You’re stuck between them while they work together to make you leak all over the bed. “Hngh... hah,” you whimpered through Patrick’s fingers while you gripped Art’s hair to keep him pressed against you. Tashi moves between your legs and pushes your knees wide so she can bury her face against your cunt. She sucks your clit and slides her fingers back inside you while she stops to taste the skin.
“Mmn... did you just shave for us?” Tashi asked as she looked up with a smirk. “You’re so smooth down here,” she added while her tongue flicked over you again. Her words make your face feel hot, but Art pulls away from your nipple to watch her work. He looks at your wet folds and thinks back to when you met up with him hours before this moment. “Seriously?” Art muttered while he looked from Tashi back to your face. “Did you really get ready like this before you came to see me?” he asked as he gripped your hip.
Patrick lets out a low laugh behind you and starts teasing you about the threat you made. “She was gonna tell everyone we were cheating, but she still made sure she was perfectly prepped for the meeting,” Patrick said while he hooked his fingers in the corner of your mouth. You bite down on his knuckles because you’re embarrassed, and Tashi lets out a muffled hum against your inner thigh when she hears him. You reach out for Art, and your hand caresses his stomach while you look at him with wide eyes. “Mmf- n-no,” you manage to say through Patrick’s fingers as you try to act like he was lying.
It’s a pathetic sight because you’re begging Art for help while Patrick’s fingers stay stuffed in your mouth, and Tashi keeps eating you out. “You’re such a liar,” Patrick whispered while he leaned forward to kiss the back of your neck before he finally pulled his fingers from your mouth as he stood to kick his boxers away. His cock is out, and he starts rubbing it against your ass while he leans over your shoulder. You reach for the waistband of Art’s briefs and tug at the fabric to get him out. “Let me help,” Art muttered while he stripped the rest of his clothes off.
You turn to Tashi because you want to see her, too. “Tashi... sit up,” you whispered while she pulled her face away from your cunt. She sits back and unhooks her bra before she slides her panties down her legs. You look at them and admire how different they all are. Art’s skin is clean and completely shaved, while Patrick has a trail of hair leading down from his stomach to his cock. Tashi’s hair is trimmed and neat between her legs. Patrick moves from behind you to your side as they push you down to lie on the mattress.
“Good thing you got the big bed,” Art said while he looked down at you. Tashi crawls between your open legs and ignores the guys for a second. “I’m going first... I want her cunt,” Tashi said as she looked at Art and Patrick. It’s embarrassing to watch them claim you like this, but Tashi doesn’t stop. She leans over you and looks right into your eyes. “You want me to do this... don’t you, baby?” Tashi asked while she convinced you with a smirk. “I can get you so wet before they take turns,” she whispered as she remembered how much the guys loved sharing the same hole.
You nod your head, and she slides one of her legs between yours while she presses her wet heat against your own. You feel how sticky and wet Tashi is against your thighs, then you remember she already fucked Patrick earlier tonight. “You’re still messy from him,” you whispered while the thought slipped out of your mouth. Art’s jaw tightened because he’s still pissed off about them going behind his back, but he turns his focus to you anyway. He moves closer to your head and brushes his cock against your cheek.
“You’ve got a lot to say... do you want to use that mouth for something else?” Art asked as he hovered over you. “Y-yes, please,” you whimpered while you looked up at him. Tashi doesn’t move yet, and she keeps her heat pressed against your cunt. Patrick shifts on the mattress because he feels left out. “What about me?” Patrick asked while he watched Art get ready. You reach out and wrap your fingers around Patrick’s cock to show him you aren’t ignoring him. You give him a smile because you want both of them to feel included while you’re pinned to the bed.
Patrick lets out a grunt as you start to stroke him. Art doesn’t wait any longer while he guides the tip of his cock to your lips. “Open up,” Art muttered as he looked down at you. You part your lips and take him inside while Tashi’s body presses against your legs. Art thrusts his cock slowly into your mouth, but he doesn’t pull away while he watches Tashi. She thrusts her hips against you, and her clit rubs against your pussy with every move. “Mmmph-!” you muffled because Art’s cock is deep in your throat. Patrick wraps his hand over yours, and he uses your grip to stroke his cock faster.
Tashi looks up at the two men while she keeps grinding her wet heat against your cunt. “You guys need to kiss and make up,” Tashi said as she watched the tension between them. Art narrows his eyes at Patrick while he continues to fuck your mouth. “No,” Art grunted through his teeth. Tashi lets out a laugh because she knows how to get what she wants. “I know you want to,” Tashi said while she ground her hips harder against yours. Patrick reaches out with his free hand and grabs Art’s jaw before he guides his face closer.
Art angrily kisses Patrick back while his cock is still stuffed inside your mouth. You watch them make out above you, and your eyes roll back in your head from the sensation of Tashi’s cunt against yours. “Hngh-!” you groaned as you got wetter with each thrust. Tashi hums as she watches the men finally give in to what they want. Patrick keeps his hand on Art’s side to caress him once they stop kissing. Tashi reaches out to pull Patrick into a kiss of her own as she continues to grind her cunt against yours. Patrick continues to use his other hand to help you stroke his cock while he’s distracted with Tashi’s mouth.
Art doesn’t speed up his pace yet because he’s watching them, but he makes sure to shove his cock deep into your throat. “Mmfph-! Gngh-!” You gagged while your eyes watered from how deep he is. Tashi uses her free hand to grip your thigh and hold your legs wide so she can feel more of you. Art looks down to watch you swallow him while his cock is still stuffed in your mouth. Patrick pulls away from Tashi to look at Art. “You like seeing her take it like that?” Patrick asked as he let out a low grunt. Art doesn’t answer as he thrusts deep again to make you choke on his length.
“It’s pretty clear he enjoys this since he won’t stop making you gag,” Tashi said as she watched Art shove his cock deep into your mouth again. Your cunt is squirming and pulsing against her with every grind of her hips. You reach down to rub your clit, and Tashi lets out a laugh at how desperate you look. “Are you getting close, baby?” Tashi asked while she watched your hand move faster. You let out a muffled hum around Art’s cock as you try to nod your head. Art keeps his cock stuffed in your throat while he watches you struggle to breathe.
Patrick pulls your hand away from his cock so he can stroke himself right in front of your tits. He moves his hand fast while he looks at Art and Tashi using you. “Sh-shit- fuck,” Patrick groaned as he finally came. He shoots his cum across your chest and stomach while you feel it land on your skin. Tashi keeps grinding against you as she pins your legs down. “Mmfph-!” you muffled against Art’s length while Patrick’s cum drips down your belly. Art lets out a low grunt and starts to thrust his cock more aggressively into your mouth.
You cum against Tashi’s cunt, and the extra mess makes a loud squelching sound as she grinds her hips to reach her own climax. Your folds and clit rub together while she focuses on the way your cunt slides against each other. Art feels the vibrations of your muffled moans as his cock twitches in your mouth. He reaches back to grab a handful of your hair while he keeps thrusting deep. “Tashi- I’m close,” Art grunted as he looked at her for the okay. Tashi doesn’t stop her pace as she looks up at him. “Do it, fill her up,” she panted while she rubbed herself harder against you.
Art shoots his cum down your throat and keeps shoving himself deep until he’s empty. He pulls his cock out and lets the extra drops leak over your bottom lip. “Swallow every bit of it,” Patrick ordered as he watched from the side. Art sits back while Tashi leans down to suck on your nipple without caring about the cum on your skin. You stick your tongue out to show your mouth is empty as you swallow, while Tashi finally cums hard against your cunt. Tashi gets off you with Patrick’s help because her legs feel a little sensitive from that orgasm.
She leans back against the headboard to catch her breath and reaches out to caress your shoulder. Art crawls between your legs as he looks up at you. “You think you can handle another round for us, baby?” Art asked while he ran his hands up your thighs. You look over at Tashi to see what they have in mind. “We’re not even close to done with you yet,” Tashi said as she played with your hair. You look back at Art and let out a breath. “How do you want me?” you asked while you watched him. Patrick looks down at your wet cunt and grips his cock.
“Well, we want to take you at the same-” Patrick started, but Tashi cut him off before he could finish. She leans forward to move your hair out of your face. “We want to see how you take both of them at once,” Tashi said as she smiled at you. “Do you have any lube nearby?” Art asked while he looked at your messy thighs. You shake your head as you realize you weren’t prepared for them to take things this far. “It’s fine, we’ll make it work,” Patrick said as he shared a look with Art. They both silently agree that Patrick should be the one to go first since he’s the thickest and needs to stretch your cunt out.
“On your side, baby,” Tashi said while she helped you roll over. Patrick holds his hand out toward you. “Spit for me,” Patrick ordered as he waited for you to wet his palm. He collects spit from Tashi and Art, too, before he rubs the moisture all over his cock and lies down behind you. “Have you guys actually done this before?” you asked as your voice wavered. Tashi let out a little laugh while she watched the men get into place. “Not with me, they haven’t,” Tashi said as she leaned over you. Patrick and Art both nod as they admit they’ve shared girls before, but never in the same hole at once.
Art leans down toward Tashi’s ankle and starts kissing his way up her inner thigh while Patrick grips your hip. “Ngh- oh,” you gasped as Patrick pushed the head of his cock against your entrance and started to slide into your cunt from behind. Art opens Tashi’s legs wider as he leans down to start licking her pussy. Tashi lets out a breath and threads her fingers through Art’s hair while she reaches her other hand out to touch Patrick’s arm. Patrick lets out a low hum as he leans into her touch, but he doesn’t move his cock inside you just yet.
Patrick moves his hand from your hip to your leg and raises it to create more room for himself. “Mmn, that feels so good,” you whispered as you felt him stretching your entrance. Patrick looks down at your cunt while he keeps your leg hooked over him. “You like being filled like this?” Patrick asked as he watched your reaction. Art looks up from between Tashi’s thighs to watch you while he keeps his tongue busy on her clit. Patrick starts to push deeper into you as he feels your walls clench around his thick length. “Mnghh, yes- please,” you panted while you watched Art and Tashi together
“Are you going to let me come right in your mouth, Art?” Tashi teased while she looked down at him. Art pulls away from her pussy and glances at you as he wonders if Patrick is almost done stretching you out. “I’ll try to keep up,” Art said while he looked between the two of you. Tashi nods, as if she understands his hesitation, and turns her gaze toward you. “You’re going to help me get there while they work on you, right?” Tashi asked as she watched you nod eagerly. Art reaches over to squeeze your breast while he rubs his thumb over your nipple.
“S-shi- Patrick,” you moaned as he started thrusting into your cunt. Patrick grips your thigh while he pushes his thick cock deep inside you to open you up for both of them. “Just take it, baby,” Patrick grunted while he kept moving. You feel your walls stretch with every thrust of his length as he works to make enough room for Art to join him. Patrick squeezes the leg he’s holding as he pushes deep and makes you even wetter around his length. “F-fuck, she’s opening up so well for us,” Patrick groaned while he watched your cunt stretch around him.
Art lets out a muffled hum against Tashi’s clit and keeps his tongue moving. Tashi tightens her grip on Art’s hair while you reach for her free hand and hold it tight. “Haaah- mmf,” you whimpered as you leaned forward to bite her arm. Tashi looks down at you but keeps her attention on the way you’re taking Patrick. “Don’t get too rough with her yet,” Tashi panted while she watched Patrick’s thick cock slide in and out of you. Patrick nods and keeps his movements controlled so he can focus on how your walls clench against him. Art pauses and looks up from Tashi’s thighs with his chin glistening and wet from her.
He stares right at your cunt and watches the way Patrick’s cock disappears inside you. “Nn- Pat- P-patrick,” you breathed while you held onto Tashi. Art looks back toward Tashi and gives her a look like he’s asking for permission. “Please?” Art asked as he waited for her to nod. Tashi gives him a small smile and nods to signal that he can go ahead. Art stands on his knees and moves closer to you while Patrick slows down his movements until he stops. Art straddles your leg that’s resting on the bed and reaches out to take your other leg from Patrick so he can hook it over his shoulder.
Tashi moves closer to you as she lets you lay your head on her thigh and starts to play with your hair. “I’m putting in now, baby,” Art whispered while he guided the head of his cock to your cunt. He slowly pushes the tip in beside Patrick’s length and makes you let out a choked sound. “Ahhn-! No, wait-” you gasped while your eyes rolled back. Tashi leans down to kiss your forehead as she tries to keep you calm. “Shh, just breathe through it,” Tashi said as she watched Art slowly force more of himself into you, but he stopped moving once he got past the tip because he felt you clench around both of them.
He moves your leg slightly further back on his shoulder before he spits directly onto your cunt to add more wetness between their cocks. “We’ve got to take our time with this since we’re short on lube,” Art grunted while he looked down at the way your cunt takes them. You pout at him and let out a shaky breath. “Just take it out- You guys can just- fuck- take turns,” you whined, and you felt too full. Patrick lets out a chuckle and reaches forward to rub your clit. “Giving up already when he’s barely even halfway in?” Patrick teased while he watched you squirm against his hand.
“I think Art likes how his cock feels right next to mine,” Patrick teases him while he keeps rubbing your clit to keep you wet. Art gives a small smirk and slowly starts to push more of himself into your cunt. “You’re doing so good for us, baby,” Tashi whispered as she kept playing with your hair. “Hngh- haaaah,” you choked out while your cunt stretched to its limit around both thick cocks. Art pushes past the last bit of resistance and bottoms out as you bury your face against Tashi’s thigh and bite down on her skin. Tashi looks over at Art and Patrick while she keeps her hand moving through your hair.
“Give her a second to get used to having both of you inside,” Tashi said as she reached down to pinch your nipple. Patrick nuzzles his face into the back of your neck and lets his stubble scratch against you. “You’re taking us so well, baby,” Patrick whispered while he kept rubbing your clit to help you relax. Art rubs his hand up and down your leg on his shoulder before he leans in to kiss your calf. “God, you look so good stuffed like this,” Art panted as he watched his cock sliding right against Patrick’s. You can’t even close your legs with them taking up all the space, but Tashi keeps you grounded with her touch.
“Mmn, f-fuck,” you whimpered while you felt your walls starting to pulse around them. “Can they start moving yet?” Tashi asked while she looked down at you. You let out a shaky nod as you tried to adjust to the pressure. “Just grind against her without pulling out so she can get used to the size,” Tashi ordered while she kept her fingers in your hair. Art nods and starts to rotate his hips, but Patrick lets out a scoff. “Don’t be difficult, Patrick,” Tashi said as she caught his eye. Patrick follows Art’s lead and starts grinding his length against yours while his cock rubs right against Art’s inside you.
“Fucking hell, it’s so tight in here,” Patrick grunted while he felt your walls twitching around them. Art watches all of you tangled together and spits on your opening once more to keep things slick. “Look at how much she’s taking,” Art panted as he watched the spit slide down between their cocks. “Mmff, oh please-” you whimpered while you felt them rubbing together deep inside your cunt. Patrick tries to hold back, but he fails and starts thrusting hard into your cunt. Art stops his own grinding and looks over at him with a glare.
“What the fuck, Patrick? We said we’d wait,” Art snapped while he held your leg steady. Patrick doesn’t slow down but keeps shoving deep as his cock slides against Art’s length. “Just keep up with me,” Patrick grunted while he watched your face. Tashi looks visibly pissed and lifts your face from her leg to see you tearing up while you bite your lip to hide your moans. “Mmf- hah,” you whimpered as she slides two fingers into your mouth for you to suck on. Tashi glares at Patrick as she tries to comfort you.
“I’m going to kill you if you don’t listen,” Tashi threatened as she watched him stretch you out. Patrick looks at both of them like he doesn’t give a shit. “It’s too much, and I need to move,” Patrick muttered while he kept his pace. “Ngh- a-ahh,” you panted around Tashi’s fingers as the feeling of both of them moving at once became too much to handle. Art and Patrick find a matching pace as they start thrusting together. “F-fuck, that’s it,” Art panted while he watched their cocks slide deep inside you at the same time.
You reach down between Tashi’s legs and start rubbing her cunt to distract yourself from the intense stretch while you keep sucking on her fingers. Art reaches down to push Patrick’s hand away from your clit so he can take over rubbing you himself. Patrick moves his hand to your hip to keep you in place while he keeps pushing into you. “Sh-shit, sorry baby,” Patrick whispered before he leaned down to kiss your shoulder. Tashi lets out a breathy moan as she feels your fingers working on her. “Oh god, keep doing that,” Tashi panted while she watched the men work together to fill you up.
Art keeps his thumb moving over your clit while he matches every one of Patrick’s thrusts. “Mmmph-” you gasped around Tashi’s hand while the synchronized movement forced your walls to open even wider for them. You keep rubbing Tashi’s clit while your eyes watch Art as he closes his eyes and thrusts into you. “So wet- you’re so fucking wet around us,” Art panted while he kept his thumb working over your clit. Patrick raises himself up slightly behind you but keeps his side pressed against your back as his cock remains deep in your cunt.
He pulls Tashi’s fingers out of your mouth before he leans over to take your lips in a deep kiss. Patrick plants his free hand on the mattress to balance himself, and he sucks your tongue the moment you slide it in his mouth. You respond to the kiss and use your free hand to hold his face as your fingers play with his facial hair. “Mmmph-!” you moaned into his mouth while both cocks slide together inside your walls. Art watches the way your body reacts to Patrick’s kiss and keeps his pace against his. “Keep going- just like that,” Tashi breathed while she watched the four of you entangled together on the bed.
You suddenly cum without even realizing it’s happening, and your walls clench so hard around them. Patrick pulls away from the kiss to look at your face, but you look back at him, heat spreading across your skin. “I-I didn’t think I would be that fast,” you whispered, and you felt embarrassed about how sensitive you’d become. You look away from them before burying your face against Tashi’s leg and stop rubbing her clit. Your body keeps squirming from the orgasm while Tashi lets out a soft coo. “It’s okay, sweetheart, you’ve been taking so much from them,” Tashi said after she looked at Art and Patrick.
The guys share a look, and then they both start thrusting fast into your soaking cunt. “Sh-shit, you’re so tight now,” Art panted while he matched Patrick’s speed. Patrick grips your hip harder and shoves himself deep into you. “Haaah- mmf, too much!” you cried out when you felt them both fucking you deep over and over. They don’t slow down at all but keep pushing deeper after their movements fall out of sync to overstimulate you. “God, you’re so loud… The whole floor’s going to hear you screaming for us,” Art panted, and he leaned forward to bend your leg on his shoulder in half.
This change in angle forces his cock deeper into your cunt as it slides hard against Patrick’s length. You hear the wet sound of their skin slapping against your thighs with every thrust, while their balls also make contact with your skin whenever they’re deep enough. Patrick shoves himself into your back, and you feel the tickle of his pubic hair against your skin when he bottoms out. Your body thrashes against the mattress, but they easily pin you down, considering it’s three of them and it’s just one of you. Tashi grips your hair to force your face toward the guys before she watches you struggle.
“Look at you- just a pathetic mess for them to use,” Tashi scoffed as she kept your head tilted back. Art keeps his thumb working your clit while he matches Patrick’s aggressive pace. “Nnngh- haah, please!” you wailed when the sensation of both cocks grinding together inside you became too much to bear. Patrick grips your hips to pull you against him and tilts your pelvis back while he lies behind you. This move makes his cock rub even harder against Art’s length inside your cunt, but it clearly annoys Art.
“God, you feel so good like this,” Patrick grunted when he felt the cocks grinding against each other. Art looks frustrated that Patrick moved you because it made it hard for him to move, so he responds by bending you in half while he hovers over your side. He grips Patrick’s shoulder for support and holds the sheets tight with his other hand before he sinks his teeth into the side of your neck. The new angle makes them both reach your spot, and you gasp from the overstimulation of them being so deep.
You try to push Art off your side, but he doesn’t budge even an inch under your touch. Tashi angles your head toward Art after she watches your eyes roll back from the pleasure. “Kiss him, show him how much you want this,” Tashi ordered while she kept gripping your hair. Art leans down to take your mouth in a rough kiss after he hears you whimper. “Mmmph-! nnngh,” you moaned into his lips when they both shoved deeper into your cunt. Art pulls back from the kiss and rises onto his knees again while you lie there with your breath coming out in ragged hitches.
Your cunt pulses around them both, but your legs are shaking, and they feel useless against the sheets. Your brain isn’t functioning anymore, and you can’t keep your eyes open either. “You can’t even think anymore,” Patrick grunted when he felt your walls pulse and squeezed his shaft. You can tell Art is getting close to coming with the way his cock twitches inside you. You and Patrick both feel the way Art’s cock reacts inside you while his thrusts become desperate and sloppy. Tashi watches from the headboard and sees how overstimulated you are.
“You’re taking them so well, baby. Such a good little slut for being so wet and open for them,” Tashi whispered before she reached down to rub your clit since Art stopped a while ago. You didn’t notice his hand move, but the feeling from her fingers makes your back arch. “Haaah- mmf, t-too much,” you whined after the overwhelming pleasure made your stomach twist. “Just take it- you’re doing so good for us,” Art panted while he thrust as deep as he could go. It took a few more movements before he cum inside you and gripped your leg against his body while his fingers dug into your calves.
“Fuck- take it all,” Art grunted, and the way you’re being fucked makes it hard for you to breathe. You feel a sudden pressure in your bladder from how they’re filling your cunt, but you don’t have the strength to kick them off, even if you want to, because your legs shake too much. They know that being stretched by both of them at once is too much, and Art notices your eyes rolling back when he cums inside you. “Looks like you’re going to cum again… Just let it out,” Art panted after he buried himself deep. The feeling of Art filling you up and his cock twitching inside makes your toes curl.
Your head thrashes on Tashi’s lap before your hands grab the sheets because you don’t know where to put them. “Tell me what you’re feeling, baby,” Tashi whispered as she looked down at you. You struggle to get the words out when the pressure builds in your lower belly. “I’m so full- like I’m gonna p-piss,” you whined, and your back arched. Tashi smiled because she realized how close you were. “You’re right there for us,” Tashi murmured while she kept rubbing you. Patrick grinned while watching your body react to both.
“Are you gonna squirt for us?” Patrick asked, and you shake your head at them when they look at you differently after Patrick put that idea in their heads. “Oh, you’re gonna wet the bed for us, baby,” Tashi whispered and pressed her fingers harder against your clit. Art’s cum acts as extra lubrication for Patrick, which makes it easy for his cock to slide deeper, and the squelching sounds of their movement get louder. You’re stuck between Art’s body because he doesn’t pull out yet, but still thrusting slowly, and Patrick’s needy movement from behind.
“Stop- h-hah, I-I can’t,” you whined, and your head thrashes against Tashi. It doesn’t take long before Patrick finishes the feeling of Art’s cum inside you, which makes him lose his control. His knuckles go white when his hands tighten on your hips, and he starts thrusting into you without stopping. Patrick groans, and he buries his face in your nape while he continues finishing inside your cunt. The fullness from both of them makes your stomach feel bloated in the best way. “Look at you- mmn, taking both of us so well,” Patrick panted against your skin, and his hands reach around to play with your tits.
You try to hide your face when heat spreads across your skin from their words. “I’m- ngh, ahh- It’s too much,” you gasped while Tashi kept teasing you with her fingers. Art leaned down to kiss your shoulder after his cock twitched inside you. “Just let it happen, baby,” Art murmured when he pulled back to watch your reaction. “It’s okay if you make a mess,” Tashi whispered and pressed harder against your clit while the boys continued to thrust deeply. The combination of cum and your own wetness makes it easy for them to slide inside you, and the pace makes you feel every movement.
Art and Patrick reach around to play with your breasts after Tashi’s fingers work against you until overstimulation builds in your belly. “Ngh- hah, it’s- hngh!” you gasped, and your eyes rolled back as you couldn’t hold it anymore. Your cunt pulses and clenches hard around both cocks before it suddenly rushes out of you. It spills uncontrollably forward onto Art’s stomach, and it made you soak their cocks that are still buried in your cunt. “P-please- make it stop- hngh, oh god!” you cried as your back arched against Patrick’s chest while your release spread between them and pools onto the bedsheets.
Tashi’s hand gets completely soaked as she keeps rubbing you, and the fluid coming out of you continues to go on for several seconds. “I’m sorry- mmf, I can’t- hah, s-stop it!” you sobbed and tried to hide your face because you didn’t want them to see you like this. Patrick and Art don’t pull out, but they keep thrusting through your orgasm until you finally stop. You let out a garbled and broken moan before you sink into the mattress and try to catch your breath. They watch the mess they made while they catch their own breath and admire how much you took.
“Look at what you did- mmn, you’re so soaked,” Patrick panted after he leaned forward to kiss your shoulder. You turn your head away because the praise makes your skin feel warm. “I couldn’t- hngh, I couldn’t help it,” you whispered when the feeling finally began to fade. Tashi smiled and wiped sweat from your forehead as Art’s hand squeezed your waist. “You did so good for us,” Tashi murmured as she looked down at your spent expression. Patrick finally slides out of your cunt and rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling while he catches his breath.
Art doesn’t pull his cock out yet, but he moves your leg off his shoulder and rolls you from your side onto your back before he leans down to nuzzle your neck. His hips grind against you once more, and you feel every inch of him buried inside you. “Tashi- hah, tell him to get off me,” you whispered and nudged Art’s chest because you’re too tired to deal with him. Tashi looks down at Art and runs her hand through your hair while you rest your head on her lap. “Art, let her breathe. Move your ass,” Tashi said after she saw how exhausted you looked. Art just groans into your collarbone and keeps his cock inside you for a few more seconds.
“Just give me five minutes- mmn, I’m not ready to move,” Art muttered before he pressed his face against you, but Patrick just laughed from the other side of the bed. Art scowls at the sound of Patrick’s laughter and buries his face into your neck while he ignores the others. He peppers kisses across your collarbone before he moves down toward your chest, but you let out a huff and try to push his shoulders away. “Stop- mmn, Art, too tired,” you muttered and turned your head to the side despite your cunt clenching around his cock when he nudged your sweet spot.
He feels you grip him and lets out a grunt after he leans up to whisper against your ear. “Your body says something else, you’re still squeezing me so hard,” Art rasped when he nipped your earlobe and ground his hips down once more. Tashi watches him with a smirk and keeps her hand on your shoulder, but Patrick just watches from his side of the bed. Art looks up at Tashi and opens his mouth like he’s about to ask something, but he stops himself before he can finish. “Are we-? Actually, I don’t care,” Art muttered and then looked at Tashi with a scowl.
“I’m keeping her,” he added after he buried his face into the valley of your breasts while his cock twitched inside your cunt. You roll your eyes and push at his hair because his possessiveness is annoying. “I can decide for myself where I’m going, Art,” you snapped when he started to nuzzle your skin. Tashi tilts her head and watches him with a dry look before she leans back against the pillows. “You want to keep her just because of what I did with Patrick?” Tashi asked when he finally looked at her. Art lets out a mmn and glances up without moving his head from your chest while he keeps his hand on your waist.
“She’s staying with us,” Patrick said from across the bed, and he reached over to touch your ankle. You look between the three of them and let out a tired huff before you finally speak. “If I’m staying, then all of you belong to me now,” you whispered and watched the way their expressions changed. Patrick leans toward you and kisses your lips before he breathes out. “The Donaldsons are very needy people,” Patrick said after he pulled back to look at Art and Tashi. Tashi hums and runs her thumb over your jaw while she considers his words.
“I just like to keep what belongs to me,” Tashi said when she glanced at the two men. “I’m taking such good care of my boys,” she added after she brushed your hair from your face. You look at her and wait for her to continue, but she just smiles because she likes the way you’re watching her. “I’m going to take good care of you, too,” Tashi whispered before she leaned down to kiss your forehead. Art finally pulls out of your cunt and rolls to your other side, then his hand tightens on your thigh when all three of them surround you on the messy sheets. You exhale and close your eyes while you lean into Tashi’s touch because you could definitely get used to this.
❤︎ |4,3k| Summary: When Lando’s parents return home, something changes very suddenly and very drastically between them.
You lay there in a comfortable silence, the only sounds being his ragged breathing and the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against your ear. You could feel the warm, sticky evidence of his release on your lips, a tangible reminder of the incredible intimacy you had just shared. The air in the room was thick with the scent of sex and sweat, a raw, primal perfume that was both intoxicating and grounding. It was the scent of him, of you, of us.
He tilted his head down, his lips finding your forehead in a soft, tender kiss. "Wow," he whispered, his voice a husky, contented rumble that vibrated through his chest and into yours. "Just… wow."
You smiled, your heart feeling so full it might burst. "Wow," you agreed, snuggling closer into his embrace, your leg draping over his, your hand resting on the warm, solid plane of his stomach. You could feel the faint, residual tremors running through his body, the aftershocks of his powerful orgasm. It was a heady feeling, knowing you had brought him to that point, that you were the cause of his utter and complete surrender.
You had crossed a line. You had obliterated it, danced on its ashes, and then built a new world in its place. And as you lay there, wrapped in his arms on the floor of his home gym, you knew, with a certainty that was both terrifying and exhilarating, that there was no going back. You didn't want to go back.
"Come here," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. He shifted, maneuvering his body with a newfound grace, rolling you both until you were lying side-by-side, facing each other. He propped himself up on his elbow, his gaze roaming over your face, his expression soft and adoring. He reached out, his fingers gently tracing the curve of your cheek, the line of your jaw, the swell of your bottom lip. He was touching you like you were something precious, something he was afraid he might break.
"You're incredible," he whispered, his eyes dark with a sincerity that made your breath catch. "Do you know that? Absolutely incredible."
You felt a blush creep up your neck, a warmth that had nothing to do with the exertion. "You're not so bad yourself, Norris," you teased, your voice soft.
He laughed, a low, husky sound that was full of affection. He leaned in, capturing your lips in a slow, deep kiss. It wasn't a kiss of frantic desire, but of tender discovery. It was a kiss that tasted of contentment, of shared secrets, of a future that was suddenly, breathtakingly possible. His tongue explored your mouth with a lazy, sensual rhythm, and you met him stroke for stroke, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.
You were lost in the kiss, in the feel of him, in the heady scent of him. The world outside this room, with all its complications and consequences, had ceased to exist. There was only this. Only him. Only the perfect, aching bliss of being in his arms.
He pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing ragged. "I could do this all day," he murmured, his eyes closed. "Just lie here with you."
"Me too," you whispered back, and it was the truest thing you had ever said.
You lay there for what felt like an eternity, wrapped in each other's arms, your bodies tangled together on the soft mats. You talked in quiet whispers, sharing secrets and dreams, your heads close together. He told you about his childhood, about his first go-kart, about the thrill of his first win. You told him about your family, about why you became a physical therapist, about your own small, quiet dreams. It was an intimacy that went far beyond the physical, a meeting of minds and hearts that was as profound as it was unexpected.
You were so lost in your own little world, so wrapped up in the warmth of his embrace and the soft cadence of his voice, that you didn't hear it at first.
It was a faint click, a sound from downstairs. A key in a lock.
Your head snapped up, your eyes wide with alarm. Lando froze, his body tensing beneath yours. You both held your breath, listening.
The front door opened, the sound echoing through the quiet house. Then, a familiar, cheerful voice, laced with the exhaustion of travel. "Lando? We're home! The flight was an absolute nightmare, you wouldn't believe the turbulence…"
It was his mother.
Another voice, deeper, more measured. "Cisca, give the boy a minute. He's probably asleep. It's barely past noon."
His father.
Panic, cold and sharp, shot through you. You scrambled off him, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. Your clothes were in a heap on the other side of the room. Your hair was a mess. Your lips were swollen. You were covered in a sheen of sweat and, if you were being honest with yourself, the scent of him.
"Fuck," Lando muttered, his voice a low, desperate curse. He was struggling to sit up, his face pale with shock. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. I forgot. They were supposed to be back tomorrow."
The reality of your situation crashed down on you with the force of a physical blow. This wasn't just a line you had crossed; it was a chasm. And his parents, the people who had trusted you with their son's care, had just arrived at the edge of it.
"What do we do?" you whispered, your voice a frantic, panicked squeak. You were frantically looking around for your clothes, your movements clumsy and uncoordinated.
"My room," he said, his voice tight with urgency. "Get your clothes. Go to my room. I'll… I'll get dressed. I'll be right there."
You didn't need to be told twice. You grabbed your scrubs from the floor, your hands shaking so badly you could barely get them on. You were a mess. You looked like you had just been thoroughly and thoroughly debauched. Which, you supposed, you had.
You gave him one last, wild-eyed look before you bolted from the gym, your bare feet silent on the cool wooden floor of the hallway. You could hear his parents moving around downstairs, the sound of luggage being dropped, the rustle of coats being removed. They were coming upstairs.
You sprinted into his bedroom, closing the door softly behind you. You took a deep, steadying breath, trying to calm the frantic pounding of your heart. You had to think. You had to come up with a plausible reason for why you were in his bedroom, looking like you'd just rolled out of bed after a very, very good night.
Your eyes landed on your therapy bag, sitting neatly by the door. Your notes. Of course.
You rummaged through your bag, your fingers fumbling for the small, leather-bound notebook where you kept your patient records. You flipped it open to a random page, your eyes scanning the dense, professional script. You perched on the edge of his bed, trying to look casual, trying to look like you had been there for the past ten minutes, diligently reviewing his progress, not… not what you had actually been doing.
You could hear them on the stairs now, their footsteps getting closer. Your heart was in your throat. You smoothed down your hair, took another deep breath, and tried to compose your features into an expression of calm, professional neutrality.
The door to his bedroom swung open.
Lando's mother, Cisca, stood there, her face lighting up when she saw you. She was a beautiful woman, with the same warm, kind eyes as her son. "Oh, y/n! What a lovely surprise! We didn't know you'd be here."
His father, Adam, was right behind her. He was a taller, more reserved version of his son, but his smile was just as warm. "Y/n. Good to see you."
You stood up, forcing a smile that you hoped didn't look as terrified as you felt. "Mr. and Mrs. Norris! Welcome home. I was just finishing up some notes from this morning's session. Lando's been making some incredible progress, I wanted to get it all down while it was fresh."
It was a plausible lie. A professional lie. But as you said the words, you felt a wave of shame wash over you. You were using his progress, his incredible, hard-won victory, as an alibi for your own transgression.
Just then, Lando appeared in the doorway behind them. He had managed to pull on a pair of sweatpants and a fresh t-shirt, but his hair was still a mess, and his face was flushed. He looked exactly like what he was: a man who had just been interrupted.
"Hey, Mum. Hey, Dad," he said, his voice a little too high, a little too bright. "You're back early."
Cisca's attention immediately shifted to her son, her eyes softening with a maternal love that was so palpable it made your heart ache. She crossed the room in a few quick strides, wrapping her arms around him in a tight, fierce hug. "Oh, my darling boy," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. "We missed you so much."
Lando buried his face in her hair, his arms wrapping around her waist. You could see the tension in his shoulders ease, the lines of worry on his face smooth out. In his mother's arms, he wasn't a patient, or a racing driver, or a man struggling with a devastating injury. He was just her son. The sight was so raw, so pure, that it sent a fresh pang of guilt through you. You were an intruder here, a witness to a sacred family moment you had no right to see.
Adam followed, clapping a hand on Lando's shoulder before pulling him into his own embrace. It was a more restrained hug, but no less full of love. "Good to see you, son," he said, his voice gruff with emotion. "You look well."
"I feel well," Lando said, his voice muffled by his father's shoulder. "Really well."
Cisca finally pulled back, her hands cupping Lando's face, her eyes scanning him as if to reassure herself that he was truly okay. Then, she turned to you, her expression softening. She stepped forward and wrapped you in a hug. It wasn't a brief, polite hug. It was a long, warm, genuine embrace that smelled of expensive perfume and travel-weary affection. "Thank you," she whispered in your ear, her voice thick with a gratitude that felt like a physical weight. "Thank you for everything you're doing for him."
You froze for a second, your arms awkwardly at your sides, before you forced yourself to hug her back. "I'm just doing my job," you mumbled, the words feeling hollow and false.
She pulled back, her hands on your shoulders, her eyes looking directly into yours. "No," she said, her voice firm but kind. "It's more than that. We can see it. He's… he's himself again. And that's because of you."
The praise was a brand on your skin, a mark of your deception. You could feel Lando's gaze on you, and you knew he was feeling it too. This tangled web of gratitude and guilt was becoming impossible to navigate.
"Why don't we all go downstairs?" Adam suggested, ever the practical one. "I could use a coffee. And I'm sure y/n has plenty to tell us about this 'incredible progress'."
The next hour was a strange, surreal blur. You sat with them in their sun-drenched kitchen, the same kitchen where you had made pancakes for Lando just this morning, a lifetime ago. You sipped a cup of coffee, your hands trembling slightly, and gave them a detailed, professional report on Lando's progress. You talked about his increased core strength, his improved transfer techniques, the new confidence he had in the parallel bars.
Lando sat beside you at the table, his wheelchair pushed in close, and chimed in with his own excited commentary. "And today! Today I held a plank for a full minute. Y/n timed me. And I did fifteen reps on the bars, Dad. Fifteen!"
His parents were beaming, their faces alight with a pride and relief so profound it was almost painful to witness. They asked questions, they listened intently, they celebrated every small victory as if it were a championship win. And through it all, you and Lando played your parts. You were the dedicated therapist, he was the motivated patient. But underneath the professional facade, the air was thick with a tension that was almost audible.
Every time your hand brushed against his on the table, a jolt of electricity shot through you. Every time he looked at you, his eyes held a secret, a shared memory of the floor in the gym. You were acutely aware of the space between you, a space that was charged with unspoken words and forbidden touches. You had no idea what this was. You didn't know if he was just attracted to you, if this was a physical thing born from intense proximity, or if he felt the same terrifying, heart-stopping pull that you did. The uncertainty was a constant, low-grade hum of anxiety beneath your skin.
The awkwardness reached its peak during dinner. Cisca had prepared a simple pasta, and the four of you sat around the large wooden table in their dining room. The conversation was stilted, punctuated by long, uncomfortable silences. His parents tried to keep things light, asking about your own family, your plans for the holidays. But every time they directed a question at you and Lando together, you both would get flustered.
"So, are you two getting along well?" Cisca asked, her tone innocent. "I imagine you spend a lot of time together."
You nearly choked on your water. Lando coughed beside you.
"Um, yes," you managed to say, your voice a little too high. "Very well. He's a… he's a great patient."
"He's a hard worker," Lando added quickly, not looking at you. "Y/n's a good teacher."
The exchange was so stilted, so painfully formal, that Adam raised an eyebrow, a flicker of something—curiosity? suspicion?—in his eyes. Cisca just smiled, seemingly oblivious.
After dinner, you insisted on helping clear the table, needing something to do with your hands, needing an escape from the suffocating tension at the dinner table. You were scraping the leftover pasta into the bin when you heard them. Lando's parents had cornered him in the living room. You couldn't see them, but you could hear their voices, a low, intimate murmur that carried into the kitchen.
"So," Cisca's voice, soft and knowing. "What do you really think of her, our y/n?"
You froze, your hand hovering over the garbage bin. Your heart started pounding in your ears. This was it. The moment of truth.
There was a pause. You could picture him, shrugging, trying to look casual, failing miserably.
"She's great," he said, and you could hear the forced nonchalance in his voice. "She's… you know. Good at her job. Professional."
"Professional?" Adam's voice, a low rumble. "Is that all?"
Another pause. Longer this time. "No," Lando finally admitted, his voice quieter, more vulnerable. "She's… she's amazing. She's smart, and she's funny, and she's… she's just… yeah. She's great."
You could hear the smile in Cisca's voice. "She is, isn't she? We like her very much."
"We just want you to be happy, son," Adam added, his voice full of a paternal warmth that made your throat ache.
You quickly finished cleaning up, your mind a chaotic mess. They knew. Or at least they suspected. And Lando… what did his answer mean? She's amazing. She's great. Was that just a description of a good employee, or was it something more? The ambiguity was torture.
When you re-entered the living room, the moment was broken. Cisca and Adam were saying their goodnights to Lando, their hugs and kisses just as long and loving as they had been when they arrived. You stood by awkwardly, feeling like an outsider, a ghost in their family tableau.
"Alright, you two, don't stay up too late," Cisca said, giving you a warm smile. "It was wonderful to see you, y/n. Get home safe."
"You too," you murmured, your voice barely a whisper.
And then they were gone, upstairs to their own wing of the house, leaving you and Lando alone in the quiet, charged silence of the living room.
You pushed his wheelchair toward his bedroom, the journey silent and heavy. The easy, playful intimacy from this morning was gone, replaced by a thick, suffocating awkwardness. You were acutely aware of his presence, of the warmth of his body, of the scent of his skin. But you were miles apart, separated by a chasm of unspoken fears and unasked questions.
You got him settled in his bed, your movements brisk and efficient, a return to the clinical routine that felt like a flimsy shield against the storm of your emotions. You pulled the blankets over his legs, your hands avoiding his, your eyes fixed on the fabric.
"Okay," you said, your voice a little too bright, a little too brittle. "All set. I'll just… I'll see you in the morning."
You turned to leave, desperate to escape, to put this day, this impossible, wonderful, terrible day, behind you.
"Wait."
His voice was soft, but it stopped you in your tracks. You turned around slowly, your heart in your throat.
He was looking at you, his eyes dark and serious in the soft lamplight. The guarded look was back, but it was different this time. It wasn't a wall of hurt. It was a shield of vulnerability.
"We need to talk," he said.
Your stomach dropped. "Lando, I don't think that's a good idea."
"No, we do," he insisted, his voice gaining a thread of desperation. "I can't… I can't go to sleep like this. With all this… stuff… hanging between us. Y/n, I…"
He took a deep breath, his gaze locking with yours, his eyes raw and unshielded. "I really like you."
The words, so simple, so direct, hung in the air between you. They were everything you wanted to hear, and everything you were terrified of. They were a confirmation and a condemnation all at once.
And you panicked.
"Shh!" you hissed, your eyes darting toward the closed door, as if his parents could hear you through the thick walls. "Don't. Don't say that."
His face fell, the hope in his eyes extinguished, replaced by a raw, wounded confusion. "Why?" he whispered. "Why not?"
"Because it's wrong!" The words burst out of you, a torrent of self-loathing and fear The words hung in the air, sharp and cruel. "Wrong." You saw the immediate impact on his face, the way his entire body seemed to recoil as if you'd struck him. The hope that had been so fragile, so bravely offered, was shattered. It was replaced by a raw, gaping wound of confusion and hurt that was infinitely worse than the guarded anger from yesterday.
"Wrong?" he repeated, his voice barely a whisper, laced with disbelief. "What… what do you mean, wrong?"
You were pacing now, a frantic, caged animal in the quiet room. You couldn't look at him. If you looked at him, you would break. "I mean it's inappropriate! It's unprofessional! It's a violation of every ethical code I've ever sworn to uphold. I'm your therapist, Lando. You're my patient. It's a line that cannot be crossed."
The words were a mantra, a shield of jargon and rules you were desperately trying to hide behind. They were true, every single one of them. But they weren't the whole truth. They weren't the real reason.
"So that's all this is to you?" he asked, his voice gaining a thread of anger, a desperate, wounded anger. "A code? A rule? A line in a contract? What about what happened in the gym? What about… what about this?"
He gestured between the two of you, a small, helpless movement of his hand. "Was I imagining that? Was I imagining that you feel it too? That there's something here that's bigger than your job description?"
You stopped pacing, your back to him, your shoulders slumped in defeat. "No," you whispered, the confession torn from you. "You're not imagining it."
"Then why?" he pressed, his voice cracking. "Y/n, look at me. Please."
You couldn't. You couldn't turn around and face the devastation you had caused. "Because it's not fair to you!" you burst out, your voice choked with tears. "Don't you get it? I'm in a position of power here. You're vulnerable. You're recovering. Your feelings… they might not even be real. They might be a byproduct of the situation, of transference, of… of gratitude. And I'm taking advantage of that by even letting this happen. I'm taking advantage of you."
It was the most honest you had ever been, the ugliest part of your fear laid bare. You were terrified that you were no better than a predator, exploiting his vulnerability for your own selfish, lonely desires.
The silence that followed was heavy and absolute. You braced yourself for more anger, for more accusations.
Instead, you heard a soft, humorless chuckle.
Slowly, reluctantly, you turned around.
He was looking at you, but the hurt in his eyes had been replaced by something else. A profound, bone-deep sadness. A look of pity, almost.
"Transference?" he said, his voice quiet but steady. "You think that's what this is? That I'm just… what? Confusing my therapist with my savior?"
You didn't answer, your throat too tight to form words.
He shook his head slowly, a sad smile touching his lips. "Y/n, I've had dozens of therapists, specialists, and doctors since the crash. Dozens of people in positions of power. I've never once felt this for any of them. Not even close. Gratitude? Yes. Respect? Absolutely. But this… this feeling that I might actually be falling for you? That's new. That's all you."
He took a deep breath, his gaze unwavering. "And you think you're taking advantage of me? You, the person who has pushed me harder than anyone, who has believed in me when I didn't believe in myself, who has seen me at my absolute worst and hasn't run away? You think you have the power in this dynamic? You're wrong. You're so, so wrong."
He shifted in the bed, trying to sit up straighter, a flicker of his old frustration at his own limitations crossing his face before he pushed it down. "The power isn't that you're my therapist. The power is that you're the first person in months who makes me feel like a man again. Not a patient, not a victim, not a charity case. A man. And that's terrifying. For both of us."
His words were a mirror, reflecting your own deepest fears and desires back at you. He saw it. He understood it. And in that moment, the professional barrier, the ethical code, the job description—it all crumbled into dust. It was just you and him, two people caught in a situation neither of you had asked for, feeling something neither of you could deny. His words were a lifeline, a rope thrown across a chasm you had been certain was uncrossable. You wanted to take it. You wanted to cross. You wanted to believe him with every fiber of your being. For a single, breathtaking moment, you let yourself. You took a step towards the bed, your hand reaching out, your heart soaring with a reckless, terrifying hope.
But then, the cold, hard reality of your world crashed back in. The image of his mother's grateful face, the weight of her "thank you" in your ear, the sacred trust they had placed in you—it was an anchor, and it was dragging you back down.
You stopped. Your hand fell to your side. The hope in your chest curdled into something sour and painful.
"No," you whispered, shaking your head, the tears you'd been fighting finally breaking free and tracking hot paths down your cheeks. "You don't understand. It doesn't matter what we feel. It doesn't matter if it's real. It can't happen."
"Why?" The desperation was back in his voice, raw and pleading. "Because of my parents? Because of your job? Y/n, none of that matters if we…"
"It matters!" you cut him off, your voice cracking with the force of it. "It matters because I would lose everything! My career, my reputation, everything I've worked for. And you… you would lose the best chance you have at a full recovery. What happens when this goes wrong, Lando? Because it would. It always does. What happens then? I get fired, and you're left with a stranger who doesn't know you, who doesn't care about you the way I do. You'd be starting over. I couldn't do that to you. I won't."
You were crying in earnest now, ugly, ragged sobs that you couldn't control. You were destroying him to save him. It was the most cruel, most loving thing you had ever done.
"So you're choosing your job over me," he said. His voice was flat now. The anger, the desperation, the hope—it was all gone. All that was left was a hollow, devastating emptiness.
"I'm choosing your future over my feelings," you choked out. "I'm choosing your recovery over this… this moment."
He stared at you, his face a mask of stone. The light in his eyes, the one that had been slowly returning, brighter every day, flickered and died. He looked at you not with anger, but with a profound, weary disappointment. As if he had truly believed you were different, and you had just proven him wrong.
"Get out," he said. It wasn't a shout. It was quiet. It was worse.
"Lando, please…"
"Get out," he repeated, his gaze fixed on the wall behind you. "I'm tired. And my session is over. Right?"
The last two words were a poison dart, hitting their mark with perfect, agonizing accuracy. You had built the wall. He was just showing you the door.
If you wanna be added to the TAGLIST let me know 🫶🏼
Man-child / Why you always come a-running to me? / Fuck my life / Won't you let an innocent woman be? / (Why so sexy if so dumb?) / And I swear they choose me, I'm not choosing them
Overview: You're the Codys' new neighbor. You seem boring enough, not much of a threat. But Smurf and Baz are interested in that cushy new job at the bank you'd told them about.
So they send in Pope, hoping to get some decent information out of you. And he knows the rules, don't fall for the marks. But you make it impossible to stick to that rule and Smurf sees that as a threat. She sees you as a threat.
wc: 17.0k
Belle’s 3k follower extravaganza!!
It’s hard to stare at the interior of your new home and not think that the past two years of your life have been a complete waste. You’ve dedicated them to one man who couldn’t offer you anything more than broke-boyfriend hugs and a complete absence of emotional availability.
Twenty-four months of your life were spent financially, emotionally, and physically supporting a man who crawled right back to his mother’s basement when you finally dumped him. He had slept with every one of your friends, maxed out all your credit cards, and generally been a blight upon your life in every conceivable way.
Now, with no family or friends, you hauled out what little belongings you had from your U-Haul and dragged them into your new house. It had been an absolute steal, one you were still suspicious of. In a prominent neighborhood with houses that look straight from an architecture digest, you managed to find one you could afford with a bank teller’s salary. Which, admittedly, is not as much as you need right now to get rid of your ex’s debt he’d so generously left you.
The realtor had been more than happy to dump the keys in your palm. The owners themselves had dropped their price to your last-ditch offer in a way that made your stomach turn. But you needed something new. Something that didn’t remind you of the man-child you’d spent two years cleaning up after and re-mothering.
So, despite the red flags and klaxon alarms, you took the keys and ignored the pitying way the people across the street watched you. You’d researched the neighborhood, it didn’t have any higher crime rates than your old one. You hadn’t read any headlines in the news that would make you regret your choice.
It wasn’t until your second night there that you realized why, exactly, everyone had treated you like a kicked stray.
You have your pillow wrapped as tightly as possible around your head without actually suffocating yourself. The house right beside you has its music blaring on obnoxious speakers, girls screaming the lyrics, and guys cheering as they jump off the roof into your neighbor’s pool.
Despite the fact that everyone over there looks, at the very least, thirty, they’re partying like it’s Y2K and the world’s about to end.
So, this is why the house was so fucking cheap. Figures.
You let out a low groan and bury your face into the mattress. You have your TV on, white noise playing, even music blaring from your phone. It doesn't even put a goddamn dent in the howling happening in the next house over.
The universe really just did not feel like giving you a break. Dating Colin wasn’t enough punishment for the sins of your past life. Now you had to live next to the goddamn Playboy Manor.
The number of women who had streamed in there in thongs and barely-there bikinis had been concerning, to say the least. And the fact that half of them received payment on entry was even more disturbing.
Admittedly, you probably shouldn’t have been posted at your window, glaring down at the neighbor’s house. But, really, you didn’t have a choice. At least that’s what you tell your nosy ass.
Tomorrow, you swear to yourself. You will march over there, demand an explanation, and then politely ask them to shut the fuck up. Tonight, though, you were too damn exhausted to do anything but bask in your own misery.
Fix the bitch face, you remind yourself, forcing a half-pleasant smile on your face as your neighbor opens her door. The smile slips into a slightly awed expression as you take in the older woman. Her hair perfectly tousled, boobs right in your face with that bikini, and a silk robe wrapped around her like a second skin. Holy shit. You’d been expecting some finance ass in his thirties, not a hot mom in her fifties.
“Hi,” you draw out uncertainly. Her eyes narrow, flitting up and down your form as she appraises you. Your shoulders straighten, chin jutting out under her judgment.
“Can I help you, baby?” The rasp of her voice should have been expected, but it still takes you off guard.
You hold out your plate of (poorly-baked) cookies and adjust your smile. “Yes, hi,” you give her your name. “I just moved in next door,” you tell her, nodding toward your house. “I thought I would introduce myself to my new neighbors.”
And politely ask you all to shut. The. Fuck. Up. On weeknights. You’re a reasonable woman.
The stern look on her face makes way for something you wouldn’t describe as soft, but at least it didn’t look like she was about to pull a gun on you. “Well, isn’t that sweet?” She opens the door and motions you inside. You almost protest but the sharp look on her face has you stepping forward with your tail tucked.
“You know,” her hand hovers over your lower back as she leads you deeper inside. “Not enough girls are like you, anymore. No manners,” she scoffs, voice airy like she’s already a world away from your conversation.
“Why don’t you change, we’re having a little party by the pool.” Of course you are, the only reason you don’t roll your eyes is because you’re 90% sure she would spank you like a child.
“Oh,” you flounder. “I just wanted to introduce myself, that’s all. Besides, I don’t have a suit.”
She laughs, the noise unkind, and turns you toward a bedroom. “You know the great thing about string bikinis,” she rasps into your ear. “They look good on anyone. Bottom drawer,” with a slight shove, you’re stumbling into the room and the door is closing behind you.
That woman is a witch, you’re so sure of it. Not only did you obey, picking through different sizes of bikinis until you found your own, you found yourself waiting for her next instructions. Standing outside the bedroom in your heels and half naked, you feel ridiculous but that doesn’t stop you from smiling when she lets out a low whistle at the sight of you.
“Smurf,” she offers, holding out her hand. You repeat your name again and follow her through the glass doors of her patio.
“Let me introduce you to the boys.”
Your eyes widen as you trip slightly. “Boys?” You croak. Meeting Smurf was bad enough, especially now that she’s got you half-naked prancing around her pool. You had no interest in meeting any of the rowdy assholes screwing around in her backyard.
She hums and sends you a smug smirk, “My boys.” Great, more of her. You’d hit your quota of mama-boys in your life after your ex. You had no interest in meeting any more, but there wasn’t much of a choice as she shouted, “Boys, get over here!”
Four messy heads of hair whip toward her and suddenly, four grown men are racing toward you. Your nails bite into the palm of your hand as you swallow down the urge to turn tail and run back home.
“Craig,” she motions toward the tallest and the one eyeing up your body like you’re a slab of meat at the butcher’s. You’ve never wanted to crawl out of your skin more. “Baz,” he offers his hand. You take it tentatively. His gaze isn’t any better. Only Deran and J, the other two, seem to be looking at you like you’re a human being.
“She brought us some cookies,” Smurf holds out the plate and you frown at the condescending tone of her voice.
“Who are you?” Craig mutters around a mouthful of chocolate chips.
“New neighbor,” Smurf answers for you. Baz’s gaze darts to her and you don’t like the narrow-eyed look they share.
“Really?” Baz asks. The interest in his stare is entirely different now. So unsettling you almost wish he would go back to objectifying you. It feels like he’s trying to crawl under your skin, pick you apart until he’s got your inner workings memorized.
Smurf hums and places the plate down on a nearby table. “I thought we should keep her around, maybe have her for dinner. Get to know her,” the men’s eyes widen slightly and you know that they’re hearing something you’re not. Your stomach rolls unpleasantly.
“Well,” your voice cracks as you take a shaky step back. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
Baz steps toward you, herding around you until you’re being pushed toward a lounge chair. “No intrusion,” he insists as you pretend not to notice the woman doing a line off her hand beside you. You sit stiff and straight, praying as desperately as you can that you’re not about to be trafficked.
“Stick around,” he instructs. “I want to get to know our new neighbor.” You offer nothing more than a squeaky hum. He walks back toward his family and suddenly you’re a deer caught in a fox's den as they stare at you, whispering amongst themselves.
God, you really stepped in it this time.
You’ve had three drinks shoved in your hand in under an hour. Each of them has gone untouched, passed off to whatever partygoer walked by you. Smurf doesn’t speak to you, just sits in her chair and watches everyone. J and Deran asked you brief questions about yourself, but it’s been Baz who’s truly been hounding you.
Every ten minutes, he’ll stop beside you, ask you some “innocent” questions about yourself. You keep your answers brief, each response feeling like a test that you have no luck in passing. Your limit for strangers and loud music is about ten minutes and by this point, you feel ready to pass out or throw up.
Not only is Smurf’s family disturbing and intimidating. The people all around you have been snorting, sniffing, and smoking illicit substances that you want no part in. You actually don’t care how loud they are at night, now, you just want to get out of this party alive.
So, when Baz gets held up breaking up a fight between Craig and Deran, you take your chance. Your heels click against the stone path as you make your way toward one of the doors. Smurf’s blocking the one she led you through, so you end up finding your way into someone’s bedroom.
Just as you’re sliding the glass door shut, the one behind you clicks open. “Fuck,” you hiss.
“Who are you?” The voice is gruff, sharp in a way that has chills breaking out along your body. With a tight smile, you whip around, back pressed to the cold glass.
Hazel eyes are narrowed in your direction, cold and emotionless. “Hi-”
“Who’s that?” A little girl pops up behind him, head tilted curiously.
“Don’t know,” he replies. The man turns, pushing her out of the room. “Find your dad,” he tells her. He waits until she runs off to close the door and you realize how well and truly fucked you are. Because not only are you in a stranger’s house, you’re now being cornered against a bed by a man who looks like he hasn’t felt remorse in years.
“Who are you?” He asks again. He doesn’t raise his voice, but you still feel a shock of fear regardless.
“Neighbor,” you stutter out. His eyes dip down your body, not admiring, assessing. Still, you find your arms wrapping tightly around your stomach, wishing you were in more than, essentially, a bra and thong.
“We don’t have neighbors,” he takes a step closer, rolling up his sleeves in a way that has your breakfast coming up your throat.
“Now you do,” you offer weakly, hands splayed like you’re some sort of surprise. “I, um, brought cookies and Smurf told me to stay. Gave me a bathing suit and…” you trail off as he comes to a stop. His shoulders roll back and for a moment, you feel a little bit of your anxiety ease.
“I was trying to figure out how to sneak out of here. I didn’t realize this was your room, I’m sorry.” He nods once, eyes still roaming across your body. Finally, he steps back, opening up the door and nodding you forward.
You hesitate just a moment before he lets out a slight huff. “Get out.” He doesn’t say it unkindly, just bluntly. It’s enough to get you hightailing your way through the rest of the house. You feel him following behind you, rather than hear him. His presence is looming despite his size, broad and an imitation of your own shadow.
When you pause at the entrance of the bedroom you’d first walked into, he comes up beside you, arms crossed. “What?”
You startle at his sudden appearance and wrap your arms around yourself once more. His eyes narrow on the movement but he says nothing. “My clothes are gone.”
“Clearly,” you’re so caught off guard by what could, almost, be a joke that you forget to take offense.
“No,” you stutter over his audacity and glare. “Smurf put me in this. I left my dress in here. It’s gone.”
The patio door opens behind you both and he shoots you a sharp look. “Go home.”
You glance down at your half-naked body and then back at him. “Like this?”
His hand, rough and calloused, is already wrapped around your arm and dragging you to the front door. “Either that or stay for dinner.” Even if you did want to stay, he gave you no choice. With a light nudge, you’re stumbling down their front steps and the door is slamming behind you.
Before any other neighbors see you, you book it toward your home and throw yourself inside. Tomorrow, you’ll mourn the loss of that dress. Right now, you’re just thankful for the shark-eyed stranger who hustled you out of there.
“Again, Mr. Murray, I’m not allowed to date our clients.” You offer the eighty-year-old man in front of you a forced smile. He laughs you off and leans against the counter. There’s a distinct pop that you’re sure is his hip slipping out of place.
“Nonsense, sweetheart, it’s just a little lunch.” Normally, the older clients are sweet, a little touchy. But they just want someone to talk to, to have someone listen to them, since their kids gave up on them years ago. Mr. Murray, however, is nothing more than a pushy nuisance who thinks sexual harassment is a PC snowflake term invented by prudes.
You glance around him and groan at the long line forming behind his hunched back. “Mr. Murray, you’re flattering me, really, but I have a lot of people waiting.”
His brows draw in and you brace yourself for a temper tantrum when a frighteningly familiar voice interrupts. “Are you done?” Mr. Murray turns and you find a man with shark-eyes and auburn curls watching you. Jerking back slightly, your hand smooths over your hair, primping, as your neighbor moves beside the old man.
Mr. Murray draws back with a why-I-oughta look but he cowers under the younger man’s intense gaze. It’s not even a glare, just the kind of stare that makes you completely rethink who you are as a person.
“Just a joke,” Mr. Murray grunts as he wanders off.
It’s just you and shark-eyes now, you can’t tell if you’re excited or dreadful. “Hi, again.” He says nothing and you scratch the back of your neck. “Nice to see you while I’m fully clothed.” It takes everything in you not to drop your head to your desk, because what compelled you to say that?
A small noise leaves him, nowhere close to a laugh but you think it’s the best you’ll get. “Need to open an account,” it’s all he says before sliding a large pile of hundreds toward you.
“Oh,” your eyes widen as you gape at the obnoxiously large amount of money. You’re used to working at credit unions. They’re homely, poorly furnished, and not used by the richest people. This new job is cushy, a bank so fancy it’s even got a chandelier dangling from the ceiling.
You haven’t had much time to grow accustomed to people with real money working with you. Still, though, this seems like an obscene amount. “Uh,” you clear your throat and tidy the bills into two piles. “My manager opens accounts, just give me a moment.”
His hands ball into fists and he lets out another sharp huff. “I’d prefer if you did it,” he insists and your brows turn in.
“I don’t think I’m-”
“What’s going on over here?” Your manager comes up behind you, hand trailing across your shoulders as he leans against your desk. Shark-eyes tracks the movement and how you shudder. Your manager’s attention falls to the stacks of cash and his breath stutters.
“He wants me to open his account.”
“Why aren’t you?” He demands sharply, pulling back.
Your eyes dart between the two men and you shrink back. Switching jobs was supposed to help you regain control over your life, not put you under the thumb of another poorly developed man-child.
“I’m not supposed to,” you grit out. “You said that, Mike.”
He rubs his hands together and lets out a nervous laugh, “Good day to start.” He collects the other man’s cash and pulls out your chair. He says your name and places his hand on your lower back. “She’ll take you to one of our offices and help you get set up.”
With a huff, you jerk away from Mike’s hand and motion for your neighbor to follow you. He’s eerily silent as he trails behind you. Opening up an empty office, you motion him inside, letting the door shut quietly behind him.
Situating yourself behind the desk, you pull out the new account paperwork. “Alright,” you hum to yourself, leafing through the papers.
“Is he always like that?”
Your eyes widen as you glance up. “Sorry?”
He leans back in his chair, elbows on the armrests and body stiff with tension. “Your boss. Is he always like that?”
You scoff and log in to the bank’s system. “If you mean domineering and a pain in my ass, then yes.” Somehow, his lips fall even flatter at your blunt admission. “It’s a new job,” you find yourself explaining for some reason. “Once the ‘fresh meat’ interest wears off, I’m sure he’ll back off.”
He hums but doesn’t offer you anything else. “Okay,” you draw the word out and slide him the papers. “First things first, need your name.”
He picks up the pen and scribbles it down, you tilt your head in curiosity. “Andrew,” you muse. His shoulders stiffen but he says nothing. “I thought Smurf only had four sons.” It’s an innocent enough inquiry, but from the glare he sends you, you’d think you’d told him you ran over his dog.
“Sorry,” you back off, sliding the papers back toward yourself. Your nails click against the keyboard, struggling to figure out the alien system as you try and finish this as quickly as possible.
“Three,” he suddenly announces.
You hum absentmindedly. “What was that?”
Andrew clears his throat and shifts slightly, but his stare remains strong. Practically burning into you. “She’s got three sons. Deran, Craig, and me. Baz and J aren’t hers.”
You glance over at him and your brows furrow at just how uncomfortable he looks at such a small admission. Further confirmation that you should probably stay as far away from the Codys as possible.
He clears his throat, shifting around again. “What about you?”
You count his money and cast your eyes briefly toward him. Each question he asks sounds like someone’s pulling teeth to force it out of him. He hasn’t looked away, not once, but you’re wondering if that’s just a different sort of stress tic. As if taking his eyes off you means leaving himself vulnerable.
“Nope,” you click your tongue and pass him more forms to sign. “All on my own.”
He straightens and lazily scribbles out his signature. “No family? Boyfriend? You moved into that big house on your own?”
Your fingers still on the keyboard as your shoulders stiffen. From anyone else it could just be a hopeful ploy to see if you’re single. But this is the same man whose mother practically kidnapped you last night and all of a sudden, he’s popping up at your place of work.
With a sly grin you don’t truly mean, you turn to him, arms crossed on the desk. He doesn’t falter, eyes never wavering. “Are you trying to ask me out, Andrew?”
For the first time, you get a true reaction out of him. He blinks rapidly, lips parting as he pulls back from you. “No,” he sounds incredulous and you can’t help but laugh.
“Relax, I’m messing with you. Because, honestly, you sound like I’m going to find you waiting at my house for me tonight.”
He settles and crosses his arms. “I am your neighbor.” If you could read anything about him at all, you might have recognized it as a joke. But it feels more like a threat to you. Stiffening, you draw back and place his money in a bag.
“I’ll just go deposit this for you.” You rush out of the room before he can say anything else.
Andrew turns and watches as you practically run down the hall. He sinks back into his chair with a heavy sigh. He hadn’t even wanted to do this. It's not like he was exactly eager to be back in banks again.
But Smurf and Baz got on his ass about checking out the new neighbor. Making sure she wasn’t a plant or going to cause any trouble. He’d watched you all morning up until now. From all he could tell you were on your own, working a boring nine-to-five, and there was absolutely nothing interesting about you.
You also seemed pretty smart, already aware of just how far you should be staying away from his family. Even more reason you’re not going to be causing any trouble for them. Hopefully, this meant Smurf would get off his back and his day wouldn’t have to revolve around some harassed bank teller.
The low murmur of conversation catches his attention and he turns back toward the glass door. Your manager has stopped you in the hall, hand cupping your elbow as he stands far too close.
You’re actively shrinking back, face curled with displeasure as Mike only gets closer. Pope’s lips curl slightly as he watches you jerk away. You rush down the hall, bag clutched tightly to your chest. Mike glowers until he turns to find Pope watching him.
With a lazy smile, he approaches your office and takes a seat behind the desk. He steeples his fingers, eyes eager as he watches Pope. “Is she treating you alright?”
“She’s fine,” he grits out.
Mike shrugs and gives him a smile like they’re sharing a secret. “No need to cover. We’ve gotten quite a few complaints about her already. There’s only really one reason we hired her, you know?”
Pope doesn’t feel like entertaining the conversation anymore. He wants Mike gone, he wants you gone. He wants to leave. But Smurf always knows when he’s lying and he doesn’t have the option of bullshitting his way out of this ridiculous errand.
“No, I don’t know,” he’s speaking through clenched teeth and, still, Mike is incapable of taking the hint.
“Well,” Mike clears his throat, trying to find a way around a harassment suit. “It’s always nice to have something pretty to look at, you know? Decor’s just meant to be attractive, doesn’t have to be smart.”
“Neither does the manager, apparently.” It takes a moment for the insult to settle. Mike’s wide eyes only further prove Pope’s point.
He clears his throat uncomfortably and shifts, “Right. Well, I’ll just let her finish up here.” Pope says nothing, just watches the old man as he walks out with his tail tucked. He can hear you bump into him in the hallway, Mike snaps at you, taking his frustration out on the first easy target.
Pope turns again and when Mike catches his eye he shoves past you and storms his way back to the front. You watch him go with an awed expression and shake your head. Pope hears you mutter, “Jackass,” as you make your way inside the office.
You settle into your chair with a loud huff. “Here are your checks. It’s just a few, you’ll receive the book in the mail.” He takes it wordlessly, eyes darting to your phone as it lights up on the desk.
🚫drunk texting shows on your screen for a split second before you offer him a sheepish smile and turn it off. “Sorry about that.”
“Who is it?” He’s being invasive, that’s the whole point, but he almost hopes you don’t tell him. If you’re the type to just spill so easily, it’s going to cause trouble for you in the future.
“A mistake,” you bite out, not meeting his eyes. Pope lets out a small sigh as you shove his papers haphazardly into a file. “There you go, Mr. Cody. Please let us know if there’s anything else you might need.”
Your smile is tight, sharp at the edges, your tone is practiced. The same voice you’d given the old man who wouldn’t take no for an answer. You’re dismissing him and wordlessly making it clear that should he ever need anything you want nothing to do with it. Pope’s lips curl ever so slightly but they drop when he catches the surprise on your face at his expression.
He takes the folder from your hands and leaves the office without another word. Making his way through the lobby, he finds himself sitting in his truck, just watching. You never take a lunch break, not leaving your stall unless it’s to deposit money. Pope finds himself growing more and more irritated the longer he has to watch this.
You’re harmless, worth nothing to Smurf. Yet, every time he tries to get her to let this go, she insists he stays. The entire day is wasted on you. Finally, at 5:30, you make your way from the bank. You don’t wave goodbye to your coworkers, effectively ignored as they brush past you. You don’t even linger in the parking lot, just get started going down the sidewalk.
Pope’s brows furrow as he watches you go. “Fuck’s sake,” he mutters. You walk home. And it’s not like he can just trail beside you in his truck. Getting out, he follows after you, lingering behind just enough for you not to notice him.
He keeps his hands stuffed in his pockets, feeling more like a pervert than ever before. J or Craig should be doing this shit, not him. This is so far below him it's infuriating. After tonight, Baz better get that stick out of his ass about you.
You pause and Pope ducks back. You dig around through your purse, letting out a soft curse as your head drops to hang between your shoulders. “Dammit.” Pope has no warning as you pivot around, eyes widening as they land on him.
“Oh,” you let out a shrill sound that might have been a laugh and take a large step back from him. “You. Again.” Your eyes dart over his form and he can see as fear settles on you. “I really want to think this is a coincidence.”
Pope’s prolonged silence probably isn’t helping anything. But he genuinely has no excuse that could explain this away. And he knows what he looks like, unblinking, odd, something women don’t want to see following them home.
“You shouldn’t walk home alone,” he finally settles on. The disturbed look on your face doesn’t abate, but you’re also not running.
“Clearly,” you snap. “I knew your family was weird,” you settle on the word carefully and Pope almost laughs. Weird doesn’t even come close to explaining the Codys. He’s not sure any one word could. “But this is a lot.”
Pope shrugs and takes a step closer to you. You don’t move, eyeing him warily. “Do you want a ride back?”
“Are you going to kill me?” He gives you a flat look and you deflate. “Fine. I accidentally left my keys in the bank anyway.” This time, when you walk it’s beside him. Though you keep your purse clutched tightly to your chest, shooting him a wary look every so often.
“Do you want to tell me why you were following me?”
Pope watches you and you don’t shrink away like he expects. You face him head-on, lips set in irritation. “Wanted to check out the new neighbor.” He knows you understand what he means. He’s not looking for a good time, he’s checking out that you’re not going to be a problem.
Finally, you break away from his stare. “I’m boring,” you mutter and he couldn’t agree more. When you reach the parking lot, he waits in the truck while you head back into the bank. He’s shocked you don’t try to make a run for it and, instead, beeline straight toward him.
“Thanks,” you tell him, almost sounding like you mean it. It’s concerning, how easy it was to get you in his car.
Pope doesn’t say anything and you keep quiet all the way back to your house. When you get out, you shoot him a wary look. “Am I going to see you tomorrow?”
“No,” he responds. Baz and Smurf should feel better after all this. You give him a curt nod and he watches as you rush into your house before backing into his own driveway. In the house, everyone's waiting at the table, a family meeting that he hadn’t been warned about.
“Hey, baby,” Smurf smiles and puts a plate of food in front of him as he sits. “You hungry?” He just nods, eyes boring across the table into Baz’s.
“Well?” He prods.
Pope shakes his head. “Harmless, like I said. Works a bank job and goes straight home. It’s just her.”
Baz’s brows lift as Smurf hovers behind him. “Bank job?” She asks, the question anything but innocent. Pope’s stomach turns as his grip tightens around his fork. He just fucked himself right into another week of stalking.
“Could be useful,” Baz mutters. Smurf squeezes his shoulder and nods. Pope doesn’t need to hear the order to know what she wants from him.
For the first time in a week, you find yourself actually taking a lunch break. You rarely have the time for it and you know it’s a bad habit. You’re trying to break it, but with Mike always breathing down your neck, it’s difficult to do so.
Today, though, you’re settled in a sticky booth of the diner closest to the bank. Your nails drum against the table as you wait for your food. Your phone lights up once again, your ex calling you for the fifth time in an hour. The sudden influx of communication is making you wonder if his mom cut him off again.
The door’s bell jingles and you glance up, caught off guard as Andrew walks in. Your eyes narrow and you cross your arms. It’s been a week since you’ve seen him. You figured after that night he tried to follow you home, that was it. Maybe this is just a coincidence, he doesn’t seem to be looking for you.
“Andrew!” Your mouth clamps shut as you curse yourself out. You’re not sure what possessed you to actively vie for his attention, but you’ve got it. He turns toward you, eyes narrowed as he glances at you warily. Maybe he really wasn’t looking for you.
Slowly, he strides toward your table, hands in his pockets as he looms over you. “Want to join me?” You offer.
He seems caught off guard by the invitation, but sits nonetheless. “Fancy seeing you here,” you joke, your laughter trailing off as he remains quiet. You clear your throat and go back to tearing up the paper from your straw. “Do you come here a lot?”
“Why?” The suspicion in his voice is jarring, but you really shouldn’t be surprised.
“Just trying to make conversation,” you toss your hands up and lean back in the booth. Silence permeates the air between you and you shift restlessly.
“I… don’t.” He finally answers, voice stilted. “First time.” You suck your teeth and nod, nails once again drumming against the table. Blessedly, the waitress walks over with your food. Her eyes settle on Andrew as she sets down your plate.
“Can I get you something to eat?”
He shakes his head, “Not hungry.” Your eyes narrow on him as the waitress walks away.
“Don't tell me that you’re still following me.”
“Smurf wants you to come over tonight.” He slips out of the booth and briefly turns to you. “I’ll drive you home.” It’s not a question, there’s no room for argument as he leaves the diner. Your head thunks against the booth’s seat, your appetite suddenly diminished.
True to his word, Andrew had driven you home. He didn’t walk you to your door or wait to make sure you got inside, but you could appreciate that you didn’t have to walk all the way home tonight.
Now, you stand in front of Smurf’s door with a bathing suit on and a fishnet cover-up that makes you feel slightly better about being half-naked around her sons. She opens the door, wearing a similar style bikini to the one you’d first met her in.
“Glad you could make it, sweetheart.” As if you had any choice. You only offer her a tense smile, following as she gestures you inside. “I know Baz wanted to talk to you,” she glances over her shoulder and you force yourself not to grimace.
“Really?” She hums and you both step out toward the pool. Sure enough, Baz is right at the door, pretending to just casually bump into you.
“Hey there, neighbor.” It’s disconcerting how quickly his hand makes itself comfortable on the small of your back. You shoot him a sharp look but he ignores you, urging you toward the bar at the other end of the pool.
Any other setting, any other man, you would shove him off and tell him to leave you alone. But you’re not stupid, you know that there’s something off about these people. However Andrew made all the money he deposited, it wasn’t through any honest means. There’s a gut feeling screaming at you to run away and it just makes you all the more terrified of what might happen should you piss them off.
“I’ve been meaning to check in on you,” Baz says, passing you a beer that you hold with no intention of drinking. Getting drunk around these sorts of people seems like an invitation for life long trauma. “How’re you settling in?”
“Fine,” you tell him, pretending to believe he actually gives a shit about your life and isn’t just pressing you for information. “It’s different from my last place, but it’s not bad.”
“No?” He smirks and some distant part of your brain recognizes that its meant to be charming, but it just makes your skin crawl. “We’re not keeping you up with these parties, are we?”
Yes, “No, I sleep like a rock.” His eyes widen, lips parting with interest, and you suddenly wish you hadn’t said anything at all.
“Really?” He muses, the interest in his tone absolutely nauseating. Luckily, someone calls his name from across the pool and he lets out a sharp breath. “One second, sweetheart, don’t move.” You can hear the underlying threat in his voice but you really could not care at this point. Ditching the beer, you grab a water and take a quick look around the pool.
Almost every lounge chair is filled with multiple people, some doing drugs, others grinding in a way that makes acid burn in your stomach. But there is one shadowed corner, a small perimeter around it like people are afraid to toe their way past. Andrew stands in that little bubble, arms crossed as he glares across the pool.
It takes you a moment to realize that it’s you he’s focused on. It doesn’t unsettle you the way Baz’s poor attempts at charm had. Instead, you find yourself gravitating toward him, hoping for some form of peace in this god-awful party. He straightens as you approach, watching you warily. Or maybe watching you normally. You’re still struggling to figure out the nuances of his glares.
“Mind if I join you?” He says nothing and you take it as an invitation.
“Thought you would be stuck by Baz,” he mutters. There’s something in his tone that has your brows peaking with interest, but you can’t quite decipher his meaning.
You shake your head, placing your glass on a nearby table as you move to stand slightly in front of him. “You know, I think I liked your approach a lot better than his.” He raises a brow and you snort. “I mean, I’d prefer you following me home than having to deal with whatever bullshit was coming out of his mouth.”
Andrew shrugs, but you swear you see his lips curl up slightly. “He comes on too strong.”
A man rams into you before you can respond. You let out a sharp gasp and trip forward. Andrew’s arms shoot up instantly, grabbing you before you can crash into him. The other man lets out a drunken apology as Andrew works to right you.
“Sorry,” you mutter, hands lingering on his chest a moment longer than they should. He’s firm, beefier than you had expected. The slight thrill that shoots through you is cause enough for concern. You already knew your taste in men was bad, but this might be a new low if a chest is what’s getting you hot and bothered now.
“You alright?” He asks and you nod, letting your hands slowly slip away from him. You reach over for your water, frowning at the slightly metallic taste it leaves coated on your tongue. “Hate these things,” he mutters and you’re sure he hadn’t meant for you to hear that.
“Yeah,” you scoff. “So do I. I bet it’s worse for you, though, being at your house and all. You don’t really have any choice but to be here.”
The look he gives you now isn’t assessing or the same blank stare. He seems intrigued, if that’s the right word for it. “Used to have my own place,” he tells you. “They sold it while I was away.”
Your brows furrow and he watches as you work to connect the dots. Away? You think, but then you take in the sort of people you’re surrounded by and only one destination comes to mind. But you’re not about to outright ask the man if he’s been to prison.
You’ll just google it later.
“Damn, that’s brutal,” you mutter. Taking another sip of your water, you find the metallic taste has only grown worse. Sticking your tongue out slightly, you shake your head as you drop it back on the table.
“Is something wrong?” Andrew asks, eyes darting between you and the drink.
“Water just tastes off,” you tell him, shrugging.
His eyes narrow and he begins to reach for it when there’s a loud screech. You jump, whipping around to find a pile-up of bodies, each of them throwing punches as the sound of flesh breaking bone echoes through the party. “Hold on,” he tells you, rushing forward.
You’re not as compelled to leave like you were with Baz. No, you think you might even like to sit down. Your eyes droop as your head begins to grow heavy. Sinking onto a lounge chair you fight off the sudden urge for sleep, confusion fogging your brain as the world around you spins.
“Oh, Jesus,” you mutter, rubbing weakly at your brow. This doesn’t feel right. It’s like you’re floating outside of your body, just barely managing enough control to keep you upright.
“Hey,” Andrew’s voice materializes in front of you. He’s back quicker than you thought he would be. Or maybe time’s just passing by while you’re slowing down. The thought makes an odd-sounding giggle slip past your lips.
Andrew’s face appears before yours as he kneels down, rough hands cupping your cheeks and jerking your head up. You whine at the roughness while his eyes dart across your face. “How much have you had to drink?”
You feel like he knows, he’s been watching you this whole time, after all. Still, you manage to slur out your answer in a slightly comprehensible sentence. “Just the water,” your voice sounds like you're underwater.
Andrew’s thumbs tug at the skin below your eyes, trying to gauge the size of your pupils, the sudden bloodshot look about them. “Fuck,” he hisses and you try to move back, worried it’s you he’s mad at. His grip is firm, though, his hands insistent as he throws your arm over his shoulder and drags you to your feet.
“Come on,” he grits out, carrying the majority of your weight as your feet trip over each other.
“Andrew,” his name comes out wrong, garbled and barely comprehensible. But he manages to understand you, humming in answer as he pulls you through the house. “I feel weird,” you whisper, breath becoming harder to find.
“Yeah, I know you do.” A man whistles as Andrew carries you past, slapping him on the back like he’s just won a prize. Andrew stops and you wonder, briefly, if he’s going to drop you so he can fight the guy. But the other man just goes running off, recognizing his mistake in time.
He keeps going, pushing through the bodies until the cold night air is biting at your cheeks and he’s walking up your driveway. He’s gentler than you expected as he props you against your front door.
“Keys,” he demands, hands gripping your waist so you don’t topple straight into the bushes.
You shake your head, the movement making you painfully nauseous. “Didn’t lock it,” you reach for the handle, palm slipping across it uselessly.
His jaw tightens, eyes narrowing further as he clicks his tongue at you. “Always lock it,” he snaps, tugging you back into his side as he pushes the door open. “What if it wasn’t me walking in here?”
Your eyes narrow, vision blurring. Despite whatever you were slipped, you manage just enough cognitive functioning for an attitude. “How,” you slur, “are you any better than someone else?”
Andrew pauses at that, hesitating at the base of your stairs as you wait for an answer. He stares into your drooping eyes and only huffs before practically carrying you to your bedroom. It’s gentle, the way he sets you down, back pushed against the pillows so you don’t just flop back. But it only takes the brief second he steps away for your eyes to close completely and your body to go limp against your mattress. By the time he returns with a change of clothes, you’re already out.
It’s the sun that wakes you up. Normally, you remember to close your curtains before you pass out. But they’re wide open this morning, blinds pulled up, sun beaming down on you like it’s shaming you.
“Damn,” you drag yourself up, head throbbing as you try to remember what exactly happened last night. You know you went over to the pool, Baz had creeped you out. Briefly, you think you might have spoken to Andrew but that’s where it gets fuzzy.
Glancing up, you would scream if your throat didn’t hurt so much. Andrew sits in the chair by your dresser. His eyes are boring right into you, no malice behind the look, just careful consideration.
You clutch your chest, heart racing under your palm. “Whoo,” you breathe out, giving him an awkward smile. “Give a girl some warning next time,” you attempt to tease but your croaking voice impedes you.
Looking down, you find yourself in one of your sleeping shirts and different underwear. Bile rises in your throat as your mind races to remember even one thing that got you in bed.
“I didn’t look,” he tells you, finally getting to his feet. “But you kept complaining about wanting to change.” He walks toward you, brows set in concern as he takes you in.
Any other man and you probably wouldn’t believe him. You’re not even sure how he could have gotten you out of that suit without a little flash of skin. But you don’t really mind, better him than anyone else in that family. He seems to be the only one who understands the concept of morals.
“What happened?” You ask, grimacing as a pain akin to an ice pick digs its way through your temple.
Hesitantly, as if you might shout at him to get away, he perches at the end of your bed. His hands rest near you, he’s probably waiting for you to keel over.
“Think someone slipped you something,” he mutters, head tilting as his eyes trace over your pained expression. No shit. “I don’t know what it was, wanted to make sure you didn’t asphyxiate in your sleep.”
You look at him, frowning, and he nods toward something by your nightstand. You find a bucket by your feet, filled with what seems to be fresh vomit. “Oh god,” you groan, body crumpling under the weight of your mortification.
“I’m so sorry.” The thought of him having to stay up all night taking care of you makes you feel even worse than you do now. But beneath the shame and embarrassment, there is the smallest semblance of appreciation. Most guys would dump you at home and leave, Andrew’s practically a stranger and he took better care of you than your ex ever did.
“Why are you apologizing?” Blunt, like always, he gives you a sharp look. “It’s not your fault.”
“Feels like it,” you grumble. Hesitantly, you get to your feet, weak knees buckling slightly beneath you. Andrew stands, hand outstretched as you pick up the bucket and hobble toward your bathroom. “I should know better than to just leave my drink unattended like that.”
Andrew scoffs as you struggle to dump and clean the bucket. “Maybe people should just know better than to slip you something,” he mutters. He comes up beside you, taking the bucket from your hands and washing it out for you.
“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning against your bathroom counter as another wave of nausea builds up in your stomach. “You know, I’ve been roofied before,” his head whips up and you offer a wry grin. “Don’t remember it feeling like this.”
You think it’s the casualness of your statement that catches him so off guard. But mickied drinks had practically been a rite of passage at your university. Doesn’t make it good, but it softens the sharp edge of disappointment in humanity when you grow so used to it.
You let out a low groan and clamp your hand over your mouth, absolutely refusing to throw up in front of him. Again. Andrew drops the bucket in your tub and takes quick steps toward you. His hands wrap around your waist, head ducking to see the off-colored pallor of your skin.
“I think you should lie back down.”
Shaking your head, you let out another whine of discomfort. “I can’t,” you object. “I’ll be late to work.” Glancing at your nightstand’s clock, your stomach plummets. “Dammit, later than I already am.”
Andrew’s brows furrow and he shakes his head incredulously. “You’re not going in.”
“If only it were that simple,” you let out a low laugh. As reluctant as you are, you push his hands away, already missing the warmth he’d provided. “Mike already wants to fire me, I can’t give him any more ammo.”
His eyes narrow and he backs off. For a second, you think he’s actually going to listen. Then his hands are wrapping around your biceps and you’re letting out a surprised gasp. “Andrew!” You object, absolutely too weak to fight him as he wrestles you back toward your bed.
“I can’t,” you snap, futilely pushing at his arms. He says nothing, just lifts you up and plants you stubbornly on the mattress.
“Stay here,” he tells you, finger in your face like you’re a misbehaving dog.
You slap his hand away with a glare. “I’m going to miss the bus, Andrew. I can’t just stay home.”
He crosses his arms, completely silent as he stares down at you. For some reason, you can feel guilt bubbling in your gut and shrink back into your pillows. There’s also a shameful heat brewing between your legs at how easily he manhandled you back to bed. How firm he is in making sure you’re okay.
After years of nothing but men who wanted to be coddled and taken care of, you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be on the receiving end of someone’s concern.
You like it a little too much.
“Stay,” is all he says as he walks out of your room, door shut firmly behind him. Your eyes narrow and you debate, for a moment, simply ignoring him and going to work.
You think being on the receiving end of his frustration might be even more interesting than this side of him. But some ridiculous part of you wants to listen, to do what he says so you might finally get something wriggled from that cold exterior of his.
With a dramatic huff, you toss yourself on your pillows. Prepared to stew for the rest of the day, you’re completely caught off guard by the sudden wave of exhaustion coming over you. Sighing, you promise to just let your eyes rest for a few minutes.
You’re out like a light in thirty seconds.
When you wake up it’s already four and you know there is no hope of making it to work. It’s not like you’re eager to deal with irritated clients all day while nursing the effects of getting drugged. But you are truly worried Mike is going to hold this over your head.
With nothing better to do, you take a shower and change your sheets to get rid of the smell of mistakes and vomit. As you’re transferring your comforter to the dryer, you hear the distinct click of your front door opening and closing.
Your hands freeze on your wet sheets while your body goes stiff.
Slowly, you creep out of the laundry room and tilt your head down the stairs. Plastic crinkles in your kitchen, cabinets opening and closing as dishes are retrieved. Despite the fact that you should be terrified, at the very least be grabbing some sort of weapon, you find yourself walking down the stairs without a care in the world. Subconsciously, you know who it is, and you should be afraid of him but you can’t find it in you.
“Hi,” you say dumbly, watching as Andrew dumps what looks like wonton soup into a bowl for you.
His head lifts and he lets out a huff. “You need to start locking your door.”
You shrug, taking a seat at your island and watching him move through your kitchen like he’s been here before. “How would you have gotten in?”
Andrew’s shoulders tense as he sets your bowl in front of you, slamming it harder than necessary. “Lock your door,” he warns. Rolling your eyes, you take the spoon he offers you and frown. He balls up the take-out bag, trashing it, and you realize he hasn’t brought anything for himself.
With a sigh, you hop out of your seat and grab another bowl. He watches as you split the soup between the two of you with a displeased look. “I’m not hungry,” he tells you.
“I don’t care,” you reply offhandedly, sliding him a bowl like you didn’t google him and figure out he was in jail for three years for armed robbery. Sentenced to six, apparently, but got out early on good behavior. At the very least, it wasn’t for murder.
Andrew glares down at the bowl, arms crossed and your tentative smile falls. “Please,” you implore, “I don’t like eating alone.”
He takes it, though you know he doesn’t want to. “I got it for you.”
You shrug, taking your seat once more. “Why did you, anyway?” You don’t usually look a gift horse in the mouth, but it’s hard to believe that a reformed felon is just going around fetching his neighbors' soup.
Andrew wraps his hand around the spoon, but doesn’t make any move to eat. Your head tilts as you take in the scars along his knuckles, spots where the skin has split and healed over one too many times. It should just push you further from him but you find yourself more enticed. After all, why would a man like him have any interest in taking care of you?
“You don’t eat,” his voice is low, the words a shameful secret he wasn’t ready to admit.
Your brows furrow as you process what he said. Glancing over at him, a wry smile finds its way to your lips at the little splotch of color you spot on his cheeks. “Are you still watching me?” You laugh off a sentiment that should have you calling his parole officer.
Andrew rubs the back of his neck, gaze pointed down at the soup. “Not really,” he says awkwardly, not even believing himself.
Giving him a break, you go back to eating. “Well, you’re right. I was probably just going to eat some saltines and call it a night.” The huff he lets out shocks a laugh out of you. Slowly, Andrew picks the spoon up and starts to eat. You’ll count it as progress to thawing him out.
At 8:30, you’re already running late to catch the bus. Tugging on your heels, you let out an aggrieved sigh as someone knocks on your door. Frowning, you double-check the time and throw open the door.
Andrew stands there, scowl disapproving as you give him a small smile. “Did you even check who was at the door?”
You consider lying but the way his eyes narrow into slits swats the idea away. “No.” You grab your bag and usher him back as you close the door. “What’s up?”
“I’m giving you a ride,” it’s all he says. Blunt, concise, not even an offer. Heat flushes through you as he takes your keys from your hand and pointedly locks your door. You almost wish he would scold you again.
His hand hovers over the small of your back as he guides you to his truck. You fight back a shudder at the warmth he emanates while he’s not even touching you.
You’re slightly taken aback when Andrew opens up the truck door for you, even offering you a hand up when your heel slips. The brush of his calloused hand against yours is enough to send warmth flooding your body, an ache settling between your legs.
As he rounds the front of his truck, you resist banging your head against the dashboard. You only just got out of a bad relationship a few months ago. You should not be so fucking eager to jump some man’s bones. Especially not when that man is a known felon and his family is probably full of them.
Andrew gets in and you jolt up, forcing your back straight and a strained smile on your face. The last few times you were in his truck, you had been more worried about what he was going to do with you to pay attention to the interior. But as you look around now, you’re taken aback by how clean it is. It’s practically spotless, not a speck of dust on the dashboard or even an abandoned bag of chips on the floorboard. It could be new, but you’re certain that Andrew just knows how to take care of his things.
Is it completely wrong that it only makes you hotter for him?
The drive is quiet, as it has been the last few times you’ve been with him. You’re surprised when you turn the radio on and he doesn’t object. You were starting to wonder if he’s quiet just because he prefers the silence or if it’s because he doesn’t know anything else anymore.
He was in prison, you’re certain he was probably thrown in solitary a few times. You can imagine silence became a habit rather than comfort.
When he parks and gets out of the truck, you’re just surprised enough to allow him time to make it to your side and open the door for you. The sudden surge of gentlemanly conduct is odd, to say the least, but you won’t pretend it doesn’t endear him to you further.
You wonder if this is how men in the 1800s felt when they saw a flash of ankle as you slip your hand into Andrew’s again and practically salivate at the feeling. “Thank you,” you murmur quietly. He only nods, not stepping back, letting your hand rest in his. But you grow worried about your palm being clammy and pull back before he can feel it.
Andrew glances at your hand and you swear you almost see disappointment on his face. “Um,” you clear your throat. “My lunch break is at one. Do you have any plans?”
You’re not the type to make the first move. You learned a while ago that if you’re the one who has to start the relationship, you’re going to be the only one participating in it. But something about Andrew gives you a boost of assurance you’ve never experienced before.
His eyes meet yours, lips in a flat line as you struggle to read the intricacies of his expression. “Can’t. Family meeting,” he explains vaguely. Your eyes widen as mortification draws the color from your skin.
“Right, right,” you clear your throat and back away from him, suddenly desperate to get inside the bank and have Mike yelling at you. “Well, uh, thanks for the ride.” He nods and you’re quick to rush into the bank, your lonely stall calling for you as you try and toss Andrew Cody from your mind.
Pope watches you go, he almost laughs at how quickly you run off. He probably should have clarified that he would like to have lunch with you, he wasn’t outright rejecting you. But, he figures he can just explain that to you when he picks you up after work today.
His phone buzzes and he rolls his eyes as Baz’s name invades his messages.
Get some info about the security switch-off from her
We don’t want to wait much longer but you’re taking a while here Pope
Pope considers responding when another message comes through.
Don’t forget to act like a human, don’t want you scaring her off too early
With a discontent huff, he shoves his phone back in his pocket and climbs back into his truck. He can just barely make you out through the bank's window. That old man from the other day is right back at the front of your line. You’re not great at hiding how you’re feeling and Pope almost laughs at the way your lips are curled up in disgust. He debates going in there and getting rid of him for you, but it would seem suspicious.
You already caught him watching you once. He needs you to think this is something else. Something more intimate. It's the best way to get your guard down, to get the information that Baz and Smurf want so this job can be over and done with.
So that you can be over and done with.
You’re getting used to the sight of Andrew’s car and what should scare you only serves to further excite you. As you wave goodbye to the security guard, John, you see Andrew get out and wait for you on the passenger side.
“If you don’t stop, I’m going to start getting used to this,” you warn him as you walk up.
He only shrugs, holding open the door for you, offering you a hand. “You shouldn’t be walking home alone,” his tone sounds like admonishment.
You almost ask him about his day when he gets in, but he beats you to the punch. “Did you eat today?”
You purse your lips and shake your head, receiving a barely-there scowl in return. “Mike had me work through lunch to make up for my no-show yesterday.” In response, Andrew doesn’t take the left turn back to your neighborhood, he goes right instead.
Narrowing your eyes, you stare at him suspiciously. “Kidnapping me?”
He only shakes his head, shooting you what you desperately want to be a playful glare. “Feeding you,” he clarifies. “Would’ve gone to lunch with you if Baz hadn’t been up my ass.” He mutters it under his breath, quiet in a way you know you’re not meant to hear.
“What did he want?” You find yourself asking, curiosity winning out over survival instincts.
Andrew stiffens, fingers tightening imperceptibly around the wheel as he shrugs. “Nothing important,” he dismisses, tone closed off in a way you know means the conversation is over.
Something tightens in your chest, the first real warning of threat you’ve felt around him. You dismiss it as nerves and shift uncomfortably in your seat. “Where are we heading?” You ask, attempting to gauge what his intention is here.
It’s pretty simple, a quiet, intimate restaurant and you know he means it as a date. Somewhere loud, however, slightly crowded and better for beer with buddies than going out with a woman, you know he’s just being strangely friendly.
“Here,” he nods and your stomach plummets as you watch him pull into Larry’s parking lot. A pub you’d grown acquainted with quite intimately when you were still with Colin. The same place he always liked to ditch you to get drunk with his buddies. The atmosphere inside dashes any hope of Andrew caring about you outside of your general welfare.
With a disappointed sigh, you help yourself out of the truck before Andrew can. He scowls and you ignore him, trying to tamp down any sharp jabs. It’s not his fault that he got your hopes up. That he got you all hot and bothered after showing you that half-decent men still do exist.
Andrew trails slightly behind you as you walk inside. “Oh,” the host’s eyes light up and you offer a brief smile. “I haven't seen you in forever.” Robby rounds the stand to give you a side hug that you barely return.
In a second, Andrew’s at your side, gaze darting between the two of you suspiciously. Robby pulls back with an awkward chuckle and grabs menus for both of you. “Come on,” he nods. You shoot Andrew an odd look but he doesn’t offer any explanation as Robby seats you both.
The second you’re seated, the atmosphere floods over your table. Loud, drunken conversations fill the air, five different sports commentary blasts on the TV. It’s so much that you nearly jump out of your seat and just book it home. Your fingers clench around the menu as you force yourself to stay seated and just remain calm.
Andrew grimaces as he looks around, seemingly regretting his choice. “Have you not been here before?” You ask.
He glances back at you and shakes his head. You’re honestly shocked he actually heard you. “I’m assuming you have.”
You nod and prop your head on your hand. “My ex used to drag me here all the time.” Andrew’s knuckles whiten as his grip goes deathly tight around his menu. With a low breath, he sets the menu down and his features soften into something you can’t place.
“I didn’t know it was going to be like this,” he tells you. Your eyes narrow and a little bit of hope blooms inside of you.
“Can I be honest with you?” He nods, leaning further over the table so he can actually hear you. You don’t have to, but you find yourself inching closer until your noses are nearly touching. You can feel the heat radiating off his cheeks and it only provokes you.
“I thought this was going to be a date.” Andrew pulls away slightly and you bite back a laugh at the first real emotion you’ve wrenched from him. He’s flustered, clearly, but he also seems incredibly caught off guard.
“You did?” You let out a low hum and nod, slowly sinking back into your seat. “Did you want it to be a date?” He asks, hesitant and completely unsure of himself.
There’s a slight crack to his voice, vulnerability shining through in a way that makes your chest ache. “Yeah,” you huff out a laugh. “I wanted it to be a date.” Slipping out of the booth, you hold out your hand to him.
His eyes dart between you and your open palm before he, very slowly, places his calloused hand in yours. “What are you doing?” You roll your eyes and tug him out of the booth. You know that if he wanted to, he could have just planted his feet and stayed where he was. But he lets you drag him out of the restaurant, hand squeezing yours slightly as you head back to the truck.
“I’ll make us dinner,” you tell him. “Then we can have a proper date.” You stop, lingering by the passenger door. His eyes are boring into yours and you swallow, some of your bravado slipping away. “That is, if that’s what you want?”
When his lips curl up, the first real sign of any semblance to a smile you’ve gotten, you know you have your answer.
It becomes a habit. Andrew picks you up, drops you off, sometimes he brings you lunch or you just see him at the end of the day when he drives you back home. Most of the time, he stays. Coming inside and helping you make dinner since your last attempt ended with you somehow managing to burn spaghetti.
It’s been innocent, a kiss on the cheek, or you reaching across the console to hold his hand while he drives. The majority of the time, you initiate the touch and he just reciprocates. You worry sometimes that you’re projecting your own desires onto him, not taking into account what he might want.
But he hasn’t objected, hasn’t ever pulled his hand away or told you to stop. You hope that means he doesn’t mind how affectionate you can be when you really care about someone.
You’re completely unaware of just how much the small kindnesses mean to him. Unaware that when he’s around you, he’s not Pope or a Cody, he’s just Andrew. He almost feels normal around you, like he’s just some regular guy who got lucky when he asked the pretty bank teller out.
Every time you touch him, kiss his cheek, and are just willingly in his presence without being intimidated, he thinks that he might be worth something. The feeling never lasts long, fading every time he goes back to his own house. It’s completely wrenched away by Baz or Smurf demanding updates, seeing if he’s gotten any decent information out of you.
He has, not that he’s told them yet. You let it slip that there was a transport coming through on Thursday, lots of cash that Mike will probably want to take a dive in. And then, when he’d come in to bring you lunch, you complained that the security guard was late. Let it slip that there’s a ten-minute gap every day at one when they switch shifts.
It’s enough for Smurf and Baz. He could tell them all of this and they’d relent, tell him to ditch you. Make sure you’re oblivious as he ghosts you and they take what they want. But he doesn’t want that. He wants to keep standing next to you and making dinner. To pick you up and drop you off like you’re actually something real that he has to look forward to.
Andrew pulls into your driveway, the routine becoming more familiar to him than when he goes into his actual home. As always, he opens the door for you, takes your hand and leads you up the steps of your porch. He likes to linger on nights like tonight when he can’t come in. Baz and Smurf want him home tonight and he knows they’re not going to be giving him any leeway.
But he’s almost tempted to say screw it when you turn toward him, eyes shining under your porch light, expression earnest as you smile up at him. “Do you want to come inside?”
It’s completely innocent, your question, something you’ve asked a hundred times before. That doesn’t abate the ache in his jeans and that tight feeling in his chest every time you look at him like this. Like he’s actually someone you want around and aren’t just using.
Not like he’s using you.
A hot flush of shame shoots through him and he shakes his head. “I can’t tonight.” Your lips turn down in disappointment and he wants to take it back immediately, but he forces his mouth shut.
“Alright,” you take his hands in yours and lean up toward him. He expects the usual kiss on the cheek, even looks forward to it. What he doesn’t expect is your lips brushing against his, arms winding around his neck as you pull back with a smile like you didn’t just stun him into silence.
His eyes narrow and when you let that breathy little laugh of yours slip out, he loses any semblance of self-control. Not that he had much to begin with.
Your shocked gasp against his mouth is enough for him to trace his tongue along the seam of your lips. And when you practically moan, body sinking against his, he can’t help himself. His hand cups the back of your head, pushing you up against your front door and slotting his thigh between yours.
Something warm stabs through him, slightly unpleasant and completely unfamiliar. It’s a feeling he only ever experiences around you and it never stops being overwhelming. Never stops drowning out any thoughts except ones that revolve around you, how you feel, how you make him feel.
You pull back, laughing when he chases your lips. “Andrew,” there’s a low purr in your voice when you say his name, has his hands tightening around your waist. When you ask, “Would you like to come inside?” He doesn’t say no, just opens the door, lifting you into his arms and not stopping until you’re breathless and smiling up at him on your bed.
He doesn’t make it home until after he’s dropped you off the next morning. He’d ignored all the missed calls last night, shutting off his phone so he could enjoy the feeling of your arms around him. It was surreal, waking up beside someone who his mother hadn’t paid off or he’d gotten drunk with and didn’t remember her name.
You’d held him in a way no one ever has before and it only made that piercing pain of guilt thicken in his chest. It’s practically suffocating as he steps inside, finds Smurf waiting for him with crossed arms and an expectant look.
“You didn’t come home last night, baby.” She says, watching as he brushes past her and grabs water from the fridge. He needs something to do with his hands, anything to not look up at her and see that she knows what he’s done. His hands flex, twisting the bottle cap around as the plastic creaks beneath his grip.
“Have fun with the neighbor?” She asks, tone innocent as she begins plating up the breakfast he’d missed. He doesn’t tell her that you already fed him, had taken care of him without expecting anything in return.
Again, Andrew stays silent, he’s already given too much away just by coming home late. “If I didn't know any better, baby, I’d say you actually like her.” She drops the plate in front of him, crossing her arms as she leans against the island. “But I know my baby boy, don’t I?”
It’s an effort not to jerk away as she drags her hand across his shoulders, smiling at him. “You’re taking too long, hun. I had to stop Baz from going over there last night, just getting the information he wanted and getting rid of the girl.”
Andrew’s hands tighten around the bottle, water seeping from the top. White hot rage flashes through him and he imagines the bottle is Baz’s neck for a moment. Smurf laughs, already knowing what he’s thinking.
“I’m not going to be able to control him much longer.” She could, she just doesn’t want to. “I’d hate for anything to happen to that sweet girl.” Her tone is laced with venom and Andrew’s head drops, knuckles white as he grips the counter. “Do you have what I need, baby?”
It’s because he cares about you so much that he tells her what he’s learned. He knows her words are never empty threats. Baz will hurt you, she will hurt you, if he doesn’t give them what he wants. He knows he’s trying to protect you, but that doesn’t lessen the weight of guilt.
It’s almost one, right around the time Andrew usually stops by if he’s decided to bring you lunch that day. You figure, after last night, he probably will visit. The thought sends a thrill up your spine that makes you giddy.
You really hadn’t intended for last night to go in the direction it did, but you weren’t complaining. And he hadn’t been either. Still warmed by the memories of the night, you check your watch.
The second hand ticks and it’s exactly one. John gets up, heading to the back to take his break while Nathan will take his time coming back from his lunch. The paperwork from yesterday’s delivery has finally been completed and you stand up from your stall, getting ready to pass it off to Sheila so she can look it over.
At exactly 1:01, the doors to the bank burst open and three masked men rush in. “Everybody down!” It’s shock, you think, that’s why you’re standing frozen. Why you’re not just doing what the big men with even larger guns say.
Then, he’s pulling the trigger, bullets embedding themself into the ceiling as the chandelier creaks dangerously above you all. Finally, your system shocks itself back to life and you’re dropping to the floor. Your fingers itch to press the emergency button beneath your stall, but one of the men has already found his way behind the divider.
“You!” He points at you and your heart beats an erratic rhythm against your ribs. He stomps over, grabbing your arm and wrenching you to your feet. A strangled noise slips through your lips, your coworkers cower as they watch you with misty eyes.
The tallest of all of them keeps his guns pointed at those on the ground. Then the shortest man comes running over, trailing behind you and the one holding you. He drags you to the vault and shoves you into the metal door.
Your palms sting as you catch yourself and it takes every iota of survival instinct you have not to give him a nasty glare. “You know the drill,” and he chuckles, the noise muffled beneath his hood. As if this is all one big joke.
Your fingers tremble over the lock pad as you shake your head. You try and step back but there’s a firm hand, almost familiar, easing you forward again. Your gaze shoots to the short one and he nods at the vault. “We’re not gonna hurt you if you just let us in. There doesn’t have to be any trouble.”
His voice is off, as if he’s purposely speaking strangely. Maybe it’s a way for them to mask their identity further. All it does now is serve to unsettle you even worse.
Then, there’s a cold plunge in your body, everything going still when you feel something dull and metal pressing into your side.
“Or,” the other one drawls. “I shoot you right here and we just go get one of your friends to open this for us.” The short one’s hand tightens around your shoulder and you grimace. He releases you instantly.
“Come on,” that sleazy voice is almost familiar to you. But maybe it’s just your mind playing tricks. “I’ve seen you take the money in here, sweetheart. I know you know how to get in.”
Your breath stutters, terror wraps tight around your throat and blocks any further air. “You’ve been watching me,” you whisper, already reaching forward to punch in the code. The taller one hums with delight, gun easing as you slip your key from your blazer’s pocket. It doesn’t take long for the vault door to pop open.
The shorter man grabs the handle before you can, letting out a low groan as he tugs the heavy door open further. “Alright, come on,” the other one’s got his hands on you again. Your skin feels like it's going to rip under his tight grip, but you don’t say a word, just follow obediently behind him.
This all feels wrong. Like this is someone else’s life and you’ve just accidentally walked into it. You have poor luck, sure, but not this bad. This can’t be real, you swear to yourself. And it’s all you repeat as they open their bags, forcing you to stuff them full as you empty the safety deposit boxes.
They call the other one in the vault but there’s a dull buzzing in your ears and you barely hear what they say at all. The only thing you can truly focus on is the gun still pointed at your chest. “Alright,” he shoulders his bags and you can almost feel him grinning at you.
“On your knees, sweetheart.” Your stomach twists, bile racing up your throat as cold panic wraps around you.
“Hey!” The short one barks, but the other man just holds up his hand.
“Come on,” he urges, lifting his gun and leveling it with your face. Slowly, you drop to your knees the dull thud of cement is a welcome shock to your body. He kneels in front of you but you refuse to meet his eyes through the holes of his mask. You just bite your lip, stare boring into the ground beneath you and pray you wake up from one long nightmare.
“Let’s go, man!” Sirens begin to sound closer and you would be relieved if this man wasn’t still in front of you.
He doesn’t listen to his partner, just tips your chin up with the end of his gun. “You say a goddamn word about any of this, I will find you and I will hurt you, sweetheart.”
What could you possibly say?
Finally, you lift your head, meeting sharp blue eyes. Something stutters in your chest, mind racing to shove down the sudden familiarity you see in this man’s gaze. Slowly, you nod and he finally backs off, racing through the vault door. The shorter man lingers a second longer but when you don’t move he follows after his partner.
It isn’t until you hear the police rush into the bank that you finally collapse against the ground. Pained sobs wrack your body as you struggle to breathe deeply enough to get your heart rate under control.
Your name flashes on Andrew’s screen and Baz sends him a sharp look. “Don’t want to look suspicious now, do we?”
Andrew rips his mask off and glares at Baz. “If you’d stuck to the fucking plan, we wouldn’t have anything to worry about.” Craig glances between them both, looking at them like he doesn’t feel like breaking up a fight today.
Baz glares and pushes off the wall of the semi-trailer they’d hid themselves in. “Maybe if you hadn’t done that reassuring bullshit, I wouldn’t have had to threaten her.”
Rage surges through Andrew’s body, your ringtone going off over and over again as he and Baz stare at one another. “You wanted to,” Andrew grits out. “I got you the info you wanted, did what you asked, but you still wanted to hurt her.”
Baz sees the way Andrew takes a step forward and knows this is a fight he won’t win. Again, he nods to Andrew’s phone. “Answer the fucking call, Pope.”
If it weren’t you, if it were anyone else calling, Andrew would have just drilled Baz into the fucking ground. But he’s right, this will look suspicious if he just keeps ignoring your calls. Besides, after the shit Baz pulled, you’re probably terrified.
With one last glare at Baz, he picks up the phone, turning his back to the other men. “Hey, what’s going on?”
Your voice is tight and panicked on the other end, tone clogged like you’ve been crying. It just makes that ache in his chest burn worse and he hates himself a little bit more. For letting you get wrapped up in this. For ever pretending like he wasn’t going to get selfishly attached to you.
“Andrew! The bank was just-” you suck in a sharp breath and his anger only intensifies as your voice cracks. “Can you come get me, please? I need you.”
This is what he’s wanted this whole time. For Smurf and Baz to be appeased. For you to need him so badly you don’t have the choice of leaving. So why does he feel so shitty? “I’m pretty far away, it’ll take me a little bit.”
You blubber, another sob drowning out your voice. “Okay,” you finally whisper and Andrew hangs up, knowing he doesn’t deserve you. He doesn’t deserve those small moments of kindness you’d gifted him, where he’d felt like a person again. Not some attack dog or errand boy. You made him feel real and he’d just held you at gunpoint.
By the time he picks up his truck and drives back to the bank, you’re gone. He wanted to ask the people still there if they’d seen you leave. But he doesn’t need the cops seeing his face right after a freshly robbed bank.
His chest is tight with panic as he peels out of the lot. You hadn’t called him that long ago. Thirty minutes, maybe. If he’s lucky, one of your coworkers offered you a ride and you just didn’t feel like waiting anymore. He knows he’s never lucky, though. He thought he had been with you and he’s already tainted this fragile thing you had between each other.
The dread that’s been brewing since you called is only worsened when he pulls into your driveway and sees you waiting on your front steps. He barely manages to get the truck in park before he jumps out.
You don’t twitch, don’t move an inch as he runs toward you. And that aching, festering feeling that burns inside him, it’s telling him a truth he’s not ready to admit. This is it. You’re too smart not to know what happened. And Baz was too much of a dumbass to just keep quiet and stay distant.
This is what he wanted, Andrew is sure, to get you away from him so Smurf has her dog back.
“Hey,” his hands cup your cheeks and a little piece of him finds hope when you don’t push him away. “What happened? You weren’t at the bank.”
Finally, you lift your gaze to meet his. The color of your eyes is dulled, face flat in an infuriating way he can’t read. “I didn’t want to wait. Walked home.” Andrew’s eyes dip to the heels resting beside your feet, the red backs of your ankles.
“Why?” He already knows why, but that doesn’t stop his hands from drifting down your legs, trying to soothe away the ache he knows has settled in your calves.
You let him just kneel before you for a little while. He can’t find the courage to meet your eye, hands just moving over your soft skin because he knows that this is it. Subconsciously, he can recognize that this sudden emptiness in your eyes isn’t because of what happened today. It's because of who was there. You’re keeping yourself hidden from him and he wonders if this is how you always feel around him.
“Andrew,” you whisper and his hands tighten around your leg. “Look at me,” your voice is so disarmingly soft and he knows it's a trap, but he obeys because he doesn’t know what else to do.
“I’m going to ask this once,” you tell him, hand lifting to cup his cheek. He leans into your touch, soaking it up greedily as your thumb smooths over the planes of his face. “Were you there today?”
It’s like everything goes cold. Your hand stops moving, grip tightening around his jaw as your eyes flatten into something sharp. His heart skips a beat once before he’s sucking in a sharp breath. He can’t lie to you, he doesn’t want to, but he can’t hurt his family and outright admit his guilt.
Silence lingers between you before you’re ripping your hand away and he’s trying to chase after your warmth. Your legs kick out, gently getting rid of his hands as you finally stand. Andrew follows, palms outstretched, unsure of what he’s supposed to do with himself when you’re right there and he isn’t allowed to hold you.
“Oh,” you whisper and there’s a grin on your face that’s cold and slightly panicked. “I fucking knew it. I knew it and I still gave you a chance!”
Andrew shakes his head, but you just wave him off, not interested in anything he might have to say to you. “I was nothing but a mark to you, right? An easy way to get access to the vault, to figure out the quickest way in and out. Jesus, I just handed it to you, I actually fell for your bullshit.”
“No,” Andrew objects, following you as you climb up your stairs. “It wasn’t bullshit, none of it was.”
You whip around on him, eyes glassy as you stare at him with something that looks painfully like hatred. “You got what you wanted, Pope,” you hiss the name out and it breaks something inside of him. “Tell Baz he doesn’t have to worry, I won’t be calling the cops. I don’t want anything to do with you people anymore. Got it? Stay the hell away from me.”
Andrew tries to follow you, but you slam the door in his face. He lingers there longer than he should, eyes boring into the wood like you might change your mind and open it. But he heard the lock click a while ago and he knows you meant every word. He can’t blame you, shouldn’t blame you. Honestly, not calling the cops is more than he ever could have asked of you.
But logic doesn’t abate the anger, the sharp, barbed pain inside his chest. You hadn’t given him a chance to explain. You didn’t believe how much you meant to him and he had tried to show you constantly. You just tossed it all aside like it meant nothing. But it wasn’t nothing.
Andrew knows that.
It meant something. It meant everything to him and he can’t just let you pretend it never happened.
The bed dips behind you and you grumble tiredly, flipping over as you try to yank the blankets up to your chin. There’s a weight on them, though, pulling them down and away from you. Ever so slowly, the fogginess of sleep begins to fade and your brain shocks itself awake.
There is someone on the bed behind you.
Trying not to breathe too loudly, you lift your head and peer over your shoulder. You aren’t surprised when you recognize Andrew’s hunched form, the moonlight from your open window giving a good enough view.
With a loud huff, you flip on your lamp and leap out of bed. His shoulders jump but he doesn’t turn to face you. “What the fuck do you not get about staying away from me?” You snap. Your anger only grows when he remains silent.
“Fucker,” you mutter under your breath, rounding your bed so you can see his face. Your feet still, anger abating for a moment as you take in the redness along his cheeks. As if he’s been crying. But you’ve never seen Andrew cry before, you weren’t even sure he was capable of it.
At his prolonged silence, something wedges itself into your chest, apprehension and nervousness. He’s quiet but this isn’t normal. Baz’s threat from earlier rings in your head as you slowly approach him. Andrew doesn’t meet your eye until you drop to your knees in front of him.
Bloodshot and weary, you know he really has been crying. It tugs on something in you. That soft, weak part of yourself that’s so used to caring for other people, you can hardly resist the urge now. Your hands lift and cup his cheeks, brows furrowing as you take in the devastation on his face.
“Andrew…” You trail off, speechless as he nuzzles into your hand, eyes falling shut. “What’s wrong?”
It takes a long while for him to speak, but you just wait, dread building with every second. Passively, you smooth your hands over his cheeks, attempting to keep him calm. The last thing you need is Andrew snapping and you being the nearest target.
“She’s doing it again,” he finally whispers, hands coming up to trap your own.
Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you ask, “Doing what, honey?”
He shudders at the pet name, melting further into you until he’s nearly on the floor with you. “Smurf, what she did with Cath…” He shakes his head and you can feel it, the slight buildup before someone begins to cry. Slowly, you creep forward, arms winding around his neck as you pull him into your embrace.
Andrew clings to you instantly, head buried in your shoulder as you drag your fingers through his curls. You hope he can’t feel how your heart is racing against your ribs, that he can’t sense just how scared you are right now.
You’re not scared of him, not really. But you know what Smurf is capable of. You know how deep mothers like that can embed themselves in their son’s head. It’s her that’s terrifying to you. “Who’s Cath, sweetheart?”
He shudders again, arm winding tight around your waist. “I loved her,” he whispers the admission into your skin and it feels like something no one was ever meant to hear. “Smurf, she told me Cath talked to the cops, I,” he cuts himself off and you feel your breath catch in your chest. “I hurt her,” he finally settles on. But that’s not the whole truth. You can feel it, can hear it in how his voice cracks.
He killed her.
You jerk back, jumping to your feet. Andrew lets out a low noise, eyes cloudy and cheeks ruddy. He stares up at you, hurt by how quickly you pulled away from him. “Andrew,” it’s a Herculean effort to keep your voice steady. “Is that why you’re here? Did Smurf send you to hurt me?”
His eyes drop to the floor, posture slipping under the weight of shame. “Yes,” he finally whispers.
This time you can’t stop the way your voice cracks. “Are you going to?”
Andrew’s head whips up, eyes wide as he stares up at you. “No,” his voice breaks around the word. You step forward as his hands reach out, wrapping around your hips and tugging you closer to him. “No, I’m not,” he insists and you really want to believe him.
He sees it, the fear in your eyes. In the one person he never wants to see looking at him like that. “You don’t believe me,” he mutters, head falling forward as his forehead rests against the softness of your stomach.
Your hands go to his back, scratching through his hair and trying to use your touch to ground him. “I believe you, Andrew. I just,” you hesitate, eyes darting around the room like you might be able to find an escape. “I don’t know why you’re here if you’re not going to listen to her.”
He sucks in a deep breath, face nuzzling into the softness you provide before he pulls back. You startle as he stands, eyes wide as he keeps his grip on your hips and tugs you even closer. His eyes lose the softness of sorrow, narrow into something harsher.
“You can’t stay here. Smurf expects you gone and if you’re not, she’s just gonna send Baz.” You tense under his grip and his thumbs draw circles into your skin, as if that would calm you after threat of death.
Andrew reaches into his back pocket and you watch as he pulls out a large envelope. He passes it off to you, slightly reluctant to release it as you take it from him. You move away from him, dumping the contents on the bed. An ID, a passport, and a thick stack of cash sit in front of you.
“Got you a new license plate, too. I already put it on.” He stands beside you, eyes boring into the side of your head. You can hardly breathe, let alone try and muster up a response. Tentatively, his hand lands on your back, the touch is enough to have you jolting back.
“Andrew, what is this?” You know. You know what it is, no part of you wants to admit, though.
“You have to go,” he whispers your name and you shake your head, body going numb. “Yes,” he insists. “It’s that or Smurf sends someone else to deal with you.”
“And,” you stutter slightly, scrubbing your hands down your face. Not only were you held at gunpoint today by your boyfriend, and then broke up with him. Now, he’s standing here telling you his mother wants you dead.
Death or change your identity.
This is why you had sworn to yourself no more mama’s boys. Now look where you are.
“Are you coming?” You ask, noticing that the only identification there is for you. Andrew pulls back and your heart drops. “Tell me you’re joking,” you snap.
That sad look in his eyes is all the confirmation you need. Swallowing down tears, you try to turn from him. His hands snap up, grabbing your jaw and forcing you to meet his eye. “I can’t just leave,” his tone is desperate, eyes imploring you to understand. “I’m sorry but I can’t.”
“Fine,” you whisper, reality settling like a stone in your gut. “If I’m doing this right, then I guess this is it.” His brows furrow and you let out a shaky exhale. “Goodbye, Andrew,” you tell him, pushing up to press a light kiss on his cheek.
Despite the fact that it’s his mother getting rid of you, his fault you got wrapped up in this, he can’t let you go. You try to back away but his grip is firm as he drags you back and presses his lips to yours.
It’s the sort of desperate, dramatic kiss you thought you would only ever experience through movies. Tears are hot as they race down your cheeks, salty as they drip between your lips and you find yourself melting into him. He’s not kissing you like he’s saying goodbye. He’s kissing you as if he holds you close enough, this might not happen.
It’s you who pulls back, chest too tight to continue without taking a breath. Your forehead rests against his, hands sliding down to cover the ones on your cheeks. He lets out a small noise that rips through your chest as you finally pull him away from you.
“Thank you,” you whisper, incapable of looking at the passport on the bed, the new name you’ll be stuck with while you get away from the Codys. He tries to keep his hand in yours but you force yourself to break away, to put enough space between you so you can breathe again.
Without a word, you go into your closet to grab a suitcase. When you return, Andrew’s already gone. Another sob rips through your chest, but you force yourself through it, swallowing roughly as you start packing your life away.
You wait. It’s stupid, you know. Just a few hours ago, you were shouting at Andrew to stay out of your life, to forget you so you could forget him. But now, you’re sitting in your car, forehead resting on your steering wheel.
He told you he wouldn’t leave. That he couldn’t. And you know why. He feels obligated to his family, feels like their burdens are his to carry, even if they aren’t. He’d taken the fall for Baz once, and now he was doing it all over again.
Sitting up, your head thumps against the headrest as you suck in a sharp breath. You drag your hand down your cheeks, forcing away any remaining tears. You can’t wait for him forever. Smurf probably already thinks you’re dead. You know she’s got connections, like any good leader would, it wouldn't take her long to catch up to you. You have to leave now, while you still have the advantage of night.
“Alright,” you click your garage opener and finally force yourself to turn the ignition in your car. The car that Andrew had fixed for you, even if he still insisted on giving you rides after. The thought sends a stabbing pain in your stomach that you force yourself to ignore.
The headlights flick on, illuminating your driveway, and you bite your tongue to tamp down a scream. It takes a moment for the shock to wear off and for you to realize that the man standing in front of you is Andrew. Brows furrowed, you watch as he walks up to your car and tugs open the passenger door.
You’re left speechless when he just stares straight ahead, not looking at you once. “I need to make sure you get settled safely,” he tells you. You nod dumbly, trying not to let the relief on your face show so plainly. “Just for a few days,” he warns, trying to keep the hope in your eyes dimmed.
You both end up in Nevada. First, Andrew says just a few more days while he tries to help you find a place to stay. He tells you that when Cath happened, he’d gone AWOL for a while. Smurf wouldn’t go looking for him anytime soon. You hadn’t said anything to that, just shown him another listing for an apartment you could barely afford.
Days turn into two weeks as he gets some cash for you so he knows that you’re going to be able to settle in comfortably. You don’t ask where he gets the money from and he doesn’t offer you any sort of explanation.
Conveniently, the very night he swears he’s going to leave, the apartment below you gets broken into. It’s not hard to call up the waterworks, to blubber and cry in his arms about how scared you are. He promises you a few more days, just until you feel better.
By then, you’re getting better at catching his family’s calls before he does. Dismissing the notifications and deleting the messages trying to figure out where he is. With less distractions, he starts to forget just how many days he’s promised to stay.
Then it gets easy. You distract him simply by caring for him. Holding him at night and making him feel human rather than an animal. His days blur into weeks until it’s been two months and he’s got clothes in your new closet.
“How was your day?” You ask as he walks into the apartment. He’s got the shirt of a local HVAC company on. Just something on the side he picked up for some extra cash, he told you. But he’s been asking for more hours and suddenly it’s almost like he’s got a full-time job.
“Hot,” he grumbles, cheeks flushed from the sun. You turn the heat down on the stove and finally turn to face him. You open your arms and he falls into them like he’s been trained to do it. Maybe he has, maybe you’ve both been conditioned to shower each other in as much affection as you can.
“Wanna take a shower?” You ask, running your hands through his curls and smiling at how his body sinks into yours.
He lifts his head and a smile that’s almost become frequent shows in his eyes. “Alone?”
You snort and reach over to turn the stove off completely. “Don’t blame me if your meal gets cold.”
There’s no warning as he hefts you up, you let out a short squeal, hands tightening around his shirt as he carries you up the stairs. “Got my meal right here.”
“Oh my god,” you roll your eyes, but there's a grin so big on your face that your cheeks hurt.
You’d once sworn off man-children, mama’s boys who were too reliant on their mothers to be emotionally stable. But Andrew was never so bad, he just needed Smurf’s leash cut so he could finally breathe. He’s fully reformed, you think, as he shuts the bathroom door and helps you strip out of your clothes.
Andrew deserves something good in his life. He deserves to know what it feels like to be loved without conditions attached to your affection. And you don’t deserve to be alone because of what his family did to you.
So, by god, you’re keeping him.
𝘔𝘢𝘯 𝘊𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥
𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 ♥︎
⇄ ◁◁ I I ▷▷ ↻
⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵
💿 And I swear they choose me, I'm not choosing them 💿
❤︎ |10,4k| Summary: Lando and Y/n resume their shower after the phone call. Soon after something changes, and there’s no going back from there.
The phone call ended. The silence that fell in its wake was a void. You stood in the hallway, the cool plastic of your phone pressed against your ear, your entire body trembling with the aftershocks of adrenaline and aborted desire. You could still feel the phantom warmth of his lips on your cheek, the shocking intimacy of him breathing you in. You could still hear the echo of your own whimper, a sound of pure, unguarded need that you hadn't known you were capable of making.
You had fled. Like a coward. You had left him there, vulnerable and exposed, and the shame of it was a sour, burning tide in your throat. Your mother’s cheerful voice, the mundane conversation about your cousin's promotion—it felt like it had happened in another lifetime, to another person. That person was a professional. That person was in control. You were no longer that person.
You took a deep, steadying breath, the air feeling thick and resistant in your lungs. You had to go back in there. You had to finish what you started. Not the kiss—you had already violently, decisively ended that. You had to finish the job. You had to get him cleaned up, dressed, and into his chair. You had to be his therapist. It was the only thing left you could be.
You pushed off the wall, your legs feeling like they belonged to someone else. Each step back toward the bathroom was a monumental effort of will. The steam still billowed out, warm and humid, carrying his scent and the scent of soap and the ghost of what had almost been. You steeled yourself, building the wall of professionalism back up, brick by painful brick.
You stopped at the doorway, your hand on the frame. He hadn't moved. He was still in the shower chair, his head bowed, water dripping from his hair and tracing paths down his back. The tension in his shoulders was a palpable thing, a fortress of muscle and hurt. He wasn't just wet. He was wounded. And you were the one who had wielded the weapon.
"Sorry about that," you said, your voice sounding unnaturally bright, fragile in the dense silence. "It was my mom. She gets… chatty."
This time, he did look up. His eyes were no longer pleading or vulnerable. They were shuttered. Guarded. A cold, thick wall had gone up behind them, and the sight of it was a physical pain in your chest. It was worse than his anger, worse than his disappointment. It was a quiet, absolute withdrawal. He was retreating to a place where you couldn't reach him.
He said nothing. He just watched you, his gaze a silent, damning indictment of your cowardice.
You forced yourself to move back into the shower, picking up the fallen sponge from the floor. You rinsed it under the spray, the water scalding your hands. You worked with a frantic, desperate energy, trying to erase the memory of the previous touch with rough, efficient movements. You rinsed his hair, your fingers moving quickly, avoiding his scalp, his neck. You washed his chest and arms, your touch brisk, impersonal. You were trying to turn him back into an object, a collection of limbs and skin to be cleaned. But it was useless. Every cell in your body was screaming in awareness of him. You could feel the heat radiating from his skin, see the dark, intense focus of his eyes as he watched your every move.
The silence was a physical presence, a third entity in the small, steamy room. It was filled with everything you weren't saying. I'm sorry. I was scared. I wanted it too. I want you so much it hurts. But you said none of it. You just scrubbed and rinsed, your actions a betrayal of the chaos in your heart.
You turned off the water. The sudden quiet was even more deafening. You grabbed a large, fluffy towel from the warmer and began to dry him, your movements brusque, almost rough. You were trying to punish yourself, to punish him, to turn the sweet, aching intimacy into a chore. But as you rubbed the towel over his shoulders, over his back, you felt the coiled tension in his muscles. You felt the slight tremor that ran through him. And you knew. You were failing. You weren't being professional; you were being cruel.
Your movements slowed. The frantic energy drained out of you, replaced by a profound, aching weariness. You gently dried his hair, your fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. You dried his chest, the towel moving in soft, slow circles. You could feel his gaze on you, and you finally risked a glance at his face. The wall was still there, but you saw a crack in it. Through it, you could see the raw, aching confusion. He didn't understand. And how could he? You barely understood it yourself.
Getting him from the shower chair to his wheelchair was a logistical challenge that required all of your strength and focus. It was a welcome return to the clinical world of pivots and transfers and safety protocols. You moved his body, and for a few moments, you could pretend he was just a weight, just a patient. But as you settled him into his chair, your hands brushed against his, and the jolt was as powerful as ever. You both froze, your eyes locking. The wall in his gaze crumbled completely, and the raw, unshielded need you saw there stole your breath away.
You wheeled him back to his room, the journey silent and heavy. You dressed him in fresh sweats and a t-shirt, your hands moving with a practiced efficiency that felt like a lie. You touched him, but you avoided his eyes. You focused on the mundane task of pulling fabric over skin, of guiding his limbs into sleeves. But you were painfully aware of the heat of his body, the solidness of his frame, the scent of his clean, damp skin.
You finished dressing him, the soft cotton of the t-shirt whispering against his skin. The task was complete. Your job was done. You could leave now. You should leave now. Every professional instinct, every shred of self-preservation, was screaming at you to walk out of that room, to close the door, and to never look back. To call your supervisor in the morning and request a new patient, citing a conflict of interest so profound it threatened to swallow you whole.
But you didn't move.
You stood beside his wheelchair, your hands resting on the handles, the cool metal a flimsy anchor in a storm of your own making. The silence in the room was different now. It wasn't the heavy, accusatory silence from the bathroom. It was a waiting silence. A charged, humming quiet that vibrated with unspoken questions and unbearable tension. You could feel the heat of his body even through the chair, a magnetic pull that was both a comfort and a terror.
You looked down at him. His head was tilted back, his eyes closed, his throat a long, vulnerable column. He looked exhausted. The lines of pain and frustration that usually carved themselves around his mouth and eyes seemed deeper, etched there by the evening's events. But beneath the exhaustion, you could still see the embers of the fire you had both ignited. He wasn't just a patient. He wasn't just a job. He was Lando. And you had shattered the sacred boundary between you with a single, panicked flight.
The thought of leaving him here, alone, in this quiet, wounded state, was suddenly unbearable. It wasn't about professionalism anymore. It was about him. It was about the look in his eyes when you had pulled away, the raw confusion and hurt that was far worse than any anger.
"Alright," you said softly, the words barely disturbing the air. "Time for bed."
He opened his eyes, and the look in them made your breath catch. It wasn't guarded anymore. It wasn't pleading. It was just… open. Exposed. He was looking at you as if you were the only person in the world, the only thing that mattered.
The transfer from the wheelchair to the bed was a familiar dance, but tonight, every step felt loaded with meaning. You locked the wheels, positioned the chair, and helped him pivot, his body a solid, trusting weight in your arms. You settled him onto the bed, his back against the pile of pillows you had arranged. You pulled the blankets over his legs, your hands brushing against his thighs, the contact sending a jolt straight through you.
You straightened up, ready to make your escape. "Okay," you said, your voice a little too high, a little too bright. "All set. I'll just… I'll see you in the morning."
You turned to leave, but his hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around your wrist with a surprising strength. His grip wasn't painful, but it was firm. Unyielding. It was an anchor, holding you in place.
"Stay."
The word was a whisper, rough and raw. It wasn't a command. It was a plea.
You froze, your back to him, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "Lando, I can't," you whispered back, the words tasting like ash. "We can't."
"Just for a minute," he begged, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin on the inside of your wrist. "Please. Don't leave me alone with this."
You closed your eyes, the battle raging inside you. Every logical part of your brain was screaming at you to run. But your heart, that foolish, treacherous organ, was aching with the need to stay. To comfort him. To be close to him.
You turned around slowly, your gaze meeting his. The vulnerability in his eyes was your undoing. It was a mirror to your own. You were both lost, both terrified, both drowning in a sea of wanting that you couldn't seem to navigate.
You sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight. You didn't say anything. You just sat there, your hand still in his, the silence stretching between you, filled with everything you couldn't say.
He shifted beside you, the rustle of the blankets loud in the quiet room. He was moving closer. You could feel the heat of him, a palpable presence that seeped into your skin. You should have moved away. You should have stood up and left. But you were paralyzed, caught in the gravity of him.
And then he leaned forward.
His movement was slow, deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away. But you didn't. You couldn't. You just sat there, your breath held in your chest, as he closed the distance between you.
His lips met yours.
It wasn't a frantic, desperate kiss like the one in the shower. It was a question. A soft, gentle press of his lips against yours, full of hesitation and hope. It was the most innocent and the most dangerous thing you had ever felt.
For a moment, you were frozen, your mind a blank slate of shock. But then, a wave of warmth washed over you, a tidal wave of longing that obliterated every thought, every rule, every boundary. You leaned into him, your lips parting slightly, a silent invitation.
He took it.
The kiss deepened, shifting from gentle question to undeniable answer. His lips moved against yours with a newfound confidence, a slow, sensual exploration that made your toes curl. It was a kiss of discovery, of tasting and testing, of learning the shape and feel of each other. You could feel the soft scrape of his stubble against your chin, the warmth of his breath on your cheek. It was intoxicating. It was everything.
You felt a shift in the air, a change in the energy between you. The kiss was no longer just a kiss. It was a spark, and it was igniting a fire. You could feel a corresponding heat building low in your belly, a slow, insistent ache that demanded more.
And then you felt it.
Through the layers of your clothes and the blankets, you felt a distinct, unmistakable pressure against your thigh. He was getting hard. The thought sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated desire through you, so powerful it made you dizzy. He had been left aroused and wanting in the shower, and now, with the return of your touch, his body was responding with a vengeance. The knowledge that you had this effect on him, that you could make him feel this way, was the most potent aphrodisiac you had ever known.
The kiss grew hungrier, more urgent. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, and you opened for him without a second thought. The first touch of his tongue against yours was electric, a jolt that went straight to your core. You met him stroke for stroke, your tongues dancing and dueling in a rhythm as old as time. It was a kiss of pure, unadulterated need, and you were drowning in it.
And then, he moaned.
It wasn't a quiet sound. It was a loud, uninhibited whimper of pure pleasure that vibrated from his chest into yours. It was the sound of a man who had been starved for touch, for connection, for pleasure, and had finally found it. The sound was so raw, so honest, so utterly vulnerable that it broke something open inside you.
Without thinking, your hand flew to his hair, your fingers tangling in the damp, soft curls. You had meant to just touch him, to ground him, but as his moan echoed in the room, your fingers tightened, pulling gently.
He moaned again, louder this time, his hips jerking against you in a reflexive motion. The sound was your undoing. It was a symphony of pleasure, and you were the conductor. You wanted to hear it again and again.
You felt a frantic fumbling beside you. He was moving his arms, his hands searching, trying to find purchase. You realized with a jolt what he wanted. He was trying to put his hands on you, to pull you closer. He wanted you in his lap.
You pulled away from the kiss, your chest heaving, your lips swollen and tingling. You looked at him, really looked at him. His eyes were dark, almost black with desire, his pupils blown wide. His lips were parted, his breathing ragged. The look on his face was one of pure, desperate need. He looked like a man dying of thirst, and you were the only oasis in sight.
"What do you want, Lando?" you asked, your voice husky, barely recognizable as your own.
He swallowed hard, his gaze locked on yours. The words rushed out of him, a torrent of desperate honesty. "You. I want you in my lap. Please."
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, wild beat. This was it. The point of no return. You could still walk away. You could still salvage your career, your sanity.
But as you looked into his eyes, you knew you wouldn't. You couldn't. You wanted this just as much as he did.
You swung your leg over his body, straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips. The position was intimate, dominant, and it sent a fresh wave of arousal through you. You looked down at him, at the man who was your patient, your responsibility, and now, so much more.
You lowered yourself down, settling directly onto his lap.
And then you felt him.
His hard, thick erection was pressed directly against you, a hot, solid ridge of flesh that separated you only by the thin layers of your clothes. The sensation was electric. A jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure shot through you, so intense it made you gasp. You had imagined it, dreamed of it, but the reality of him, the hard, hot length of him pressing against your most sensitive place, was a thousand times more potent.
A low moan escaped your lips, a sound of pure, primal need. It was an answer to his, a promise of everything that was to come.
He moaned too, a deep, guttural sound of relief and agonizing pleasure. His head fell back against the pillows, his throat a long, vulnerable arch. "Fuck," he breathed, the word a ragged exhalation. "You feel… Jesus."
You could feel the frantic twitch of his hands at your sides, his fingers clenching and unclenching in the fabric of your scrubs. He was trying to touch you, to hold you, but his body was still learning to obey his mind's new, desperate commands. The sight of his struggle, the raw, physical evidence of his desire, was incredibly arousing.
You took pity on him. Leaning forward, you placed your hands over his, your fingers intertwining with his. You guided them, slowly, deliberately, up your sides, under the hem of your shirt. The feel of his warm, slightly calloused hands on your bare skin was a revelation. It was a brand, a claim, a promise.
You guided them all the way up your back, until they were resting on the curve of your waist, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin of your spine. He whimpered, a soft, broken sound that was almost a sob. He could feel the smooth expanse of your back, the delicate line of your spine, the warmth of your skin. It was a world of sensation he hadn't been sure he would ever get to explore again.
"Touch me," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "Please, Lando. Touch me."
His hands began to move, slowly at first, then with more confidence. They roamed over your back, tracing the lines of your shoulder blades, exploring the dip of your waist. He was learning you with his hands, mapping your body with a reverence that made your heart ache.
Then he stilled, his hands resting on your ribs, just below the swell of your breasts. He looked up at you, his eyes dark and pleading.
"Please," he whispered again, his voice cracking with desperation. "I want to… I need to touch your breasts."
The raw honesty in his voice was your undoing. You didn't hesitate. You sat up, your hands moving to the hem of your shirt. In one smooth, decisive motion, you pulled it over your head and tossed it aside. The cool air of the room was a shock against your heated skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat in Lando's gaze.
His eyes widened, his mouth falling open slightly as he stared at you. He looked like a man who had just seen a miracle. You reached behind your back, your fingers finding the clasp of your bra. With a soft click, it was undone. You let the straps fall from your shoulders, pulling the garment away and letting it join your shirt on the floor.
You were naked from the waist up, completely exposed to him. You had never felt so powerful, so vulnerable, so utterly desired.
His hands were still resting on your ribs, frozen in place. He was waiting, his gaze a mixture of awe and hunger. You took his hands in yours, your fingers lacing through his. You lifted them, guiding them up, up, until they were cupping your breasts.
You held them there, your hands covering his, letting him feel the weight of you in his palms. For a moment, he was still, just absorbing the sensation. Then, he began to move.
His thumbs brushed against your nipples, and you gasped, your back arching. The sensation was exquisite, a direct line of pleasure from your breasts to your core. He seemed to take that as encouragement. His fingers began to explore, learning the shape and feel of you. He cupped them, feeling their weight, their softness. He swiped his thumbs over the sensitive undersides, making you shiver. He rolled your nipples between his fingers, teasing them into hard, aching peaks.
You were lost in a haze of pleasure, your head falling back, your eyes closing. Every touch, every stroke, was a new discovery, a new wave of sensation. You had never felt so seen, so worshipped.
And then you felt it.
A small, almost imperceptible grind of his hips up into yours. It was a reflex, an involuntary movement born of pure, unadulterated need. But it was there. He was moving.
Your eyes flew open, a shock of pure, unadulterated joy and disbelief coursing through you. "Lando," you breathed, your voice filled with wonder. "You're… you're moving."
A slow, lazy smile spread across his face. It was a smile of pure, masculine pride. "You make me want to," he murmured, his voice a low, seductive rumble. He leaned forward, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your neck. He placed a series of soft, open-mouthed kisses along your throat, his tongue darting out to taste your skin.
You were about to say something, something about his recovery, about how amazing this was, about what a milestone it was. But he shushed you, his lips moving up to your ear.
"Don't," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "Don't talk about it. Don't analyze it. Just feel it. Just feel us. Right now."
He pulled back, his gaze meeting yours. His eyes were burning with an intensity that took your breath away. "You are so fucking beautiful," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "God, look at you. And your breasts… they're perfect. Absolutely perfect."
He leaned forward again, his lips closing over one of your aching nipples. The wet heat of his mouth was a shock, a bolt of pure pleasure that went straight to your clit. He sucked gently, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak, his other hand still cupping and teasing your other breast.
You were lost. You were completely and utterly lost in him. Your hands were in his hair, your hips grinding down against his, seeking more friction, more pressure. You could feel the wetness pooling between your thighs, your body preparing for him, aching for him.
He released your nipple with a soft pop, his lips trailing a path of fire across your chest to your other breast, giving it the same loving, devoted attention. His hands were roaming over your back, your sides, your hips, pulling you closer, deepening the connection between you.
He pulled away again, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with a hunger that mirrored your own. "Take them off," he said, his voice a low, urgent command. "Take off our clothes. I want to see all of you. I want to feel all of you."
You didn't need to be told twice. You climbed off his lap, your movements clumsy with desire. You stood beside the bed, your fingers hooking into the waistband of your scrubs. You pushed them down, along with your panties, kicking them aside. You were completely naked before him, your body bathed in the soft light of the lamp.
He watched you, his gaze a physical touch, a caress that was almost as potent as his hands. His eyes roamed over your body, from the curve of your breasts to the dip of your waist, to the swell of your hips and the soft curls between your thighs. He looked at you like you were a masterpiece, a work of art he had waited his entire life to see.
You bit your lip, a sudden wave of shyness washing over you. "Do you… do you want me to take off yours?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.
He nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. "God, yes."
You climbed back onto the bed, your movements slow, deliberate. You reached for the waistband of his sweats, your fingers brushing against the hot, hard skin of his stomach. He lifted his hips as best he could, a small, grunt of effort escaping his lips. You pulled the sweats down, along with his boxers, freeing him.
And then you got your first proper look.
His cock was incredible. It was standing proud and tall against his stomach, a thick, long shaft of flesh that was already slick with pre-cum. The head was a dark, angry purple, the slit leaking a steady stream of clear fluid. He was harder than you had ever imagined, a testament to his desire for you. You were surprised that he was already so aroused, so ready, despite the emotional rollercoaster of the evening. But then again, you were, too.
He whimpered as you looked at him, a sound of pure vulnerability. "Please," he begged, his voice cracking. "Don't just look. Please, touch me."
You couldn't resist. You straddled him again, settling back onto his lap, but this time, there were no clothes between you. The feel of his hot, hard cock against your wet, sensitive folds was a revelation. It was a perfect, intimate fit, a promise of the pleasure to come.
You leaned forward, your lips finding the corner of his mouth. You kissed him softly, then moved to his cheek, his jaw, his neck. You could feel his dick twitch against your thigh with every kiss, every touch.
"Please," he begged again, his voice a ragged whisper. "Ride me. Please, y /n. I need to be inside you."
The words were a lit match to gasoline. Every rational thought, every lingering doubt, was incinerated in the face of his raw, desperate plea. You wanted it too. God, you wanted it more than you had ever wanted anything.
You reached down between your bodies, your fingers wrapping around the thick, hot length of him. He was slick with pre-cum, his skin velvety soft over the incredible hardness beneath. He let out a sharp, hissing breath, his hips bucking up into your hand at the first touch.
You pumped him slowly, your thumb spreading the fluid over his head, learning his shape, his weight. He was perfect. He was everything.
"I'm on the pill," you whispered, your voice thick with a desire that was so potent it was a physical ache. "And I'm clean. Are you?"
He nodded frantically, his eyes wide and pleading. "Yes. God, yes. I'm clean. Please… don't stop."
You positioned him at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your wet, swollen folds. The anticipation was a sweet agony, a tension that was pulling you taut. You looked into his eyes, searching for any sign of hesitation, any last-minute doubt. All you saw was a burning, unwavering need that mirrored your own.
Slowly, carefully, you began to sink down onto him.
The first breach was a stretch, a delicious, burning pressure as your body adjusted to his size. He was thick, thicker than you had anticipated, and the sensation was overwhelming. A loud, broken moan escaped your lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
He moaned too, a deep, guttural sound that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul. His head was thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut, his hands fisting in the sheets on either side of him. "Fuck," he gasped, his voice ragged. "Oh, fuck. You're so… so tight."
You took him inch by inch, lowering yourself slowly, savoring the exquisite feeling of him filling you, stretching you, completing you. It felt like coming home. It felt like you had been waiting for this moment, for this connection, your entire life.
When you were finally seated, you were completely full. He was buried deep inside you, a hot, hard presence that was a part of you now. You wiggled your hips slightly, adjusting to the feel of him, making sure you had taken all of him. The movement sent a fresh wave of pleasure through you, and you both moaned in unison.
He was so vocal. Every little movement, every shift of your hips, elicited a response from him—a gasp, a moan, a whispered curse. It was the most incredible thing you had ever heard. He wasn't holding back. He was giving you everything.
His hands, which had been clenched in the sheets, slowly relaxed. He brought them up, placing them tentatively on your hips. The contact was electric, a brand that sent a jolt of desire straight to your core. He held you, his thumbs stroking circles on your skin, as if he couldn't quite believe you were real.
He leaned forward, his lips finding yours in a deep, sensual kiss. It was a kiss of possession, of gratitude, of pure, unadulterated bliss. His tongue tangled with yours, tasting, exploring, claiming. He kissed you with a hunger that was both fierce and tender, and you lost yourself in it.
He broke the kiss, his lips trailing a path of fire down your neck, his teeth scraping gently against your skin. He was everywhere, his hands on your hips, his lips on your neck, his cock deep inside you. You were surrounded by him, consumed by him.
You began to move.
It was a slow, experimental rock of your hips at first, a gentle rise and fall. The friction was exquisite, a slow, sweet burn that built with every movement. You could feel every inch of him sliding in and out of you, the drag of his cock against your inner walls a sensation that was almost too much to bear.
He changed the position of his arms, a feat of strength that was both impressive and incredibly arousing. He wrapped them around you, pulling you close in a tight, almost desperate hug. You were now chest to chest, your bodies pressed together from shoulder to hip. The new position limited your range of motion, but it brought you closer than ever.
Every time you rose up, your breasts would graze against his chest, the sensitive peaks brushing against the hard muscle and the crisp hair there. The contact was electric, and he moaned every time, a low, guttural sound of pleasure that vibrated through your entire body.
You found a rhythm, a slow, steady pace that was both torturous and sublime. You were riding him, taking your pleasure from him, and giving him his in return. It was a dance as old as time, a primal, powerful rhythm that connected you on the most fundamental level.
The tension began to build, a slow, coiling heat in your belly that grew with every thrust. You could feel your orgasm approaching, a wave of pleasure that was gathering strength, preparing to crash over you.
And then he did something that nearly shattered you.
With a grunt of effort, he moved one of his arms, his hand snaking down between your bodies. His fingers found your clit, the sensitive bundle of nerves already swollen and aching for his touch. He began to rub circles on it, his touch firm, confident, exactly what you needed.
The added stimulation was your undoing. The coil in your belly snapped, and your orgasm crashed over you with the force of a tidal wave. It was a blinding, all-consuming pleasure that stole your breath and your sight. You cried out his name, your body convulsing around him, your inner walls clenching and spasming around his cock.
He followed you over the edge with a loud, guttural moan. You felt him swell inside you, and then he was spilling into you, a hot, powerful rush of his release that seemed to go on forever. He held you tight, his face buried in your neck, his body trembling with the force of his climax.
You stayed like that for a long time, your bodies tangled together, his cock still inside you, your hearts beating in a frantic, synchronized rhythm. The air was thick with the scent of sex and sweat, a raw, primal perfume that was uniquely yours.
Eventually, your breathing slowed, your bodies relaxing in the aftermath of your shared release. You lifted your head, looking into his eyes. They were soft, sated, filled with a warmth and tenderness that made your heart ache.
He smiled, a lazy, contented smile. "Wow," he whispered, his voice husky.
You smiled back, your heart feeling so full it might burst. "Wow," you agreed.
You didn't want to move. You wanted to stay like this forever, wrapped in his arms, connected in the most intimate way possible. But you knew you had to. You had to clean him up, to take care of him.
With a reluctant sigh, you climbed off his lap, the loss of him an immediate, physical ache. You went to the bathroom, grabbing a warm, wet washcloth. You came back to the bed and gently cleaned him up, your touch soft and tender. He watched you, his gaze soft and adoring.
You cleaned yourself up, then slipped back into bed beside him. He immediately opened his arms, and you snuggled into his embrace, your head resting on his chest. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close.
You didn't talk much. There was no need. Everything had been said. You just lay there, in the quiet darkness, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. He kept kissing you, soft, gentle kisses on your forehead, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, your lips. Each kiss was a confirmation, a promise.
After a while, you tilted your head back, looking up at him. A mischievous smile played on your lips. "You know," you said, your voice teasing. "For a first-timer, you lasted a surprisingly long time."
He laughed, a real, genuine, hearty laugh that rumbled through his chest and vibrated against your ear. It was the most beautiful sound you had ever heard. "I had a good teacher," he replied, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
You laughed with him, the sound filling the quiet room. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated joy, a memory you would cherish forever.
Eventually, you drifted off to sleep, wrapped in his arms, feeling safer and more content than you had ever felt in your entire life.
When you woke up the next morning, it was to the gentle warmth of sunlight streaming through the window. For a moment, you were disoriented, your mind fuzzy with sleep. Then you felt it.
An arm was wrapped around your waist, a heavy, solid weight that was both comforting and possessive. Your eyes flew open, and you looked down.
It was Lando's arm.
You were lying on your side, and he was curled around you, his body spooning yours. His arm was draped over you, his hand resting possessively on your hip. In his sleep, he had moved. He had wrapped himself around you, a subconscious act of intimacy and protection.
You were stunned. You knew it was a small movement, a simple reflex. But for him, it was a monumental achievement. It was a testament to the connection between you, a connection that was so strong it transcended the physical limitations of his body.
You woke up to the gentle warmth of sunlight streaming through the window, a soft, golden light that painted the room in hues of honey and cream. For a moment, you were disoriented, your mind fuzzy with sleep and the lingering scent of him. You were in a bed that wasn't yours, in a room that was both familiar and completely alien. And then you felt it.
An arm was wrapped around your waist, a heavy, solid weight that was both comforting and possessive. Your eyes flew open, and you looked down.
It was Lando's arm.
You were lying on your side, and he was curled around you, his body spooning yours. His arm was draped over you, his hand resting possessively on your hip. In his sleep, he had moved. He had wrapped himself around you, a subconscious act of intimacy and protection that was so profound it stole your breath.
You were stunned. You knew it was a small movement, a simple reflex. But for him, it was a monumental achievement. It was a testament to the connection between you, a connection that was so strong it transcended the physical limitations of his body. It was a victory, not just for his recovery, but for whatever this was that you had become to each other.
You lay perfectly still, not wanting to wake him, not wanting to break the spell. You just wanted to savor this moment, this incredible, impossible gift. You could feel the soft puff of his breath against the back of your neck, the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against your back. He was warm and solid and real, and he was holding you.
A slow, unstoppable smile spread across your face. Last night hadn't been a dream. It was real. The desperate kisses, the raw confessions, the mind-blowing sex, the tender aftermath—it had all happened. And now, here you were, in the quiet light of morning, wrapped in his arms.
You shifted slightly, turning in his embrace until you were facing him. His eyes were still closed, his face relaxed in sleep. He looked younger, softer, the harsh lines of pain and frustration smoothed away. You reached out, your fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his lips. He was so beautiful. It was an ache in your chest, a fierce, protective tenderness that you had never felt for anyone.
His eyelids fluttered open, and for a moment, they were hazy with sleep. Then they focused on you, and a slow, lazy smile spread across his face. "Morning," he murmured, his voice a low, husky rumble that was still thick with sleep.
"Morning," you whispered back, your heart doing a little flip-flop in your chest.
He tightened his arm around you, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. "I thought I dreamed you," he said, his eyes roaming over your face. "But you're really here."
"I'm really here," you confirmed, your voice soft.
He leaned in and kissed you. It was a soft, gentle kiss, a slow, sweet exploration that was full of sleepy contentment. It wasn't the desperate, hungry kiss from last night, or the questioning, hesitant one before it. It was a kiss of familiarity, of comfort, of a shared morning after. It was the kiss of a man who knew he had the right to kiss you, and a woman who was more than happy to let him.
When he pulled away, he was still smiling. "I can't feel my legs," he said, his voice light, "but I can feel this. I can feel you." He moved his arm, his hand sliding down from your hip to rest on the small of your back. "And I can move my arm. See?"
You laughed, a soft, happy sound. "I see. You're a miracle worker."
"No," he said, his gaze turning serious, his eyes searching yours. "You are."
He kissed you again, deeper this time, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips. You opened for him, a soft sigh escaping your lips as his tongue met yours. The kiss was slow and sensual, a lazy, morning-after exploration that quickly ignited into something more. You could feel the heat building between you, the familiar ache of desire starting to coil low in your belly.
His hand began to roam, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist. He was touching you with a newfound confidence, his movements sure and deliberate. He was learning your body, memorizing it with his hands.
You were lost in the kiss, your hands tangling in his hair, your body arching against his. You wanted him again. You wanted him with a depth and intensity that scared you.
But then, your stomach let out a loud, embarrassing rumble.
Lando pulled away, a look of mock surprise on his face. "Was that you?"
You felt your cheeks flush. "Maybe," you mumbled, burying your face in his chest. "I'm hungry."
He laughed, a real, genuine, hearty laugh that rumbled through his chest and vibrated against your ear. It was the most beautiful sound you had ever heard. "Well, we can't have that," he said, his arms tightening around you. "What do you want for breakfast, my miracle worker?"
You lifted your head, a mischievous glint in your eye. "I'll cook," you said. "You just stay right there and look pretty."
"Deal," he agreed, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "But I get to watch."
You gave him one last, quick kiss before scrambling out of bed. You grabbed his t-shirt from the floor, pulling it over your head. It was big and soft, and it smelled like him. You felt a little thrill, wearing his shirt, a silent claim of your own.
You padded out of the room, leaving him propped up against the pillows, a lazy, contented smile on his face. You could feel his eyes on you as you walked away, and you couldn't help but sway your hips just a little bit.
You found his kitchen, a sleek, modern space that was surprisingly well-stocked. You started pulling out ingredients, your movements efficient and sure. You were in your element, the familiar act of cooking a comforting anchor in the sea of new and overwhelming emotions.
You decided on pancakes, fluffy, golden-brown pancakes with bacon and coffee. The smell of coffee brewing and bacon sizzling soon filled the apartment, a warm, comforting aroma that felt like home.
You could feel his gaze on you the entire time. He had wheeled himself into the kitchen doorway, and he was just watching you, his expression soft and adoring. He wasn't saying anything, he was just looking. It was a little unnerving, but mostly, it was incredibly flattering. He looked at you like you were the most fascinating thing he had ever seen.
You felt a blush creep up your neck, and you turned to face him, a spatula in your hand. "What are you looking at?" you asked, trying to sound teasing, but your voice came out a little shy.
"You," he said, his voice soft and sincere. "I'm looking at you. You're beautiful."
Your heart melted. "You're just saying that because I'm making you pancakes."
"No," he said, shaking his head. "I'm saying it because it's true. You standing there, in my shirt, with flour on your nose… it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
You self-consciously wiped at your nose, only to realize there was no flour there. He was teasing you. "You're a jerk," you said, but you were smiling.
"Well, I’m a jerk who’s obsessed with the sight of you making me breakfast," he countered, his eyes sparkling.
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning. Obsessed with the sight of you. It was too soon. It was too much. It was everything.
You turned back to the pancakes, your heart hammering against your ribs. You didn't know what to say, so you said nothing. You just focused on the task at hand, flipping the pancakes with a concentration that was almost comical.
He seemed to sense your hesitation. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "Was that too much?"
You took a deep breath, turning to face him again. "No," you said, your voice quiet. "It's not too much. It's just… a lot. It's all a lot."
"I know," he said, his gaze gentle. "It's a lot for me, too. But it's good. It's all good."
You nodded, a small smile playing on your lips. "It's good," you agreed.
You finished breakfast, piling the pancakes high on a plate and arranging the bacon on the side. You carried the plates to the small table in his dining area, and he wheeled himself over to join you.
You ate in a comfortable silence, the only sounds the clinking of forks and the soft murmur of the city outside. It was a domestic scene, so normal and so perfect that it felt surreal. You were just a couple, having breakfast together. But you weren't just a couple. You were his therapist, and he was your patient. The line had been obliterated, and you were standing in the rubble, trying to figure out how to build something new from the ashes.
As you were clearing the table, his phone buzzed on the counter. He picked it up, glancing at the screen. A small smile played on his lips. "It's Max," he said, looking up at you. "Do you mind if I take this?"
"Of course not," you said, trying to sound casual, but a knot of anxiety tightened in your stomach. Max. One of his friends from before. A representative from the life you had so thoroughly upended.
He swiped to answer, putting the phone on speaker. "Max, my man! To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Lando! You're alive!" A cheerful, boisterous voice filled the kitchen. "I was starting to think you'd been kidnapped by your physical therapist and forced to do squats until you cried."
Lando's eyes flicked to yours, a mischievous glint in them. "Something like that," he said, his voice laced with an innuendo that made your cheeks burn.
"Good, that's what we like to hear. Builds character," Max laughed. "Listen, the reason I'm calling. A few of us are getting together at the pub on Friday. Just a low-key thing. Thought you might want to get out of that fancy prison of yours for a bit. See some familiar faces."
You busied yourself at the sink, rinsing the plates, your ears straining to catch every word. You tried to act casual, like this was just a normal phone call, but your heart was pounding. This was the real world intruding, a stark reminder of the complicated reality of your situation.
"I don't know, Max," Lando said, his tone more measured now. "I'm still… you know. Getting used to things."
"Yeah, yeah, I get it," Max said, his voice softening slightly. "No pressure, mate. Seriously. But the offer's there. We miss you, you bastard."
"I miss you guys too," Lando said, and you could hear the genuine emotion in his voice.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then Max's voice dropped, becoming conspiratorial. "So, what's going on with you? You sound… different. Happier. Don't tell me you've finally discovered the therapeutic benefits of a good wank. Has it been that long?"
Your hand froze mid-wash, a plate clattering into the sink with a loud clatter. You felt your face flush a deep, crimson red. You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole.
Lando let out a surprised laugh, a real, genuine bark of amusement. He looked at you, his eyes dancing with mirth. "Something like that, yeah," he said, his voice full of smug satisfaction.
"No way!" Max crowed, his delight palpable through the phone. "You finally did it! I'm proud of you, son. Was it good? Did you cry? It's okay if you cried, I won't tell anyone."
Lando was full-on grinning now, a look of pure, unadulterated joy on his face. He was enjoying this. He was enjoying your mortification. "It was… life-changing," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "A truly spiritual experience."
"I'll bet!" Max howled. "See? All that pent-up energy. Good for the soul. So, is this a new development? Should we be expecting a more relaxed, less-grumpy Lando from now on?"
"We'll see," Lando said, his gaze still locked on yours. "I'm… exploring new avenues of relaxation."
"Well, keep exploring, my friend," Max said. "And seriously, think about Friday. Even if you just come for an hour. It'll be good for you."
"I'll think about it," Lando promised. "Hey, Max, I gotta go. My… therapist… is giving me the evil eye."
"Ooh, the evil eye! Feisty! Tell her I said hi!" Max chuckled. "Later, mate."
"Later," Lando said, ending the call.
The silence that fell in the wake of the phone call was thick and charged. You could still feel the heat in your cheeks, the echo of Max's crude words ringing in your ears.
You turned around slowly, your arms crossed over your chest. "You are a terrible, terrible man," you said, but you couldn't keep the smile from your face.
He wheeled himself closer, stopping right in front of you. He reached out, his hands finding your waist, pulling you between his legs. "You're blushing," he murmured, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
"I am not," you lied, your voice a little too high.
"You are," he insisted, his thumbs stroking circles on your hips. "It's cute. I like it."
"You liked embarrassing me," you accused, swatting playfully at his shoulder.
"I loved it," he corrected, his voice dropping to a low, seductive rumble. "I love knowing I can make you blush. I love knowing that when he was talking about me, you were thinking about us."
You couldn't argue with that. It was true. "He's your friend," you said softly. "He cares about you."
"I know," Lando said, his expression turning serious. "And I'll see them. Eventually. But right now… right now, all I care about is you."
He leaned in, his lips finding yours in a soft, sweet kiss that was full of tenderness and affection. It was a kiss that said thank youand you're mine and this is real.
When he pulled away, he was smiling. "Alright, miracle worker," he said, his voice light again. "Enough slacking off. Time for my training. You've got a body to mold."
You laughed, the last of your embarrassment fading away. "Yes, sir," you said, giving him a mock salute. "Let's get to work."
The training session that day was different. It was charged with a new energy, a playful, flirtatious tension that hadn't been there before. Every touch was loaded with meaning, every glance a silent conversation. You were no longer just his therapist, and he was no longer just your patient. You were lovers, playing a game of professional propriety that was both exhilarating and impossible to win.
You started with the usual stretches, your hands guiding his limbs, your voice a soft, steady murmur of instruction. But today, your touch lingered a little longer than necessary. Today, your gaze would meet his in the mirror, holding for a beat too long. Today, the air between you was thick with unspoken promises and the memory of last night.
He was doing incredibly well. His focus was sharp, his determination unwavering. He was pushing himself harder than ever before, a newfound strength and confidence in his movements that was breathtaking to watch. He was transferring from his chair to the mat with an ease that would have been unthinkable a week ago. He was holding his planks longer, his form perfect, his body a testament to his sheer force of will.
"God, you're amazing," you said, your voice filled with genuine awe as he finished a particularly difficult set of core exercises. "The progress you're making… it's incredible."
He collapsed back onto the mat, his chest heaving, a sheen of sweat on his brow. He looked up at you, a triumphant, exhausted grin on his face. "I told you," he panted. "You're a miracle worker."
"It's all you," you insisted, kneeling beside him, your hand resting on his shoulder. "I'm just here to cheer you on."
"You do more than cheer," he said, his voice low and husky. He reached up, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "You inspire me."
Your heart melted. He was looking at you with such open, raw adoration that it was almost painful. You leaned into his touch, your eyes closing for a moment, just savoring the feel of him.
"Alright, Romeo," you said, pulling away with a playful smile. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. We still have work to do. Time for some upper body work. Let's get you over to the parallel bars."
You helped him up, his body a solid, trusting weight in your arms. You guided him to the bars, his movements sure and confident. He gripped the bars, his knuckles white, his arms trembling with the effort of holding his own weight.
You stood in front of him, your hands ready to spot him, your gaze focused on his form. "Okay," you said, your voice professional and steady. "Let's try for ten reps. Nice and slow. Focus on your form."
He nodded, his jaw set with determination. He began to lift himself, his arms straining, his muscles bunching with the effort. He was doing it. He was lifting his own body weight, a feat of strength that was nothing short of miraculous.
You watched him, your heart swelling with a fierce, protective pride. He was so strong, so determined. He was fighting his way back, and you were honored to be a part of his journey.
And then, as he lowered himself back down, your eyes drifted from his face, down his chest, to his sweatpants.
And you saw it.
Through the thin fabric of his pants, you could see the distinct, unmistakable outline of his erection. He was hard. The sight of it sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated desire through you, so powerful it made you dizzy.
He had been getting aroused from the training. From the exertion, from the strain, from your touch. The knowledge that his body was responding to you in this way, even in the midst of this grueling physical therapy, was the most potent aphrodisiac you had ever known.
You looked up at his face, and your breath caught. He was looking at you, his eyes dark and hooded with desire. He knew you had seen. A silent understanding passed between you in the charged air of the gym. The professional facade, already riddled with cracks, finally shattered. There was no more pretense, no more denial. There was only the raw, undeniable truth of his desire and your own eager, willing response.
"Let go," you whispered, your voice husky and thick with a need that matched his.
He looked at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours, a silent question hanging between them. Then, with a soft groan of surrender, he let go of the bars.
You were there to catch him, your arms wrapping around his waist as his legs gave out, guiding his descent to the mat. He landed with a soft thud, his back against the padded floor, his breathing ragged. You knelt beside him, your gaze locked on his, the air thick with unspoken promises.
You didn't waste a second. Your hands moved with a newfound confidence, a sense of purpose that was both thrilling and terrifying. You reached for the waistband of his sweatpants, your fingers hooking into the soft, worn fabric. He lifted his hips, a silent, willing participant, and you pulled them down, along with his boxers, freeing him.
His cock sprang free, standing proud and tall against his stomach. It was even more magnificent than you remembered, a thick, long shaft of flesh that was flushed a dark, angry purple with arousal. The head was swollen and slick, a single, perfect bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip. He was so hard, so ready for you, and the sight of him, so openly and unapologetically aroused, sent a fresh wave of liquid heat pooling between your thighs.
He whimpered, a soft, broken sound of pure vulnerability as you looked at him. "Please," he begged, his voice cracking with desperation. "Please, y/n."
You didn't need any more encouragement. You leaned forward, your movements slow, deliberate, a predator stalking its prey. You settled between his spread legs, your hands resting on his powerful, quivering thighs. You could feel the tension coiled in his muscles, the frantic, desperate energy that was thrumming through his entire body.
You started with a soft, open-mouthed kiss on his inner thigh. He gasped, his hips jerking at the unexpected contact. You smiled against his skin, your tongue darting out to taste the salty tang of his sweat. You placed another kiss, higher this time, your lips leaving a trail of fire up his leg. You were teasing him, tormenting him, drawing out the anticipation until it was a sweet, exquisite agony.
You could feel his hands fisting in the mat beside him, his knuckles white. He was trying to hold on, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but you could feel him unraveling, thread by thread.
You finally reached your destination. You leaned in, your breath warm against his sensitive, swollen head. You stuck out your tongue, flattening it, and took a long, slow, deliberate lick from the base of his shaft to the very tip.
He cried out, a loud, guttural moan that was a mixture of pleasure and pure, unadulterated shock. His entire body arched off the mat, his hips bucking up into your face. "Fuck!" he gasped, his voice ragged. "Oh, fuck, y/n!"
You smiled, a wave of feminine power washing over you. You had never felt so in control, so utterly and completely in command. You had this powerful, beautiful man at your mercy, and you were going to make him fall apart.
You took him into your mouth.
The first sensation was overwhelming. The velvety softness of his skin against your tongue, the incredible, solid hardness of him, the sheer weight of him on your tongue. He was big, bigger than you had anticipated, and you had to open your mouth wide to accommodate him.
You took him in slowly, inch by inch, savoring the feel of him filling you. You swirled your tongue around his head, tasting the salty, slightly bitter taste of his pre-cum. He moaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through his entire body and straight into your core.
You began to move, your head bobbing up and down, your lips wrapped tightly around his shaft. You established a rhythm, a slow, steady pace that was designed to drive him wild. You could feel his hands in your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands, holding on for dear life. He wasn't guiding you, he was just holding on, a desperate anchor in a sea of overwhelming pleasure.
You took him deeper, relaxing your throat, letting him slide further into your mouth until your lips were brushing against the coarse hair at his base. You could feel him hit the back of your throat, and you swallowed, the muscles of your throat constricting around him.
He let out a loud, strangled cry, his hips jerking up uncontrollably. "Jesus, y/n," he gasped, his voice a ragged whisper. "What are you doing to me?"
You pulled back, releasing him with a soft, wet pop. You looked up at him, your eyes dark with desire. You could see the raw, unadulterated need on his face, the desperate, pleading look in his eyes. He was completely and utterly at your mercy.
You smiled, a slow, seductive smile. "You like that?" you asked, your voice a low, husky purr.
He nodded frantically, his eyes wide and pleading. "God, yes," he breathed. "Don't stop. Please, don't stop."
You leaned back down, your attention turning to his balls. They were heavy and tight, drawn up against his body. You took one into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the sensitive sac, sucking gently.
He moaned, a deep, guttural sound that was almost a growl. His hands tightened in your hair, his hips grinding up in a desperate, frantic motion. You gave his other ball the same loving, devoted attention, your tongue tracing patterns, your mouth sucking gently.
You could feel him getting close. His breathing was coming in short, sharp gasps, his body trembling with a tension that was about to snap. You knew you had him on the edge, and you were going to push him over.
You released his balls, taking his cock back into your mouth. This time, there was no slow, teasing build-up. You took him deep, your head moving with a fast, furious rhythm. You could feel the tension coiling in his belly, the frantic, desperate energy that was pulsing through him.
You reached down, your hand finding his balls, rolling them gently in your palm. You could feel them drawing up even tighter, a sure sign of his impending release.
You looked up at him, your eyes locking with his. You wanted to see his face when he came. You wanted to see the raw, unfiltered pleasure on his face.
His eyes were squeezed shut, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. His mouth was open, his head thrown back, his throat a long, vulnerable column. He was beautiful. He was a god.
And then he came.
It was a violent, explosive release. He cried out your name, a loud, guttural shout that echoed in the quiet room. You felt him swell in your mouth, and then he was spilling into you, a hot, powerful rush of his release that seemed to go on forever. You swallowed, taking all of him, your throat working to milk every last drop.
His body convulsed, his hips bucking up in a final, desperate spasm. He collapsed back onto the mat, his body limp and spent, his chest heaving with the force of his climax.
You slowly released him, your lips gently kissing his softening cock one last time. You crawled up his body, settling yourself beside him, your head resting on his chest. He immediately wrapped his arm around you, pulling you close, his body still trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm.
You lay there in a comfortable silence, the only sounds his ragged breathing and the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against your ear. You could feel the warm, sticky evidence of his release on your lips, a tangible reminder of the incredible intimacy you had just shared.
He tilted his head down, his lips finding your forehead in a soft, tender kiss. "Wow," he whispered, his voice a husky, contented rumble. "Just… wow."
You smiled, your heart feeling so full it might burst. "Wow," you agreed, snuggling closer into his embrace.
You had crossed a line. You had obliterated it. And as you lay there, wrapped in his arms, you knew, with a certainty that was both terrifying and exhilarating, that there was no going back.
Characters: Aerion "Brigthflame" Targaryen x Baratheon!Disguised knight!Reader
Summary: All you expected from Prince Aerion was cold indifference; your existence fading into a dark spot in his memory. But then your father returns home from Summerhall with word of your apparent betrothal. And when you pivot your attentions onto another knight during a tourney in honor of your union to House Targaryen, the prince's jealousy rages into something violent.
Warnings: MDNI, 18+. Afab, fem pronouns, no appearance descriptors, no use of y/n. Jealousy, possessive behavior, yearning, they're both brats honestly. Knife play (no bodily damage), shifting d/m dynamics, sub leaning! Aerion, biting, p in v, creampie. Threatened murder as foreplay. A bit of fluff?
Notes: 20.1k words. This is a second half to previous oneshot. Some details might not make sense if you haven't read it, but overall, this should be fine to read on its own. Banners by honeyluvsw, gif belongs to erinsangel. @kthcbkhj, @sana-within-you.
𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔦
You previously thought that the dagger had been sent to you as a threat.
Some kind of ridiculous, expensive intimidation tactic. Ostentatious, bizarre. A warning made with only the intent to strike fear into your heart. To remind you of that single night in your tent; the impulsive and hedonistic experience that it was, has come with a cost. That the young price holds your life within the palm of his hand. And he could crush it if he so wishes. Snuff it out like a fragile flame pinched between fingertips. And he's memorialized the reminder of that in the form of balanced steel, the glint of silver, a pommel that scintillates with a jewel the very same hue of spilt blood.
The symbolism had been too literal to have been lost on you. Displease him in some way, bore him or provoke his ire and he will have your throat for it.
And yet, the yearning, the traitorous thing that it is, has not waned. You are entirely pitiful for it, but you need him. Despite all of the horror, it endures.
You had tried persistently to trick yourself into believing that you would have been able to escape the effects of that night completely. To leave it behind unscathed and continue on with your life as though it had never happened. But the worry of what had transpired had haunted you tirelessly. Clung its grip to your shoulders like a ghost to torment you for the passing of many days. Wailing and lurking in the recesses of your mind in a constant death squall.
The cruel terror, that inevitably, your surreptitious tryst with the prince would come to light. The tourney had been thronged with people. Possible eyes that would have spied him slipping into your tent. Ears that could have later heard the debased moans and cries that would have seeped out past the fabric walls. Carnal, pleased, unmistakable for what they were.
Or perhaps it would have been Brightflame himself who would come forth to expose you. To name you as tainted. Made blemished by the touch of his very hands, his tongue. Having touched you in a manner than no man should. For him to make claims that he has also seen your armor. Witnessed proof firsthand that you fancy to parade yourself around as a ser, competing in tourneys under a false knighthood.
He could ruin you with little effort and the knowledge of so was crippling.
But then time continued to pass. The sun rose and fell over and over again, until nearly six moons had turned by without so much as a suspicioned whisper of your name slithering out from the distant walls of Summerhall. The servants of your father's castle did not spare you judgmental glances as they went about their business. No one murmured of rumors bearing speculations in regard to the state of your virtue or your false status as a knight.
It became clear that the prince had kept his mouth shut. Though in truth, he has more likely forgotten you entirely. The night you spent together now made a distant memory in his mind. The novelty having worn away, now too simple to hold the attentions of a dragon. You were one face alongside hundreds, for certain. Many a woman have warmed Prince Aerion's bed, and you were no different. It makes sense now that the recollection of you would have become faded to him once you were out from his sight. A temporary fixation. One that no longer whetted his appetite.
Now that he had returned home, he would have undoubtedly set his sights on other pursuits. The maids who flit about corridors with pretty lashes and polite voices, made hushed from their respect. Modest and courteous. The noble ladies who circulate throughout Summerhall, coming to bestow their gratitude upon his house, dressed in imported silks. Perfumed with violet leaves and rose petals.
You had tried you best to follow in his presumed footsteps. To forget that night, the taste of salt and blood on your tongue, the satin press of his hair gripped in your fingers. Separating yourself from it as best as you could. Valuing it only as a fleeting bliss, a forbidden pleasure. One that you must clutch to your chest, a secret to be carried with you to the grave.
But then you received the dagger. Delivered by the hands of a weary herald, the fabric of his tabard dyed in a terrifying set of colors. The black belonging to shadows and a violent scarlet that beckons forth images of war and slaughter.
It must have taken him days to travel all the way here on horseback from Summerhall. Over a week's time to traverse rugged terrain, rocky earth and steep hills. The weariness had been visible in the skin that creased beneath his eyes, his stare made glassy from his exhaustion, but he held himself high, resisting against the pressure to collapse in on himself. Chin leveled as a proper representation of his house when he presented you a fine wooden box, polished and dark in hue, adorned with silver on its corners.
Contained inside, cushioned on velvet had been the blade. Pretty and lethal, laced with fine engravings, the etch of them intricate, protected by the tight cover of its bejeweled scabbard. And the hilt was most exuberant. The cross guard an imitation of flaring wings. The grip a lithe, scaled neck, and the pommel itself was a pinnacle of craftsmanship, sculpted into the head of a dragon. Its jaws fixed ajar, elegant teeth clutching a ruby in their bite. It was undeniably lavish. Forged with practiced hands, and the style of the dagger gives indication of its age. Antique. Something possibly passed down by generations.
It felt baffling to you that Prince Aerion could have possibly sent it as a threat. But then again, he has always been fabled for his dramatics. For his need to flaunt the splendor of Targaryen grandiosity. To you, it had not seemed so farfetched.
But it was not meant for intimidation.
You knew that only once your father had been summoned to Summerhall. Hailed by Prince Maekar himself. And for days you had been left to stew within your own anxieties in his absence. Expecting the worst. Assuming horror. You had been discovered. Found out as a deceiver, a masquerader. And there would be consequences.
But you had been so wrong.
It hadn't been your end at all—
The overlapping voices trickle back in through your ears like a torrent of water rushing down a hill. Different tones and cadences spuming across the air, bubbling and murmuring, a layered racket. Brimming with an excitement that can be felt. Almost corporeal with its vigor, a glide on your skin. Fizzling, popping along the shape of your body, compressed around the width of your torso.
It's suffocating. Choking when it shouldn't be. The smallclothes under the fit of your dress clinging too tight, trapping a warmth beneath the garment. It should feel pleasant, a ward against the chill that tinges the sluggish breeze cutting across the grounds, but it does not. It only serves to make you more uncomfortable, threatening to dampen your flesh with a sheen of perspiration.
It is all so dreadful.
The sun too bright. Overbearing. Scourging the earth with its brunt, tracing everything it touches with gold as though it's all been lit in a fiery rage. An empyrean glow that makes this seem as though it's nothing but some sort of strange fantasy. And it would make it so easy to convince yourself that this is all merely a product of some kind of fever dream. That you've taken ill and have dozed off in the comforts of your apartment, safely on your bed.
But you know that you have not. The world around you is too tangible to deny. Draped over your skin. Loud in your ears. The acrid note of smoke from the cooking fires, the crisp damp of decaying leaves traverse potently on the winds. Dancing right along your nose, speckled with the traces of the jasmine oil rubbed on your pulse points. Which is unfortunately not enough to mask the distant sting of piss that has been swept in from the boundaries of the event grounds by the gale.
It all serves to affix you here. Making it an undeniable truth. That this is all real.
That clarity turns everything sharp. Files it to a point and it all becomes vivid. Your mind made overwhelmingly alert.
The presence of Prince Maekar is monumental. Spilling over you with its great weight, like it might just crush you underneath it. Grind your bones and tissue to a pulp. The only thing that keeps you from being crushed from it is the buffer of your father sitting between you, and that blessedly, his focus is no longer pinned to you. He sits silent, expression settled in that unimpressed glower while he scans the grounds. Detached from it all. His attentions only occasionally caught by the comments spared by his brother and your father, who tries his best to conduct himself with cordiality while in the company of Targaryens. He's been prickly since the house has stepped foot on Cragdale soil, even while he had been the one to propose the tournament in the first place. Always keen to present his wealth.
Neither of the respective family patriarchs are happy with this affair. They both have that much in common, and it has been made wholly apparent. But the benefits were too fruitful for either of them to refuse.
Prince Maekar looks at you as though you are some kind of thing. A creature that he is not sure what to do with but must tolerate. Your attempts to converse with him had been met with a reluctant interest. Visibly willing himself into a tepid kindness. A snarling dog attempting to contort the baring of its teeth into something softer. But his success to mold himself into benignity is flimsy at best. His brother, the Hand of the King, proving to be much better at diplomacy. Though the gentle smiles he has given you have done little to soothe. They are troubled with sympathy.
Like you are meant to pitied. Damned for misery.
Perhaps you are.
That's all that makes sense.
In all honesty, your mind is not entirely convinced that this isn't some sort of peculiar, elaborate joke, as impossible as that is. But you can scarcely believe it is truth.
But it is. Just you being in this seat is proof enough of that. Tucked within the frame of carved wood, suspended on the high platform of the pavilion, sharing space with the brood of the King. Nobility assembled around you, smallfolk howling and cheering below on the trampled earth, crowding against the railing from their excitement.
All in celebration of your betrothal to Prince Aerion.
Gods, this feels like insanity.
"Lady Baratheon!" A voice calls, swelling through the ruckus. The low chattered exchanged between Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar falls quiet, their private conversation made low to heed whoever has interrupted them.
It beckons your attention downward, slipping low and you have to tip over in your seat to see clearly over the edge. And it is then that the sight of a knight greets you. Armor enameled in a dusky blue, eye-catching in its shade. Made to be ogled. The man who sports it is beaming. His sun warmed face bare as he looks up to you. The visor of his helm lifted so that he may regard you freely with a smile that is hospitable, charming.
But he does not forget his manners when he addresses the princes, also making sure not to forget your father, inclining his chin with a polite "my lord."
The three of them take their turns in acknowledging him. All pleasant, though Prince Baelor is the only one who truly seems to be intrigued in the ser's arrival, his lips courteous in a gentle curve.
You feel embarrassed somewhat, that you do not recognize the man by face. But there is some relief when the sigil that adorns the chest plate strikes you as familiar, three arrows lined across its surface as though caught midair.
"Ser Kaeser," you nod in greeting. "Good day to you."
"Good day." He returns jovially, the grip he has on his reins flexing steady when his mount shifts impatiently on its hooves. "I do not mean to bother you, my lady. I only came over to wish you fortune on your betrothal to the princeling."
His head tilts, a tiny nod to the far side of the lists. "Even if your intended stands as my opponent, I am man enough to put such slights aside." A simple jest, and he chuckles softly from it.
But the gesture is only a shocking reminder, and it creeps up your spine in a cutting chill, stirring a tremble beneath the cover of your dress. It is only then that you notice the thrum of it, raising gooseflesh along your nape. Tapping over your skin like the little patter and brush of a thousand spider legs, repetitive. Troubling enough that your body longs to twist within the cradle of your seat. Muscles twitching with a primal awareness. The sensation that comes with being locked within a danger's sights.
You are terrified to face that hazard. But also thrilled in equal measure. And your eyes flicker away from Lord Keiser without your full consent. Sweeping over the full length of the lists and its flattened dirt, running along the length of the tilt barrier until it ends. And there he is, occupying the edge of the field, garbed in the full set of his armor. Swathed in dark. Figure made infernal in its silhouette. Imposing in a way that both bewitches and terrifies.
He had no need to enter the lists on this day. This tournament was arranged to celebrate him. He should be here, seated alongside you while you watched other knights compete for your entertainment. But you had quickly been informed when you entered the pavilion, that he had demanded to challenge for reasons beyond your understanding.
There is a look in his eye that worries you, now. Even from this distance you can see it clearly. The honed edge in his glare, the pinch of his brows. His concentration is a solid thing, unwavering. Fixed upon Ser Kaeser's profile, sharing a petrifying resemblance to a predator sizing up its prey. A beast lurking among the shadows to stalk the animal who remains ignorantly unaware of the circling peril. He looks lethal. And you are entirely convinced that he is now plotting a murder.
It's alive in his stare.
This is the first time that you've seen him since that night within the privacy of your tent, when he took you with teeth and fire. You've not had the opportunity to stand within his presence again. Not even after the conception of your union a whole moon ago. The distance between your houses and its customs keeping you far apart. Separating you into two halves, made to be joined, but only when tradition would deem it proper.
Seeing him now seems hardly real. It's as though a ghost has materialized before you. A mirage from the past projected across the horizon, far from your reach. The universe's cruel taunt. And it hits you with all the crackling impact of a lightning bolt that you really have missed him so much. That as much as you tried to ignore it, to pretend otherwise, you have been carrying that longing around inside of you like a stone. A burden of weight, sinking and crushing where it sat housed in your gut. A painful jab against your heart whenever it pulsed.
The time and distance that your home provided was enough to blind you to it. A wool tugged over your eyes so you could pretend that you hadn't dreamt about him when you slept. That he did not haunt nearly your every waking hour. A terrible curse that you did not want to nullify, even if it would bring you peace. His memory had been a torture you wanted to succumb to. And the reality of that had been a humiliation. That only a single night had reduced you lovestruck and anguished.
Your pride had been shattered because of it. Diminished to tatters. No longer forged with the strength of chainmail, meant to be wielded like a weapon, but lessened to all the defenseless might of silk. Amaranth hued, soft-edged. A delicate flutter in your chest like the strokes of butterfly wings; made torn and weighed down with sorrow whenever your pining would grow too great.
He's as beautiful as the night you saw him last.
He had brought you to pleasure over and over again then. Tipping you into bliss as though your previous mockery had spurred him on. Lit a fire within him that he could not ignore. And it had left you sated in a way that you yet to experience before. A bone deep satisfaction. The type that turns you loose-limbed and dazed. And once it was all over, you had drifted into restful slumber, your nose tucked into the crook of his neck where his scent sticks heaviest to his skin.
But when you woke in the morrow, the dawn still not yet cresting the horizon, he had been gone. The space he had occupied beside you long vacant, tinged with a lonely cold.
You ignored the ache it had left behind. How the smarting of it had seemed so much worse than the bruises he had littered upon your body on the lists.
So it had been a punch to the gut when you learned that it had been he who had propositioned his father with the intent to wed you.
"My son is adamant that he takes your hand in marriage for reasons that evade my understanding," Prince Maekar had enlightened you in an exhausted tone. His very first words spoken to you, blunt and threadbare. The corners of his mouth setting in a grimace as though the recollection of his son's insistence was an excruciating one.
It's shameful how much that revelation had gladdened just as much as it had bewildered you. And it had done nothing but divide you with the dual urges to both kiss and strike Prince Aerion. To bleed him for the hurt he had caused.
Your hands clench where they rest in your lap, fingers threading through the sheer linen that you have held as though it might keep you buoyed. It does not. But you don't think anything truly could. Not with the young prince sitting so vigilant from his post on the far side of the tiltyard. Observing your exchange with Ser Kaeser as though it is an indignity that he can't abide. Like he's being consumed by venom from only the sight of you entertaining another man's attentions. Stripped down to the cardinal facets of his being, bone marrow and jealousy.
The lifted position of his helm's visor spills shadows over his face, and it turns the scowl he wears grim. Eerie. Penumbra filling the divots of his eye sockets, and from this distance he looks like a specter made tangible. His visage a skull. The countenance of a fiend.
The thrill that shudders beneath your bodice is obscene. And very quickly it turns to a rush of fire, spreading across your nerves in dangerous sparks. Because he's urging his steed forward now. A pronounced motion from his hips has the mount stepping into a steady stride, its long legs reaching out to cover the ground, ripping through the distance with audible hoofbeats that tear up fragments of soil with each blow.
Your heart leaps into the base of your throat at his approach, and from your peripheral vision you see your father draw up taller in his seat. Head raising, his attentions roused. The disinterest that once draped his body is shed, turned protective and honed. Across from him you hear Prince Maekar's very own voice carry over, thinned and low with tension. A barely repressed irritation flickering from him in a hiss. "Oh, gods be fucking good."
Ser Kaeser turns his head, the thundering stride of Prince Aerion's mount now too loud and near to go unignored. You notice the minute tick of his shoulders squaring beneath the thick frame of his armor, the grip of his fist securing tight around the reins it holds. Everything about him becoming cautious. Coiling tight as though bracing for impact. But he smiles still. Conducting himself into a show of affability.
Ser Kaeser head gestures a nod in greeting once the prince is well within the proximity to hear him. "My lord."
But Prince Aerion does not so much as glance the knight's way as he draws his mount to a stop. Though not without waiting until the very final second to do so. It causes their horses to nearly strike into each other, and the animals toss their heads in upset. Meeting in a clash of twitching ears. The white in their eyes rolling while perturbed huffs of air expel from their chests, pitching in the air. Angry and offended. And the propinquity forces Ser Kaeser to yield, to draw his mare back to keep from fully colliding with the prince in a mash of armor and hide.
He steers his horse away by a few paces, relenting. Allowing Prince Aerion to wedge his mount into the very place that he had previously occupied. Claiming the spot as though it was his for the taking. All petulant bravado.
His eyes have been pinned on you throughout the entire exchange. Not once gravitating from your being. Not to regard the ser at his side, nor to address his own family.
The pressure of it feels as though it might cleave you in half. Reduce you to rubble. And you loathe how your body seems to sing in his presence, blood humming, breath drawing up tense while he admires you from his position astride his saddle. His stare is greedy. Enveloping you wholly. Shaping around your body to arrest you and fastening you to the frame of your seat.
"Lady Baratheon," Prince Aerion hails, angling his head back to properly appraise you from your vantage. His voice trickles over you like a pour of warmed water, soothing and scalding all at once.
"Prince Aerion," you answer with a poise that does not feel like it belongs to you. It is impossible to ignore that you are being studied so intensely by many pairs of eyes. Your very own father, the two princes. The knight who remains in his place, somewhat awkwardly as though he is not certain if he should excuse himself or not. And even then, the entire grounds below are swarmed with the bodies of the smallfolk, all observing the interaction as though it is a pageant to be goggled at.
Everyone seems to be holding their breaths. Regarding you both as though you might light ablaze at any moment. Two unstable elements that could combust without warning and decimate the unfortunate souls packed within the vicinity. Your father and Prince Maekar staring much like the owners of two dogs, warily gauging as they acquaint themselves and expecting to see raised hackles, saliva dripping through the gaps of fangs.
It is all demeaning in its own right, but you refuse to shrink beneath it. You look only at Prince Aerion, holding his gaze with your own, and it lends you a courage that it should not. Distracts you from feeling like a display.
"I'm confident you received my gift." He holds himself with a casual air, at ease astride his mount, but his stare is anything but. It has teeth. Constricted around you like it might puncture flesh. Maybe you'd let it.
"I did. It is beautiful, my prince, I thank you for it." You reply with full honesty. But something moves beneath the tranquility you've constructed yourself into. It's electric, twisting, splitting beneath the requirement to keep yourself poised. A barbed desire to bait and rile. And it's so very dangerous because it is too strong to ignore. Not because it outside of your power to resist it, but simply because you don't want to. "Though it is a shame that you did not get me jewels instead. I could have worn them in a display of our marriage to come, but I had to settle for pearls where there could have been rubies."
It is your father's voice that responds to you first. The beratement a crack across the air. Your name bastardized in a pure admonishment.
You ignore it.
You can't be bothered to care about his vexation from the risk of his ignominy. Not while you're overcome with anticipation. You actually feel eager as you await Prince Aerion's rebuttal. You wonder if he is still bold even while under the scrutiny of his father's eyes; the only man in perhaps the entire kingdom who is capable of exacting discipline in the young prince.
But Aerion Brightflame does not falter.
His posture grows taller, head raising in opposition to the unchecked petulance in your cadence. Eyes blazing with dragonfire, and your heart stirs from its ferocious glimmer.
"Oh, fret not, there is absolutely no confusion to be made if you are mine." His focus is that of a hunter's trained on its mark. Minacious in its intensity. Voice a smooth velvet, rumbling low in a manner that is unbecoming to be heard by the company you keep. The salacious edge of it distinctive. So vivid that it bathes your flesh in heat. It is as though your petty complaints have only enticed him. "There is not a man, woman or child here who does not know it."
"Have shame, boy." Prince Maekar growls, but it is a caution that ultimately goes unheeded.
Prince Aerion is too engrossed in you, and you in he. For a moment you only stare at each other, a charge igniting between the atmosphere existing between your bodies. One that is so familiar. Just the very same as the temptation that had shrouded you that night in the tent. And now that it has returned to you, you are left to recognize how much you have missed it. Your being having been starved for it like lungs deprived of air.
In the prince's eyes lies something you now know so well. A dare.
A dare to speak up. To resist him. To praise him. To do anything.
A thought nestles in your mind. Tiny. Nothing for a time. But then it takes root, growing strong before you can pluck it. Taking possession of you. Slipping down into your fingers and feet. And then you're acting before it can be helped, fueled by so much. Lust and excitement, but even more prevalent that all of that is anger and indignation.
Vexation weaved inside of you, festering over hours and days, because throughout this entire affair he has not once made to speak to you. He sent not word to notify you of his intentions, but instead a dagger. He did not attempt to share conversation since he had arrived at your family castlethis very morrow, but now parades himself before you like a preening peacock. Demanding attention.
You lift yourself entirely out from your seat, raising to your full height before you can convince yourself to stop.
"Ser Kaeser," you call.
He perks up in his saddle, looking so attentive and pleasant that the guilt that floods your belly becomes stinging. A thing that knots tight, but it is still not enough to dissuade you from your goal.
You are horrifically aware of how everyone is watching you, both curious and alert, as though bracing for peril. And from the edges of your sight, you spy how Prince Aerion is tracking your movements. How his brows have drawn close, the edges of his mouth tugging in an expression that seems both bewildered and offended. Like you have snubbed him by diverting your attention elsewhere, even if only for a second.
It turns your gut into a hearth, housing an emboldened, sprightly flame. One that winks and ruptures with popping embers, alighting you with a courage that is menacing.
The world seems to suck in its breath and explode with quiet chaos. A simultaneous madness when you lean forward and outstretch the delicate linen in your hand for Ser Kaeser. Presenting the pallid clothe for the knight to take wordlessly. It dangles there, catching faintly on the twisting of a fine breeze. Nothing more than a simple handkerchief. Unassuming. Innocent. Sheer and delicate, the hue of purity. Of virtue.
But it sits suspended like a favor brandished by the Stranger itself.
This is all so impulsive of you. It was never meant for Ser Kaeser. Truly, you never knew of his existence until this very moment. And the design on the rich material is statement enough of that. Try as you might, you had not been able to keep yourself from putting needle and thread to fabric. You had told yourself that it was only a means to ward off boredom while you awaited the Targaryens arrival to your family estate. A way to keep your mind from falling numb, but that had only been a lie to feed your own mouth. You had fretted over it too much for that sort of deception to be convincing.
The placement of the thread too considerate, too careful to only be a flippant means of entertainment. And it is all revealed visibly in the elaborate work. The embroidery painstakingly weaved through the canvas of the cloth to depict a symbol that cannot be mistaken. A dragon. Sanguine in hue, patterned with thin threads of golden-yellow to present the illusion of scales. And tilting its antlers in a summons for combat or companionship, is a rearing stag. Vibrant in the shade of a midday sun.
The twin beasts obvious in their depiction. The union of both houses. Of your marriage.
It had been a girlish endeavor on your part. One that made your cheeks smart with mortification while you worked, but it had not been enough to make you quit.
And now here you are. Offering it up to a stranger before the very eyes of its intended only because you could not shake your umbrage.
Beside you, someone sighs, weary. You are not certain who, but you pay it no mind.
"Take it." You wave it gentle as though to entice Ser Keiser. Settling you features in something innocent, blissfully naïve. "Consider it a token of good luck. I'm sure you've heard, but my husband-to-be has not lost to either a joust or to sword yet. You shall need it."
The knight appears as though you are handing him poison laced wine and have commanded him to drink. Though you suppose that is close to the truth. If looks were able, you are positive that Prince Aerion's stare would have flayed the ser's skin from his body. Shredded through his armor as though it were parchment and left him vulnerable for the agony to come.
But the Kaeser House has a reputation for producing talented knights. Men both adept on horseback and in warfare. It has you confident that he will be experienced enough to handle one spoiled prince. No matter how ferocious his tantrums may be.
If you had been able enough to survive his lance, then surely a true knight would fair fine.
Prince Aerion's wrath lashes through the atmosphere, smoke and ash. A promise of what's to come. But the ser cannot deny your request.
The hesitation that Ser Kaeser wars with seems to thaw. Trepidation turned murky, a tide changing. His expression shifts. The concern in his eye, a dull varnish now made glittering. As though his fear has transformed, or perhaps more truthfully, become hidden by a newfound arrogance. A veneer of wild confidence.
With a reluctant arm he offers himself up. Extending the limb forward so that you are easily able to wrap it around it's width, securing it in place with the loop of a knot.
"Thank you my lady, I shall cherish it." He smiles and speaks as though he is being puppeteered to do so, words stilted. Wooden as they leave his mouth.
It does stimulate a remorse in you, but it is far too late to take back what has already been committed. He wears it now. Tight around his wrist. Bound with a flash of white and red and gold. Looking every bit like a wounded bird when he lowers his arm in a maladroit drop. The metal of his couter squeaking with the motion.
Fortunately for him, the sound of a horn pierces the tension in signal for the joust, and your body excites instinctively.
Ser Kaeser is already withdrawing his mount from before the pavilion with the tug of his reins, extending farewells while he does his best to ignore Prince Aerion's attention. He fails horribly. Bracing underneath the cruel brunt of it while he trots away on his steed to the far end of the lists.
Prince Aerion meanwhile, remains still, keeping his horse fixed in place through pressure on its bit. It attempts to resist still, impatiently pawing it's hooves at the earth. Stirred up by the sounding of the horn.
But the prince does not pay it any mind. His stare resides only on you, and it chills you down to where you're warmest. Your blood and viscera turned cold beneath his vexation.
"When I break him, my betrothed, know that it is you who is to blame."
Thirteen simple words. Not shouted. Not barked with vehemence. But steady. Leveled. And strung together, uttered from his lips, they panic and delight. That is all he offers before he slams the visor of his helm down and turns his horse. Nudging it into motion to carry him along the length of the tiltyard.
"Do be careful, my lady." It is Prince Baelor who talks now, his tone a placid thing. Satin spilt on air. But his admonishment is clear, a delicate edge carved into the shape of his words. "Aerion is a proud boy, and your actions, no matter how light of intent, may cause him act irrationally."
Both he and his brother are eyeing you now, as though to weigh your worth. But while Price Baelor's spying is considerate and evaluating, Maekar reveals only judgement. Lips curled in a kind of revolted grimace. The expression of a man who wishes he had the sting of a strong drink to swallow down his regrets. With it he murmurs sardonically, "What a jubilant union this will prove to be."
You suppose that is warranted. As far as they are aware, this is your first true encounter with the princeling, and already you have inspired his proclivity for violence. Behaving as a brat who complains of jewels and entices other knights with tokens.
Like an idiot you've allowed your familiarity with the price to allow you to forget yourself. Maybe if you ask politely enough, Prince Maekar would do you a service and slay you were you stand. He looks as though he'd be willing.
The advise of the King's Hand is a pail of freezing water dunked upon your head. A scathing reality that banishes the excitement you once felt with a quickness.
"Of course, your grace, I will not make such a mistake again," you apologize. With humiliation blistering upon your cheeks, you return to your chair, feeling every bit like a scorned child.
And your father's stern chiding from beneath his breath does not help the matter. "This is not the day to forget your manners. For the sake of this family can you please conduct yourself in a fashion that does not beget insult."
You comply yourself to answer him, sparing only a shamed yes to appease his indignation. And then you drift your vision elsewhere, allowing it to gravitate to the right end of the field. Directly upon Prince Aerion.
The throng of the crowd is murmuring and chattering almost themselves, colorful with anticipation and the fresh bout of gossip you have just provided them with. Lively where they stand packed against the low fence bordering the arena. From the corner of the platform just to your right, the herald boasts of the two opponents, projecting their names and feats to be heard by the masses. Noisy. All of it.
But the young prince does not heed any of it. His focus hawk-like. You know firsthand how much of a terror it is. You feel as though it is you who is once again staring him down from the other side of the lists. Clad in your armor. The thrill of the joust a fever in your veins. The lance an impossible weight in your hand. He had seen ever so like a dragon in that moment, and the memory of how he had faced you down is still a vivid thing in your mind. Great. Bestial. Armor crafted in a matt black, mimicking thick reptilian hide. His cape spilling from his shoulders like a plentiful flow of blood. Intimidating like a god of old.
You have to wonder if Ser Kaeser feels just as you had. A dread that runs so deeply it becomes primal. An electrifying tempest in the belly. One that turns so wildly it could make a person lightheaded. Demented with the excitement. Utterly mad with it. Your blood had sung with its effects for days after.
The reminder of it alone nearly has you squirming in your seat, body humming, and you have to clasp your hands together in your lap as a means to distract yourself from it. The questioning side eye of your father disregarded.
Prince Aerion and Ser Kaeser remain on their respective halves of the lists. Waiting patiently. Watching for the other to make the first move, attentions turned fatal and honed. The stare between them unwavering through the sights of their visors. Two men armed with lances and the hope of brutality. Longing for the snap of bones and the promise of pain.
It is the ser who gives into that temptation first from the rear of his horse, and the prince responds without delay. So fast, that the pair are almost a mirrored image. The horses' heads toss, guttural snorts puffing from their muzzles as they spring into the fight. The steel fashioned to their chests and flanks rattling with a booming noise that sounds akin to nails driving into the lids of caskets.
And you cannot help but to lean closer in your seat, enthralled by the prospect of exchanged blows. You know intimately of Prince Aerion's prowess. The strength that he wields in his arms. How violently it can tear the air from one's lungs on contact. How it can reduce you dazed and blinded by pain. Debilitated by the anguish. And you are too eager to see how Ser Kaeser will survive it.
And you will not have to wait long. The horses eat up the ground with their long strides, damp soil curved out and tossed from their hooves. Both riders secure and the aim their lances leveled, the points brandished to strike. To bruise and maim. And the spectacle of it has you drawing in a breath and holding it. Your knuckles strain when the thread of your fingers turns tight. A frenzy building beneath your skin. You can scarcely keep it contained within you, overflowing with the enthusiasm it inspires.
When they both draw their arms back, you fear for the passing of a second that the prince might truly succumb to true harm. The worry a distraction.
Their mounts begin to course by in their individual paths, and then Ser Kaeser and Aerion strike with their lances. Splinters shatter and erupt across the plain of the prince's chest plate, and he jerks from the collision. It's force a powerful one. But the delivery of his own blow against his opponent rouses a collective gasp from the onlookers. The pressure of its impact massive. So impressive that you cannot help but to gape as you watch Ser Kaeser lurch back in his saddle, spine snapping into the cantle, head jerking. And then he is airborne. Uprooted from the back of his mount, limbs flailing through the mist of wooden shrapnel belonging to the very lance that has unhorsed him.
His mount bucks as it flees the chaos. Abandoning its rider as his body sails in an arch through the air, a streak of dazzling blue across the bright heavens like a star in its fall.
He lands with a thud. Graceless. Audibly jarring. It sets your teeth on edge, your body instinctively wincing as though his hurt were your own. You know that the trauma of it is ruinous. You've felt similar yourself, dealt by Prince Aerion's very hand. It nearly left you broken. Aching and sore for more than a whole moon's turn.
Ser Kaeser has not even attempted to collect himself from the earth. No doubt still disoriented. His mind scrambled. Ears ringing.
And to your confusion, the prince has spun his horse around to once again face the lists. His broken lance still clutched firmly with his grip. Raised close to his side as though it is a sword to be brandished. You feel the intrigue of all the bystanders spike like a pulse through the atmosphere. Your own father tenses, and Prince Maekar tilts forward to eye his son closely. You hear his seat creak lowly with the shift of his weight, and his fingers come to clasp onto the edges of its armrests. Nails biting the polished wood as though he is preparing himself for the worst. The frown on his face deepens to a scowl.
Your gaze flickers from Prince Maekar and back to the tiltyard, and back again before you allow it to return to Aerion. Your throat feels as though it is closing when you watch him walk his horse down the length of the field, the pace of it steady and controlled. Silvery plumes of smoke pouring from its flaring nostrils, induced by the growing chill, but it makes it look a monster from ancient tales. And his fiendish appearance astride it's back only serves in furthering that haunting likeness.
The strain of the shared anxiety, belonging to both the nobles and smallfolk alike, is stifling. You fear you might choke on it. Suffocate while you are lulled transfixed, dazzled into a stupor while you watch him draw closer and closer to Ser Kaeser's stunned body. The man has only just begun his efforts to stir, his fingertips twitching on the earth, etching marks.
The joust is done. Having been ended just as soon as it had started. The prince unhorsed his rival. By all accounts he is the victor, so it makes no sense that he should be approaching Ser Kaeser at all. To gloat perhaps. That is the only proper conclusion you can infer. That he feels the need to flaunt his success before the crumbled form of his enemy.
His mount comes to a halt a few paces from the fallen knight, hooves stomping the earth, and then he dismounts. Deftly swinging his leg over the back of the horse to plant his feet upon the ground.
As though roused by the sound of the prince's footsteps, Ser Kaeser shifts. His arms claw across the slick dirt, dragging before he finds the strength to slip them beneath his body. Lifting himself up on weakened forearms, sluggish. No doubt, his skull must be throbbing, reducing the world around him in a murky disarray.
He does not get very far.
Prince Aerion is upon him, and he doesn't extend the courtesy of allowing the ser to right himself. To pick his body up from the mud with some pride kept intact. With a thrust from his leg, he lands a strike on the downed man's shoulder and sends him collapsing on the flat of his back. Brought down to the dirt and damp, besmirching his armor with sopping earth. Giving him no other options but to look upwards, not to the skies above, but to Prince Aerion who now lurks over him.
The sight from Ser Kaeser's perspective must be blood-curdling.
"What in the seven hells is he doing," Prince Maekar hisses, teeth bared.
"Be still," his brother placates.
You continue to watch, your anticipation pouring hot in your veins. Lashing through you like an ocean tossed about by the sway of a storm, spume bubbling under your flesh. The energy wild as it spears through your marrow. And it is with that keenness that you observe the altercation below, brought to the very edge of your seat, the lip of it digging into the meat of your thighs. So harsh that it would turn them tender if it were not for the shield of your skirts.
Your brain supplies a harrowing thought, whispered and creeping along the fringes of your skull: Aerion might actually kill him.
Your bodice constricts around your middle, squeezing from the excited pace of your breath. Brocade biting into flesh. You tell yourself that its fear. That the thrum churning in the base of your hips is fashioned from terror and nothing else. And you continue to watch with your apprehension as the prince considers his foe from above, head tilting with curiosity or perhaps judgement while Ser Kaeser gasps in the mud like felled prey. Wounded, crippled from the pain. And with horror, you notice the long bit of shrapnel protruding from his shoulder. The wood having been enough to pierce through.
You see Prince Aerion's taloned fingers curl tighter around the handle of his broken lance. Securing his hold with an intent that reeks of violence, and it sinks horror down through the pit of your gut.
This is complete madness. He wouldn't. He wouldn't.
He would.
You know that as a fundamental truth. You've heard tales of his cruelty; there is nary a single soul in the entire Seven Kingdoms who has not. And yet you goaded him on anyway. Prodded at him like a child poking a dragon through a cage, too foolish to notice that the door to its enclosure has been left ajar. And you did it for reasons that seem far away from you now. Because he is so fun to tease. Because he had hurt you, angered you, and deserved to be punished for it. Because, honestly, you enjoy the glint he gets in his eyes when he's volatile.
You have sewn this chaos, and now Ser Kaeser would be the one to pay for the crime.
Prince Aerion raises his arm high, the lance catches traces of sunlight in its jagged tip, like he's wielding fire.
The crowd draws closer against the wooden rails, the nobles behind you hold their breaths, and Ser Kaeser attempts to defend himself. Hands twitching as though he intends to use them as cover for the oncoming hit. But the young prince is quicker. With speed that is a blur he descends the lance down on the knight's head, charged with a wild ardency. One that will break armor. Wedge through the helm's visor, gauge eyes from their sockets.
You pull taut on reflex but cannot will yourself to look away. People shudder and gasp. Alarm and delight.
When the lance reaches its target, air rips out from your lungs. A long, aching heave. But not from atrocity, but relief.
The lance stands wedged in the earth. Directly beside Ser Kaeser's head. A few scant inches to the left and he would have been killed. But it was not error that is to thank for his survival. This was intentional. A warning. An act of terror guised beneath mercy.
You think that Prince Maekar sags into his seat, cursing. Your father huffs. The onlookers all react in relief and indignation, voicing both complaints and celebrating. And you aren't sure what to do with yourself. Your body strung out. Addled with tension. Every fragment of your being reduced into a fervor while you stare. Unable to pry your eyes from Prince Aerion as he leans down, and reaches for Ser Kaesers arm.
With the seize of his talons, he tears a familiar strip of pale fabric free from the other man's wrist. A sharp movement havocked with frenzied aggression and frail restraint. As though the ser is not worthy of it. Like it is an insult for him to bear it on his arm. Underserving. A wrong to be righted.
Prince Aerion rights his posture, lifting up the visor of his helm as he does so. When he looks up, his focus finds you. Through the distance you see it, the fire blazing within his gaze. The pride. As though he's done something to warrant you satisfaction, your praise of him, and he stands with a wicked self-pleasure. A beast licking the gore of slaughter from its fangs and asking for applause in return.
When he lifts up your token to his mouth, you can't tell if he's placing a kiss to it or scenting it like an animal.
He could have killed him. Aerion could have killed him, and it was all because of one measly favor.
You hardly realize that you're smiling.
His attention had been on you during the entire duration of the banquet. Even when his eyes were not centered on you, you could tell that he was still fully homed in on your person. It made him a distraction. The heat from him wafting over you with the radiance of an ember. Burning at your side. And you had struggled to maintain a composed mask while he dined, feeding himself bits of spiced venison with an air too casual for the heat that threatened to light you asunder. You had tried desperately to ignore it. Sipping at your honey wine to steady your nerves.
But he was a constant you couldn't ignore. Not even in a room full of diversions. Idle chatter bubbling, the gentle swell of instruments filling the stone walls with music. The sounds of supper fluctuating and chiming with the scrape of utensils on plates, the thump of goblets placed on tabletops. He was permanently there. Fixed like a pillar.
Despite all of his indifference, he could not seem to keep himself from your side. It was only his elbow. Or sometimes, his shoulder. Nothing but a graze. The brush of him on you. As though he was intent to tease you in the simplest of ways. As though he could not bear to keep apart from now that he had you so close again. Determined to feel you, even if it was only fleeting. And it was close to tipping you into the throes of madness.
And then, as if he was determined to prove to you that it could always be worse, he had plucked a slice of fruit from an apple tart and held it up to your mouth. You had appraised him for a moment. Speechless and trying to detect a single indication of a jest in his expression, but you found none. He had only perked his eyebrows at you, chin tilting. A silent press for you to accept it with hundreds of people in attendance, your own respective families seated at the very table you occupied. You could feel the disapproval of your father's glare from the other side of the feast. Boring into your skull like a chisel.
You accepted the prince's request anyway. Bold and entirely inappropriate, you parted your lips and allowed him to slip the baked slice upon the flat of your tongue, the spice of cinnamon and buttered warmth spreading over your palate. When you licked the flavor from your lips, you had caught his fingertips. A brief glide, but it had destroyed you all the same.
He watched you as though you were something to be mauled. His eyes catching on the bob of your throat when you swallowed. Your bones felt like scorched cinders.
When he plucked his own slice into his mouth, he did so radiating satisfaction. All placid ego. Impossibly irritating.
Just when you had been able to get your bearings, preparing to turn to your girl-cousin at your side for the respite of conversation, he had struck. His palm snuck beneath the cover of the counter, as deft as a serpent when it cradled your inner thigh. Wrought with tension. The pressure enough to bruise, creeping far past the borders of decency. Pressed high where you burn the hottest. Where you've been aching since the moment you saw him on the tiltyard. He curved his palm between your thighs, making you embarrassingly aware of the arousal that's turned you wet. But you could not squirm or move. The fear of being caught too significant.
He leaned in close then. Near enough that the soft glide of his voice could be heard over the commotion, intimate in its proximity. You could breathe in his scent like that, rich and smoked when it settled in your chest, and the combination was torturous when he spoke.
"You will pay me back later for that little stunt of yours."
And it is those very words that have been haunting you ever since. Circling around your head like a flock of crazed birds. They clung to you the entire night. Following you down the corridors when you parted ways after supper, and all the way to your bed chambers, which you now occupy with a discombobulated energy. You feel feral with it. Muscles coiled, breath still shaken and hurried, skin turned balmy. The throb between your thighs has yet to ebb. If anything, it has only turned more insistent.
You had bathed, as though the steaming waters would have been enough to cleanse you of it, but it offered no absolution. Instead, it only seemed to have exacerbated the want festering inside of you until you felt wound within it. And it is a torture that's stuck with you, an adhesive on your flesh. Tacky like berry juice trapped beneath your nails. And now you lay abed, staring up at the high ceiling above. The wooden beams atop reflecting soft light with their polish. The drape of the enclosing canopy surrounding you in a way that only seems to stifle rather than bestowing its usual comfort.
All because you can't stop thinking of what he had said to you.
And you are left to sit with it. Suffering with the insistence of your own repetitive thoughts, offered a weak reprieve only by the dim crackle of the fire guttering inside the hearth, and the low howl of the wind outside of your windows. But it's nary enough to provide a proper diversion.
Because he means to exact revenge on you at some point. Whenever the mood or opportunity strikes him.
But when could he possibly?
You are both surveyed by diligent eyes. Belonging to the likes of the Targaryen household and Baratheon. There is not a move the either of you could make without it being monitored. To assure that will both obey the proper behaviors fitting the betrothal process. Customs and political rituals that have been upheld longer than the either of you have been alive. Guards, servants, the very courts that your families entertain will know and speak if you so much as twitch incorrectly.
You hear the door to your chambers slip open, the bottom of it whispering against stone. You nearly don't pay it any mind. Still trapped within your own musings and anxieties, but then it dawns on you. Servants should not be wandering here this late. You dismissed your maidens long ago, once they had finished filling your tub full of perfumed water. You had not required nor wanted any aid in bathing, and with a smile you did not truly feel, you had bid them leave. They are long gone. Undertaking the last of their duties or sleeping in the servants quarters.
And you certainly are not expecting any guests. Not at the hour of ghosts, late enough that the sky outside presses against your window in an impenetrable dark.
You hardly think when you lurch up, becoming animal. Your body moving on its own, hand slipping beneath the cushion of your pillow to retrieve the dagger concealed there. You're crouched on your knees in a second, heart pulsing wildly with the confines of your ribcage, blade poised to cut.
But as soon as you register who's wandered into your chambers, you falter.
"Aerion?" You gap like an idiot while you watch him close the door shut behind him and step further into your bed chambers with the comfortability of a man who's done so a thousand times before. Entitled to what does not belong to him. "What are you doing here? How did you get past the guards?"
His eyes land onto you, a heavy thing. Becoming a weight on your chest. There's a vehemence there that is befitting a plot for murder. Alive with the fervor to take. To taste blood and steal even if it costs him pain.
"All men have a price."
That is his only answer before the footsteps that carry him quicken. He's on you like a beast with its talons brandished. The hold you have on the dagger slackens from your shock, weak enough that it plummets from your grip and lands on your bed. Easily forgotten in exchange for the insistent press of the prince's mouth. He kisses you as though he's been deprived of it. Like if he tries passionately enough, he might be able to steal the air from your lungs for his own. To take you apart at the seams and spirit you away for himself to live inside the house of his flesh.
The relief that crests over you at the feel of him could kill you, you're sure of it. You're unable to conceal the noise that slips up from the depths of your throat. A heady, pathetic sound. Raw and broken, as though the taste of him has gutted you open, and he consumes it with the sweep of his tongue. Keeping your head in place between the trap of his hands, fingertips digging into the back of your skull, thumbs smarting the hinges of your jaw from their press.
"Is this going to be a common habit of yours?" you manage in between kisses. Lips made slick from the constant drag of his mouth. "Barging into my spaces uninvited?"
His teeth nip at you with a painful sting, so much like the very first night he first had you. Your body had ached for days after. Marked. Thoroughly claimed. You used to touch at the tenderness he left behind to remind yourself of how he held you. Carnal and zealous, so unlike the other lovers you had entertained in the past. Your body yearns for the prospect of more. More of that ache. A saccharine punishment.
"You're my wife." It rumbles from him, a velveteen purr against your mouth. "There's not a place you will go that I will not follow."
You're know that it is meant to be possessive. A declaration of his entitlement. But coming from him now, with his breath panted out in between kisses and the sting of teeth, it only sounds desperate. The promises of a man come undone. Dragged around by the throat from his own desire. With the rush that it gives you, you could level cities. Bring empires to down to their naked bellies, turned defenseless and weak.
You hum, amused. Though it rapidly softens into a pleased whine when he teases the shape of your bottom lip with his tongue. "Not quite yet, I'm not."
That seems anger him, and the responding gnash of his sharp teeth is a clear reprimand. His hands constrict tighter around your face. Not necessarily cruel, just a warning. "The Septons and their decrees are concern of mine. I will not be dictated by old men in their dingy robes. If I want for my lady wife, I will have her."
It is that brattish tone. One that you've become rather acquainted with in your sparse interactions, and it breaks through the haze of your lust like the flickering's of lightning shimmering through a canvas of heavy storm clouds. It is then that you find the will to pull from him, breaking your kiss with a vulgar smear of spit. But he doesn't flounder for a single second. He makes an annoyed sound then simply redirects the heat of his mouth, latching it on the hollow of your throat to suck.
Your previous irritation rekindles. The same vexation that made you rash while spectating the joust; made anew. Prickling at your fingertips, flaring in your stomach. It pains you to do it, but you find purchase on his chest with your hands, slipping them between the tight squeeze of your bodies to shove him from you. He parts with the nick of pronounced enamel snapping over delicate skin, damp heat and hurt flaring over sensitive nerves.
He back stumbles a few paces, gaze wide as though you've struck him. His expression on of pure bewilderment, and it would be entertaining if you weren't so displeased.
"Did you truly come here with no intentions of making amends?" you question, balanced on the edge of a rant. "Moons turned and gone, and you sent not a raven, but a dagger. Not once did you think that perhaps you should have made visit to my father's estate yourself to court me proper as a man of your stature should?" You scowl fully, the wind outside shrieks as though a mirror to your ferocity. "And now you give yourself permission to my bed chambers in the middle of night, in assumedly, the goal to fuck me before we are properly wed. So yes, my lord, before you ask, I expect some sort of plea."
His head raises, settling himself into a stance more dignified. Shaking his offense off in favor of composure. "I suppose then, we both have our own grievances." It's idle, a tactic to skirt taking any real blame. A spur jabbing into the flat of your foot.
His vision migrates then, landing to the object at your side. "You kept it," he says with a smug satisfaction.
"Do not attempt to change the subject." You regard him with a calmed frustration. "There is to be a bedding ceremony, you know. They will expect to see the blood."
He shakes his head. "There will be no bedding ceremony, I've made sure of it."
You don't bother to hide your incredulity. There is only a perplexed silence. You allow yourself to lower, settling back on the fold of your legs, palms smoothing over the drape of your shift on your thighs. "I don't understand. How could you have managed that? The Septons and the advisors will not allow it — the courts will talk."
"I care not for their chattering," he replies dismissively. As though the ancient procedures put in place belonged far beneath him, meant to be trampled under his boot heel. Always so haughty. Conducting himself like he exists above the average toils of men. A dragon more like, heeding commands and traditions only when it suits him.
He approaches you again. Though this time his pace is unrushed. A languid saunter. All confidence as he creeps closer with the assurance that this time you will not press him from you again. And it stings you with some indignity that he is right. You allow him to draw near, and he spills over you in an invasion of heat and a fragrance infused with dark cardamom, amberlike.
The glow of the fire projects over him like it belongs only on his person. Tinging him in brass, gold laced. Playful as it dances upon his pale hair. Impossibly beautiful. And it strikes you then with a profundity that has somehow managed to allude you, that you are going to wed him. This is not a dream or a farce. He is to be your lord husband. The stunning and vicious thing that he is, yours alone.
Because in a nature that seems to defy that laws of all that is logical, the dragon chose you. A wandering stag dressed in false armor. A storm with no true mountains or seas to truly call its own.
You suppose you two are similar in those respects. He, insistently donning himself in loud colors to be seen. Making demands that he is more beast than man, striking fear, basking in the scrutiny it amasses. Craving violence because it feels like home. And you harm each other exquisitely. Clawing and daring when anyone else would flee.
When his fingers slip to take ahold of the dagger at your side, you do not recoil. Fear remains vacant from your heart. He angles himself close enough that his nose almost nudges yours, his lips but a sliver from your mouth. It would be easy to press the slant of your own to his. To rile him into another kiss, but you wait.
"I will gouge out the eyes any person who ventures to see you in such a state," he promises. "And if it is the blood that worries you, then when the time comes, I will seek some from the kitchens and sully the sheets myself."
You're unsure of how to balance that pledge. If it makes you feel small or powerful. Perhaps both, if such a thing is possible. Like you have been granted permission to a strength that many could only dream of. Because Prince Aerion is an individual who has the world his behest, prepared to kneel at his call, and yet he is in your bed chambers, looking to you as though he would wage wars at your instruction.
You hold your grudges against him, even while his proximity melds with yours, eclipsing you within the mingling breaths and scents of your bodies, becoming one. He has not yet apologized. Has not strived to do so, offering only petulance. It is in your nature to be obstinate in return. To dig and stimulate until he relents and gives you the penitence that you deserve.
But gods, you do not have the endurance for such games tonight.
Not while you've yearned to have him like this again for so long. Having spent an abundance of hours pleasuring yourself to only the memory of him.
"Fine then," you settle, embroidering your tone with a fallacious iron. "If you are so determined to take me, then show my why I should let you."
He migrates himself fully into your propinquity, lips a whisper on yours, the softness of them a caress. You can taste him already, piquant. A tantalization. Like the Seven themselves made him to test you. A temptation to strain your resolve, to see how much it would require for you to succumb to your basest impulses. If that was their intentions, then they have succeeded in reduced you to but an animal.
He murmurs, a hush too gentle for the ardor that burns through the words he utters. "Do not risk to forget how you had yielded so pliantly once I got my mouth on you. A supercilious little stag corrupted into a moaning whore underneath the dragon."
He places the sharp edge of the dagger against your thigh, numbed only by the obstruction of your shift. He does it not to harm, but to make you feel it. Assuring that your attention is placed solely on him. You shiver from it. The elegant danger of it. The threat of it turned an enticement within his adroit hand. And the heat that's been steadily building within the frame of your hips converts into a molten pour, your cunt wet and aching.
"I would not be so foolish to forget." You shift yourself slowly, drawing your legs out from underneath yourself as carefully as you can. Tactful to keep the blade from pressing through the fabric and nicking flesh. Once you are able, you spread them, opening yourself up to encircle them around his hips. He lets you. "Just as I would not be foolish enough to forget how pretty you sounded when I held you in my throat. Your voice singing in that lovely ancient tongue. I think of it often, even if you only let me hear it for a time too fleeting."
He shudders when you run your nose along the sharp jut of his cheekbone, the puff of your breath a balm on his skin. When you speak again, it a honeyed susurration in his ear. You catch the lobe of it between your lips just before you provoke. "Will you let me listen to it again, my prince?"
The tear of fabric rises through the atmosphere in a jagged hiss. The dagger in his hand slices your shift apart as though it were butter, the delicate fibers no match for the fine edge of the steel. Cleaving all the way from your knees to where the neckline rests beneath your clavicles. And then you're bared for his eyes to consume. The pale, torn material already slipping from the slope of your shoulders, leaving the full length of your body exposed.
He drags the tip of the blade over your chest, settling it into the sensitive divot of your sternum until you obey his silent instruction and recline yourself back on the silk plush of your bedding. The keen tip glides over the expanse of your stomach as you do so, scattering sparks in its trail until it halts just beneath your bellybutton. Directly where you're vulnerable. Presenting yourself to the hazard, a glutton for punishment.
But you don't shy from the greed he observes you with. You luxuriate within it, holding your most vulnerable parts open for him to savor. A deer poising its throat, where blood pumps most vital, for the beast above to scent. Displaying the fragility of its belly like a fool. One that begs and sings to be eaten. Devoured down to the marrow so that he may lick the viscera clean from his lips when he is finished.
His eyes sweep low, and his head cocks when he shamelessly takes in where he has you splayed open around his waist. Made wet and wanting by only the sound of his voice, the brutishness he displayed out on the lists.
All because he was jealous.
"Are you going to discipline me like you promised, my love?"
My love. By the hells, you truly hadn't meant to say it. It simply slipped from you. Unthinking, delicate. Almost too intimate to properly grasp. But it hangs in the air anyway. Bold, demanding to be felt and heard, and Prince Aerion hears it.
You see the very moment it processes in his head. Minute reactions shifting through his body and across his face in flickers. The bare skin between his brow's twitches. Pinching close. The hand grasping the ornate hilt of the dagger pulls taut, the knuckles blanching. It's as though his entire body is contemplating something as simple as endearment, and for a moment you fear the worst. That you've somehow managed to stumble into a blunder. Inadvertently dealt damage without intention.
But the meaner part of you latches onto it. Internalizes the reaction with rapacity. A tool to be used, a weapon to be posed to his throat. The expression on his face almost vulnerable and it pounces you with a hunger that is ruinous. It is as though the sentiment, the rose-sugared praise of it was enough to strike him somewhere unguarded, and now he knows not how to properly defend it. A simple pet name — the affection, reducing him silent.
For a moment, at least.
"Do you yearn for your punishment?" And with that utterance, his temporary daze is shed. Gone as though it had never been, and he returns to his former self. Assertive, vain. "It would not be much of one if you were to enjoy it."
He leans forward then, lowering himself over you as though he can't resist any longer, the separation between you an affront. His mouth presses hot between your breasts, tongue lapping out to taste you. Licking the muted sheen of salt from your skin. You can't help but to squirm, chest lifting to offer more of yourself to him and it has the blade at your stomach digging into you. Threatening to cut.
"But you are right. It would not be much of a punishment, would it," you agree. Writhing softly against the scrape of his teeth, the subtle sting of the blade. He lets his lips wander, drifting greedily along the slope of your left breast. Teasing it with the glide of his tongue, making you ache. It is only once you whimper, a pitiful, dull sound that he has some consideration and takes your nipple within the heat of his mouth. "I propose an idea then."
He hums noncommittally against your chest. The only indication that he's heard you as he sinks his teeth in enough that it smarts. Blending in a cross of pain and pleasure. The sort that causes your eyelashes to flutter and your spine to bow. He circles his tongue around your nipple, considerate enough to soothe the sharp throb, though something tells you that it's out of his own indulgence rather than a real mercy.
"How about we save the punishment for a later date. We have all the time in the world for it now. " Your breath catches in your throat, snagged by the harsh nip of teeth and the strong pulse of his tongue that follows. "Because truthfully, if you don't fuck me soon, I might have to take matters into my own hands."
He bites you harsh enough for you to flinch, and you yelp and curse from it. When you glare at him, he's already watching you, his own gaze narrowed and blazing. When he draws his lips from you, they release with a slick noise. Damp with his spit. But he does not remain parted from you for long.
"Make to touch yourself without my permission and there will be consequences." The caution is a thrum against your skin, gliding over you as his mouth moves. Trailing further along until he finds your other breast, peppering more kisses and grazes of his teeth where they journey. It's an exploration that is languid. Entirely unlike the zealous fire you had been anticipating. You had thought of hands clawing. A mad scramble to feel the naked press of each other's bodies. Blood coating lips like the aftermath of a successful hunt. But this is a slow torture. Satiation in its purest form.
You think it may be worse than if he had just stabbed the dagger into your belly.
But you have something at your disposal now. A trick that you hope will prove to be fortuitous.
"Please, love" you beg. A syrup glazed whimper on the satin air. Smoothing yourself into something pliant and needy, and when you speak, it is only to douse him in praise. "Please, my dragon. Make an exception just this once. Stop this torture and just take me in the way I know we both want. I need you."
You settle your hands over his shoulders, feeling the carmine velvet of his doublet, traversing him with your palms. Reaching until your fingers find the thick of his hair, nails scratching over his nape to feel him shiver. His muscles become malleable beneath you. The simple touch making him lax. Weakened, whether he realizes it or not, and you nearly fear that he might forget the blade in his palm and dig it into your gut, but he doesn't. His grip remains firm. Careful in its pressure.
His stare has gone heavy-lidded. Looking every bit like a predator coaxed into a docile pet. He mumbles against your breast, too immersed to pull away. "You think that is what you deserve, after you exhibited yourself around in front of another man?"
His jealousy is still white-hot, it seems, and against your better judgment, you cannot help the amused huff that leaves you. "It's not about deserving. It's about taking what we want. Besides, do not act like you didn't enjoy striking him from his horse." Your head lulls back at the wet glide of his tongue against your sultry skin. "You could have killed him if you wanted."
"Was that your true intentions?" he queries casually. "To anger me so that I would slay him for your entertainment?"
Despite his accusation, he nuzzles mouth against you, nose pressing firm. It is as though he means to scent you. To huff you within his lungs and mark you for himself. Dipping his tongue along your sternum to taste the pulse of your heart.
"Mmm, well . . . I did want to anger you. Slaying however, was not my motivation." Your smile is all smug while you speak the truth. You allow your fingers to slip higher up around the crown of his skull as he shifts himself lower in a fluid movement, taking the dagger with him. Allowing the blade to drift and become acquainted with the length of your thigh. You toy with the silver-spun crop of his hair, feeling it on your palms when he licks along your abdomen. "But you were so brilliant out there, striking him down with so little trouble. I wanted you to fuck me as soon as you unhorsed him — as though he posed no challenge at all."
"He was no challenge for the dragon." It hisses from him with disgust, spat like fire. "If you wanted me to fuck you, you need only ask."
"Well, I am asking you now." You settle your palms over the sides of his face, framing him with your hands. You use them to direct him from where he's smattering sharp kisses over your sensitive skin. He relents much easier than you expect, but not without giving you an irritated glare. A pout, more like. "I have missed you, truly. Completely irrational, but I don't think a single moment passed where I did not think of you. I could show you if you'd like; how much you inflicted me."
But you do not wait for his permission. A hand of yours wanders, wedging between the gap of your torsos. Your knuckles skim over his pelvis, and you can feel how aroused his behind the layer of his breeches. Hard, pressing over the back of your hand, and it turns your own desire searing. Your cunt soaked. Body begging to be taken.
You part yourself open, slick smearing over your fingertips, and it forces you to confront how you're dripping with want. Nearly smearing down your inner thighs, and you clench from the contact of your own touch, gasping wantonly.
He remains above you. Quiet, assessing, and it's always so much more unnerving than his admonishments, his threats. He draws back, controlled and lithe as he settles on his knees to loom over you. Chin angled low, shrouding his face in shadow and gold.
"Go on then," he permits, soft-spoken arrogance, the blade still balanced on your thigh. "Show me how much of a whore you were for your prince."
The ghost of humiliation rings through you. Unwelcome and useless, and you ignore it. Banishing it from you before it can sink in its influence, trading it for courage. Your lust makes you brazen, and you can't deny it. Slipping your fingers over your cunt, trailing them low along your entrance and the dual sensation produced from the heel of your palm skimming along your clit has your chest heaving. A labored breath skipping from you in an unbidden moan.
You can't spare the discipline required to deny yourself. To tease your own body. Not with him present and watching, bathing the air between you with his scent. A temptation made specially for you, spilt on the atmosphere. And the focus of his eyes on you intensifies it all. That abnormally hued stare. The unearthly violet of it. Vibrant like the base of a flame, and it scorches you the very same.
He watches like he's ravenous. As though he'd eat every bit of you down if he could, and it's all the incentive you need to keep going. You slip a pair of your fingers inside to fuck yourself with. Stretching yourself open, a wet noise pitching from between your thighs with each stroke. Hips twitching and rocking shallowly to pursue after the familiar bliss already building in the base of your hips. Head lulling back into the bedding as the strum of your fingertips pulls out a gasp from between your lips while you reacquaint yourself with the ache of it.
He withdrawals the dagger from your thigh, but not without dragging it harshly enough to sting. A gentle graze against your flesh, and you moan when you should grimace. The lash of dull pain an elation.
He discards the blade somewhere along the foot of the bed, the scintillation of its crowning ruby a distant wink in the vignette of your vision. Now all that seems to exist his him, crowding himself over you once more for proper reach, stretching his arm over you to brush a pair of his fingers over your open lips. You accept them without prompt, further opening you jaw just as he begins to feed them into your mouth. Thrusting them along your tongue as he would his cock, the salt of his skin melting in its own flavor. One you swallow avariciously, like he's a drug you mean to drink.
"Is this what you did with yourself during our time apart?" He queries in a graveled hush, meanspirited. "Kept yourself spread open on this very bed, turning yourself depraved and mindless with my memory?"
He does not give you the curtesy of removing the obstruction of his fingers. He keeps them there, trapped between your tongue and teeth, forcing you to nod with your mouth full. And the humiliation of it turns your arousal blistering. And hells, you may be delusional, but you could swear that something shy of vulnerable shows through his meticulous exterior. A glimpse of a desperation, pitiful and starved. But he's quick to try and slip the mask back into place, brows furrowing. The corners of his lips tilting with the impression of a cruel smile, and it looks as though he's preparing to bare his fangs.
But he cannot hide the fire in his eyes. The wanting, wild blaze that it is. "You corrupted my every waking thought," he confesses as though it was an agony to be spoken. "I should kill you for it. Temptress."
You aren't sure what possesses you to do it, but without hesitation, you slip your fingers from your cunt. Ignoring the hollow ache that follows, unfulfilled and terrible, in favor of leaning yourself up as best as you can on the support of a single elbow. And with your fingers outstretched, coated and glittering with your arousal, you skim them over the satin plush of Prince Aerion's lips. Leaving a gloss over their rose-tinted hue, obscene and beautiful all at once.
He does not waver at your offer. Doesn't contemplate it. With a stare that's pulverizing, he tilts his head forward, mouth dropping open to lick along the length of your fingers. The heat of it spills over your flesh. The suction of his lips has stars flaring over your nerves. His eyes nearly slip shut. As though the taste of you is an ecstasy that he's been deprived of for too long.
You pull your mouth from him, just enough to talk, still nibbling and suckling at his fingertips. "Aerion." You coo, in a lust bitten murmur, impatience turning it frayed. "Remove your clothes — now. We've both toyed with one another enough."
You expect resistance. His usual snark. But that composed façade breaks. Everything shifts into a blur of moving parts. Frantic energy, hands tearing at fabric. You all but rip yourself free from the shredded scraps still clinging to your body, and as soon as it's gone from you, you're on Aerion. Working alongside him to rip him from the tangle and drape of his clothes. His doublet, the blouse beneath pulled from over his head and tossed aside in an abandoned heap.
But unable to part for long, your lips meet in the midst of the flurry. A storm colliding with an inferno. It makes the scramble messy. Chaotic. Almost endearingly clumsy while you both struggle to rid him of his boots and then his breeches. But you're determined. Working through the wild tangle of limbs, the exchange of teeth and the insistent glide of his lips on yours. And then blessedly, he is finally naked.
But of course, he does not give you ample time to gawk or admire. For once, he does not settle to flaunt himself underneath your attention. He's been reduced too feral. Made crazed from his ardor. A hedonistic thing that only wants and longs to consume. But you're fairing no better, clawing at him by his shoulders to mold your bodies together, and you could cry from relief when the balmy warmth of him spills over your flesh.
"I drove myself to the edges of madness because of you." It is an accusation and a plea. A man clinging to the final shivers of his control, the jagged edges cutting his grip while he holds them. "A fucking torment; I couldn't sleep until I was certain I would have you."
"Then finally have me. I'm yours, Aerion," you whimper into the kiss. "So for fucks sake— "
Finally. Finally, he bows.
He shoves you back into the mattress, pinning you flat beneath his weight. The lithe stretch of his body over yours, agile muscle and carnal intent. You moan into him, air pitching from your lungs in a whimper when the weight of his cock settles between your thighs, the width of it brushing over your clit. Muting your thoughts into the ripple of fog. And the head of his length dips low with a tactful rock of his hips, covering himself in your arousal. Making himself wet with it.
Every piece of your being becomes tense. The anticipation of what's to come forging your body taut, lightning powered inside of your veins. The significance sinking deep in your psyche. That he is going to have you. Feel you and fuck you in a manner that no other man has. But it isn't frightening. Not truly. It seems just the opposite. You feel alive with it. Invigorated as though you've touched the sun itself and taken it as a part of you; closed it behind the jaws of your ribcage. Because he's yours now just as much as you are his.
Yours to taste and keep. And you will cut down anyone who dares to pry him from you.
"Please, my love. Hurry."
"Patience," he growls, but he shivers as you grip at his shoulders and hair. Holding onto the sun kissed platinum as though it might urge him on, but despite his fervor, he remains shockingly disciplined.
He reaches down and grips himself to line his cock up with your entrance, notching his head in place. Your eyes meet, a wordless discussion passing between you, a consideration that you never would have guessed he would have spared you. A question presented in the perk of his brows. You answer him with a nod, your fingers clutching him tight. To brace yourself and to hold him to you.
"Relax yourself," he instructs.
It isn't until you exhale that you realize how much you are wound. The nervousness tearing loose with the breath. Turning pliant around the edges, body yielding with his direction and your effort. And then he moves and the entire would narrows down to his existence.
He begins to press forward, hips shifting with a consideration that seemed so entirely beyond him until now. He's caged himself around you, arms holding himself up, bracketed around either side of your face. The sweltering temperature of his body made a blanket with the press of him on you. It's all too much. Suffocating in the best way. And the breech of his cock only chokes you further. Sliding into you at a pace that is too little and too great.
The strain of it aches. The width of him beyond anything you've experienced before. You've taken your own fingers countless times. You've taken other men's, but never have you had this. It's foreign and splitting. As though you're being cleaved down the middle. You writhe from it. Spine twisting, torso flaring with the labored rise-and-fall of your panting while you try to adjust to a fullness new to you.
"Gods be damned. Aerion." You keen from pain. From the odd pleasure that throbs beneath the undercurrent. He just keeps going. More and more of him sinking into you. Mind playing tricks, making him feel as though he goes on forever as he continues to guide himself into you. His body visibly tense while he fights the desire to drive himself deep in a single thrust.
It surprises you when he tears your arm from its place latched around his shoulder. For a second it wounds you. But the distress of it does not have an opportunity to grow big. Because he's slipping his palm over yours, fingers threading together to bolster you through the brunt of it. His mouth meets your lips again. Another distraction. An attempt to center you on him and not the peculiar sting of it all, melting you all too easily. It's passion and impulse, but also soft. Yearning incapsulated within the dance of his lips on your own, the glide of his tongue.
The discomfort is but a vague echo. Diminished meager. An afterthought in comparison to him. Cinders and ash while he washes over you in a swell of nourishing warmth.
Then finally, his hips press flush, not a gap spared. The full length of his cock buried inside of you to the hilt. He groans and it sounds like salvation. Like he's wrecked with the alleviation it brings. Panting into your mouth as though you've flayed him open with only the feel of your body, the heat of your cunt. Hissing through his teeth like it might help ground him. His fingers flexing around your hand, pinning it to the bed with the temporary seize of his arm.
"You're squeezed around me like a vice," he remarks, ragged like you've wounded him. "Pretty thing. Made to be fucked by me. My whore. My wife. I'll have any man who dare touch you publicly executed."
He's working himself up now, clouding himself with possessive delusions. Voice growing fervent, and he's grinding himself against you. He's not even attempting to draw himself out of you to fuck you properly, which you are thankful for. You're adjusting quickly, though not entirely prepared. But he's pressing his hips to yours. Undulating gently like he's too frenzied to keep himself still. It has his pelvis rasping against you repetitively, the course hair above his cock brushing over your clit, forcing your toes to curl with its friction.
You're aching still. Though it has dulled some. A faint ghost of what it once was, and in its place, an unfulfilled bliss blossoms and pulses. Too delicate to truly satisfy, leaving you suspended on a ruthless edge. Dangled right above the depths of real pleasure.
"You can move," you sanction in an airy whisper pressed to his lips. "But gently."
That's all the permission he needs. You hardly have the rest of your words out before he's withdrawing. Muttering something low that sounds so much like a grateful expletive whilst guiding his hips back until only the head of his cock remains fixed inside of you. And with the lithe draw of his waist and the support of his arms, he's thrusting himself inside again. Setting a pace that's subdued, riddled with a restrained ardency. As though he's denying every instinct that rules him not to pummel into you. To keep himself from fucking you in the manner he truly wants.
The rhythm of it makes you cling. Fingernails angled like talons as they burrow into his shoulders and the back of his hand, while you try to orient yourself. Holding yourself together through the murk of it all. Manually reminding your lungs to expand and breathe as he stretches you around the shape of his cock. Molding you, causing you to seize and clamp tight around the width of it. You can feel everything. The impression of his veins, the warmth. It's surreal in a way you struggle to explain. Brain chugging feebly until it finally latches around the impression of a word.
Intimate.
It's intimate. Leagues beyond the sort of coupling you ever planned to experience. You never bothered to give yourself the sort of hope of having a husband who you would feel anything for. You did not delude yourself with dreams of finding a love match. Such things were the musings of children, too young to yet understand reality. Marriages of nobles are meant to fashion alliances. For security and political effluence.
But you actually feel for him. Perhaps not quite love. It being much too soon for that sort of bond to have manifested. But it is certainly close to it. Infatuation. Passion. Understanding. A kinship that you have not shared with any other soul. Already he's made himself vital to you. As essential as the blood fueling the passageways of your arteries, the wind in your lungs. A limb you could not live without. He's latched himself to you like a parasite, and without him, you think you'd perish.
"How does it feel," he says as though he knows the answer. His smile is an arrogant one while it's hovering against your lips. His satisfaction a hum on the air. "Does it feel good, being fucked by your dragon? Is it everything you imagined?"
"No," you reply, and when his hips temporarily falter, you do not suppress your amusement. A laugh hitching on a moan. "It is so much better."
The realization creeps through him swiftly. The joy in your voice clear and vivid. Unmistakable. His expression is an unimpressed one, but the chastising bite he nips along the edge of your jaw can only be considered as playful. "Tread cautiously, wife."
"But you're so entertaining when you're teased."
"And you are still capable of speaking too coherently."
You don't get to utter your rebuttal. He drives himself forward, much firmer than he has before, effectively silencing you. The quiet edge, the control of his pace is quickly thawing. Becoming something pronounced, freely zealous. Carving himself into something brutal. The pressure of it all, the strength behind his thrusts, the weight of him spreading you apart, is too much. It's like he's plucking you into fragments. Tugging you at the seams. Pulling you up at the roots and leaving you exposed to the conflagration of a wildfire.
Rapture bleeds past it all. Flourishing through the ache between your thighs until there is no place left for it to go. There's only pleasure. Throbbing and thrumming inside of your belly like something vicious. It makes you twist beneath him. Spine arching outward, sinking further into the bedding, instinctively canting your hips to meet his. Desperately seeking out more of it. More of him.
"Fuck. Fuck," you keen, face twisting as though you are in pain, but you couldn't be further from it.
"There you go," he soothes arrogantly through a smoked groan. "Should keep you just as you are now. My wife. Pretty little knight all laid out and pliant. Kept fucked and needy on my cock."
The possessiveness of it, the pure hedonism it emits rips through you. You shudder, contracting around him. Your cunt squeezing from the effect of his words alone, and his breath hitches in response. An airy noise escaping his throat, guttural and also soft. The rough fringes of it tapering into a needy moan, velvet on the sex-scented air. And it only serves to push you alongside the fringes of your end. Already, you are so mortifyingly close to it, that pinnacle of bliss. Body compliant and all too wanting. Taking all that he will give.
"Aerion, I'm . . . " Your voice trickles off, leaving you to grip at his shoulders, the anchor of his hand in a pitiful attempt to stabilize yourself. "I'm close. You're going to make me— "
His hips drive into you, the weight of his cock dragging over places that you didn't know existed. But he gives you no leniency. Not a single second spared for you to get your bearings, fucking you as though he loathes you and is making you pay for the crime of it. Repeatedly pushing himself inside of you like if he were to try determinedly enough, he could permanently wedge a place for himself in your body. Make a home in your bones and flesh. Forever tucked behind your ribcage, crucial like a secondary heartbeat.
"Go ahead," he goads. "Make a mess for me. Soak my cock."
His pelvis grinds over your clit with a sharp thrust, the hair there a stimulation in its own. And accompanied by the gutted rasp of his voice, graveled and silken, that's all it takes to blindside you with a debilitating pleasure. Liquid heat spills over your body, swallowing you from the top of your head and down to your feet. Blood altered to a molten sugar. Saccharine. Too sweet. Too hot. Burning you alive with it.
You cry out his name, some warbled swears that sound underwater. You feel animal when your back arches, hips oscillating against his own to elongate the bliss. Drawing out for as long as possible, made a glutton for it. Turned so feral that you only vaguely register that you're lifting your head up, seeking out the shelter of his neck. Lips peeling back to expose the flash of your teeth to sink them into the junction of his shoulder. The subtle flow of iron piquant on your tongue.
He hisses from the sting of it. You hear it muffled and distorted in your ears through the haze of it all. His hips lurch sharply, driving himself up into your cunt in a way that's frantic in its enthusiasm. And the rest of his reaction almost does not register through the fog of your brain. With a broken noise — a whine— he comes. Filling you through the zealous cant of his hips, keeping you pinned on his cock while he fills you to the brim. Pumping you full of a flow of warmth that settles in the depths of your stomach. And the impression of it has you spasming, cunt flexing around him in a vice.
The flavor of him in your mouth, taken in such a forbidden manner — the puncture of enamel on flesh, a sin committed from passion — rips a moan from you.
You both continue to fuck each other. Rutting your bodies together in a primal need to keep the ecstasy alive. It is only once it begins to taper off into that electrical discomfort that you both slow, the rhythm of your hips becoming relaxed. Moving only with the faint, occasional rock, suspending yourselves on the boundary of reaching too much.
Your bodies collapse into the other. Aerion allows himself to sag into you fully. The entire stretch of him pressed flat to you, his shape molded to your own. Fevered skin on skin, damp with the sweat of your shared exertion. Muscles pliant and thrumming with a heavy satisfaction. One that murmurs within the base of your bones. Your being reduced tranquil and content. Pleased with the sensations of flesh and the tepid brush of silk, the metallic tang of blood.
It is only now that you are able to will yourself to retract your teeth from their grip around his neck. The sound he makes seems mournful instead of relieved at the absence of your bite. But he relaxes against you further when you apologize with the lap of your tongue over the wound. A mark so fine and shallow that it will scar delicately, if it does so at all. You hope that it will more than you ought to.
His nose skims along the hinge of your jaw, an exploratory path. Slow, indulgent. All of it has become sluggish. The passion that had blinded you both having settled. Not gone. It is not absent, just calm. Need shifted into satisfaction, and from it you're pliable, relaxed. Simply lazing in the moment. Made languid while the buzz of your coupling ripples through your bodies in delicate tremors. He's softened inside of you now, and neither of you have so much attempted to move. The mere notion of it seems like an injustice. Cold and awful. As terrible a fate as death.
You need him here now. Infused with the traces of salt glittering on his skin. The spice of bath oil faint on his hair, permeating with herbs, citrus and cloves. And you keep him close, running your fingertips along the expanse of his back. Feeling the impression of his shoulder blades, the long divot of his spine. He seems to sink into you further. The response of a spoiled house cat.
You should not have allowed yourself to become lulled so unaware.
He acts now that you are unsuspecting.
His teeth clamp just above the union of your throat and neck. Stamping around the tenderness below the edge of your jaw, and discomfort swells along your nerves, pinching within the pressure of his bite. The strength of it breaking through your skin at a depth that makes you feel like caught prey. A helpless quarry snapped between a maw armored with jagged fangs. You gasp sharply without meaning to, jerking underneath him but his weight keeps you pinned. You wrestle your hand free from his and sink all of your nails into his back in retaliation, but he does not so much as flinch.
"Hurtful bastard," you grouse, still scratching uselessly.
"You bit me," he supplies simply once he releases his jaw from your throat. "Tis fair."
"I didn't bite you that hard." Your complaints are met with indifference. There's no sympathy or guilt to be had from him. You can tell by the throb of it that he has left a noticeable damage. A red ring branded with the evidence of his mouth. Skin that will heal in a gnarled circle. "People will see."
"So let them," he replies carelessly. Returning his face to the comfort of your neck, burrowing himself there as though he has not left you wounded. It makes you groan, low and irritated when his lips and nose poke at the fresh mark made in weeping blood and split flesh. The nimble point of his tongue lashing out to taste at the carmine beading from the tear. You would accuse it of being perverse had you not done the very same.
You did not think it possible, but you are certain that he is already growing hard. His cock twitching, roused by the flavor of your blood coating his mouth.
His languorousness is an infirmity, and you waste no time to exploit it. Before he can perceive it, you funnel strength into your limbs and pool it into the center of your abdomen, using the brace of it to flip your bodies. In a distortion of movement, you now sit astride his him, his cock still buried deep inside. Brushing over those sensitive places inside of you when you jostle above him, settling yourself to rest firm. Allowing your weight to sink fully in place, thighs comfortably spread while they frame the athletic width of his hips.
Surprise is clear on his face, induced by your audacity. But there is amusement too. Intrigue. The fascination of someone who is bewildered and thoroughly pleased, all embellished with his typical pomposity. As though you have ventured to create a performance, all in his honor. He, the crowned spectator, reclined back to watch you sport yourself for his entertainment alone.
"You've become bold, sweet wife." He purrs. The tone of a man haughty from the power of his own influence. And you suppose he has some right to be. Your inner thighs are smeared a violent pink from your lifeblood and arousal, the both of your necks sting with the smarting of your matching wounds. Two people claimed by the other. "I've only fucked you proper once, and already you think yourself prepared to ride me."
His hands skim up the length of your thighs, halting only once they reach your hips. Fingertips sinking meanly into the meat of them, indenting flesh with their grip. You can feel his contemplation. The desire to return you to the flat of your back and take you once more. To prove to you that you belong best beneath him, too pleasure drunk to put up a fight. But you are prepared to resist him if you must. To puncture him once more with the slice of your teeth to keep him restrained under your hips.
"Is it not a wife's right to have her husband as such?" you ask playfully. You lean down just enough, palms flat upon his chest for leverage so that you may skim his face with your lips. He basks within the attention, though his eyes remain trained on you keenly. "Is it not a dragon's duty to be ridden?"
His stare narrows, dangerous.
"And you think yourself deserving of such a privilege." It's delivered in a sneer. His temper inspired. But it's long since lost its ability to frighten you.
"Well, you chose me did you not? Made me yours in betrothal," you answer, your own hubris peeking through your mirth. "It is the dragon who decides it's rider, after all. Or so I've heard."
You move then. Slowly. The impression of motion. A ginger sway of your hips, but it is more than enough to have you panting quietly. It is all tactless. Inexperienced. Guided only by instinct. You know little of how to use a man for your pleasure, and how to inspire his own in this particular manner, all of your knowledge built on the foundation of gossip. But you are determined regardless. And his resolve is unraveling already. You see it in the tremble of his lashes, eyes now half-lidded. The full plush of his mouth parted open in a small, soundless moan. And when his hold on you squeezes, it is to keep you astride him, not to lift you away.
"Prove yourself then," he provokes. "Show me you are worthy."
The challenge induces only delight. The permission the only incentive you need to draw your posture straight, securing yourself by keeping your palms firmly on his chest. It requires more concentration than you would like to lift yourself up the length of his cock, bracing your weight on the points of your knees. None of it coming naturally yet. It feels too uncertain, forcing you to be critically aware of your own body. The posture of your limbs, your spine, the subtle sway of your breasts.
The ladies of the court used to tell tales of how empowering it was to be atop a man like this. How wonderful it was to be in control of their own pleasure, but none of that claimed influence has graced you. It seems completely beyond your grasp. And in its absence, there is only the sinking dread of doubt. That cool chill that comes with the realization that you may have accepted terms that lie beyond your current ability to handle. But the mere thought of surrendering is fit to make you nauseous.
Aerion is smug already. You see it as a glimmer in his eyes. Light dancing across lavender and violet.
It is effective enough to flare the competitiveness in your bones. The desire to claim and succeed. With the fuel of it, you drop yourself down on his cock and circle your hips back up again. And you do it again and again. Gradually building a rhythm. Allowing yourself to be steady, to become acquainted with it.
Your legs are beginning to burn from the endeavor and only you've just begun, but you remain steadfast. Persevering through the smarting. You've been cut by blades, bashed by the brutality of lance blows, bore the weight of armor. You will not allow this to be the challenge that gets the better of you. Determined to discover it for yourself since Aerion seems content to offer no instruction. He hands idle, giving no guidance. Little more than an observer while he lounges beneath you.
You decide then that you will have him whimpering and pitiful, even if it kills you.
You maintain your pace. Swiveling your hips in what must be a crude imitation of the methods shared by the other ladies during your conversations in private. They spoke of how to handle one's body. How to move your hips with intent, to focus past the sting in one's thighs, and you do your best to emulate it. To let it — the awkwardness, the ache — fade into nothing. A phantom on the horizon. Fading until there's no place left for it to go. Hollowing a pit within you that only holds space for pleasure.
You only have half a mind left to notice that you're moving much freely now. The stilted roll of your hips turning fluid. The uncertainty shaking free like a rust. In its place something so much more natural forms. Starved, bright in your belly like a sun.
"Konīr issa, dōna velkrys." It spills from him like an element ancient. Rich and divine in its state; the words fit for gods. And it barrages its way through your being as simply as it had the night you had first heard it. Except this time, it's exit from his lips is not accidental. It is uttered with pure intention. Used as a weapon, utilized to debilitate. His expression a wicked one. "Qogralbar va aōha valzȳrys. Iksā sīr gevie skori gaomā, ñuha nēdenka līve."
And then muttered in the Common Tongue, a groan of heat. "Filthy thing."
You whine in response, the sound stolen from you as though the universe itself demands it. You know not what he says. You haven't the faintest clue, but you couldn't be bothered to care. The roll and curl of it on his tongue is erotic. Vile and lavish in an existence that conflicts itself. Consonants textured in the rasp of smoke and the syrupy glide of honey. Far too exquisite for whatever debased musings he's pouring from his mouth.
It galvanizes a desire too tempting to ignore. And like a beast too pitiful to deny its own appetites, you chase after it. Working yourself over him more passionately. Picking your hips up with a determination that's hellish in its fervor. And you whine with it, the bliss of it searing.
"I am keen about your suggestion of jewels." He pants suddenly through his teeth, the point of his tongue slipping out to taste the pale savor of your blood still smeared upon his lips. "I should dress you in them and nothing else. Have you ride me just like this, decorated only in diamonds and rubies while I use you on my cock."
His eyes swallow you whole. Roving over every inch of your body as though he is imagining the sight of it, and your own imagination cannot help but to be encouraged. Images weave across you mind in lurid illustrations of tangled limbs and the expensive flash gemstones and ornaments. Red and silver and gold incandescent on bare skin, brilliant and wanton while you both bring each other to pleasure. Salacious, sensualistic. Taking the other over and over again until you are both exhausted with it.
The fantasy is a simple one, but it has you clawing at each other. Your nails scrape down his chest, trails of red carved softly down pale skin. Blood spilt on marble. And his hands become iron clad, fingers spanning to grip around the shape of your ass. His hold inescapable. Painful. Utilizing the leverage to lift you up and down, and all over again. It only excites you more.
You pump yourself on his cock, the persistent scream of your muscles inconsequential. You've long since accepted that this night will leave you ruined. On the morrow when you wake, you know you will hate yourself for it. The strain that will be wrought with your every move. But you have no desire to stop. The euphoria too great to resist, the closeness of him, the intimacy made a need.
He is just as wrecked. Eyes glazed, his cheeks made flushed, hair mussed against the silks. He's begun to drive himself into you and you do not think he's entirely aware of it. Controlled only by impulse and want. The noises made by your frenzied coupling is vulgar in the slap of skin-on-skin, the wet sound of his cock fucking you open a loud echo on the stone walls. And you both are so audibly desperate. Whining and moaning like a pair of whores in a pleasure house. You'll have been blessed by the gods if no one manages to hear you, but neither of you have the sense to quiet or stop.
"You're so good to me, my Aerion," you admire tactfully. He rewards you by arching into your palms, silently demanding for more of your touch, your voice, you. And gods, you are not strong enough to deny him. He's stunning beyond words, especially right now. The paleness of his hair catching the rays of candlelight, and it gives the illusion of a sacred fire burning upon his head. The graceful column of his throat bared to you in bliss, presenting his mark for you to revere. And your possessiveness preens in satisfaction. Because he's yours.
You angle yourself over him as best as you can without disrupting the rhythm of your hips, and the change in the position has your mouth dropping open. You aren't certain how, but it has him striking somewhere that nearly crumbles you, the girth of his cock hitting you more deeply and you could sob with it.
But you remain undistracted, pushing through the haze to suck and lap at his jaw. He responds to it immediately, angling his head to press his mouth to yours. Drawing you into a kiss that is mean and ardent with his need for more. As though he wants for excess but is beyond the understanding to ask for so nicely. Having fashioned himself into talons and fire. Gentle touches and rose perfumed declarations a foreign currency to him.
But you coax him into it patiently. Your lips remain soft; the gruesomeness of your bite tempered in exchange for a tenderness. Made steady so that hopefully, he is more easily able to feel the brunt of your affections. The devotion that threatens to consume you alive. And he must, because when he responds to it, he nearly whimpers into your mouth. His hands cling. He bucks his hips zealously, as though he's attempting to bury himself inside.
"My stunning dragon," you moan against his lips. Convincing yourself that it is only the shadows or you imagination casting spells when you swear you see him nod in agreement. "We belong to each other, don't we. Never to be apart."
"Yes," he agrees assuredly. "Kessa. Kessa, ao sagon ñuhon."
One of his hands slips between your thighs, unexpected when his fingertips begin to circle at your clit and you can't help to cry out at the wonderful shock of it. He swallows your yelp down his throat with a rumbling noise of his own, devouring it as though it were a substance he could survive on.
"If any man dare touch you, I will kill them," he announces gravelly, as though he is exacting a law before a room of officials.
"I know." You answer while daring to look into his eyes. "And I shall watch."
"Oh, fucking hells—"
That is what tips him over the edge. And the sound he makes is of a man relieved. A parched man given the flow of water after treading a country of scorching heat and desolate earth. Spilling inside of you for a second time tonight with the keen of a wounded animal. Punched out whines that hiccup from his heaving chest each time you drop your hips back down upon his own. His body writhing when your cunt squeezes around his cock in a wet seize. But somehow through it all, his fingers maintain fixed to your clit, strumming you with a mastery that is unforgiving as it hurtles you forward into your peak.
You come with a wail, pitching high into the atmosphere like the shrill crackle of lightning striking the earth. His fingers do not cease toying with you, the hand on your hip urging your hips to persist in their pace, urging you to keep your bodies coasting on pleasure.
"Aerion, please, it's too much."
But he does not heed you pleading. He does not stop until he's satisfied, fucking himself into you until he has no more to give. And only then does he allow you to collapse in a sweat slick heap on his chest. You remain that way long enough that several minutes must pass. So long, that you are able to notice that the fire's height has waned somewhat, cinders smoking delicately within the structure of the hearth. Tiny cinders popping and glowing with their feeble efforts to remain hot. The flames the only other sound in the room aside from your mutual breathing, sluggishly shifting from frantic to calm.
Aerion moves even when you complain. Positioning you both so that you tuck more comfortably into each other. Limbs entangling, your head cradled to his chest while he willingly smoothers himself within your hair. Both of your hands reaching and holding. Grasping at the others bodies as though separation would mean death.
"You cannot stay here the entire night, you know." You say, words muffled against his sternum. Whispered tiredly above his pulse; your vision beginning to blur with exhaustion despite your warning. "The maids will be here in the dawn."
He only makes a sound in response. A noncommittal 'humph' provided only to appease you. He sounds distant himself, halfway within the cover of sleep. If you were to manage the energy to look up and evaluate his face, you're willing to bet that his eyes have since slipped shut. And he draws you closer within his arms. His hold fashioned into a pleasant trap. One that you have no desire to escape from. The cushion of his relaxed muscle and the crisp press of the sheets on your skin only nudge you closer and closer to the inevitability of slumber.
It would be foolish to allow yourself to go abed like this. Twined as one, throats wounded from the claim of teeth. You should chase him from your bed chambers, the evidence of your coupling damning. His cock is still inside of you. You've become tacky with sweat and arousal. Blood is a fresh on your tongue. It would be disgusting and foolish to leave yourselves in such a state, and yet you can't find it in yourself to pick yourself up. You remain cuddled against him closeness and affection too much to ignore.
"Sleep, wife," Aerion insists softly, as though he has heard the war in your mind. His palm slips down your back, made gentle from his fatigue. His sharp edges and ego now docile. Because of you. For you.
You mean to answer him, but you're already stolen away by the irresistible temptation of sleep. Directed forward on its wings with the taste of him in your mouth. The beat of his heart a guiding comfort.
You trust this time, that just as the moon and sun will continue their courses across the heavens, that he will be here when you wake.
High Valyrian Translations
Konīr issa, ñuha dōna velkrys — There it is, my sweet stag
Qogralbar va aōha valzȳrys. Iksā sīr gevie skori gaomā, ñuha nēdenka līve. — Fuck yourself on your husband. You are so beautiful when you do, my bold whore.
Kessa. Kessa, ao sagon ñuhon — Yes. Yes, you're mine.
❤︎ |4,9k| Summary: Accidental touches and longing looks leads to something that shouldn’t happen between a therapist and her patient.
The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting soft stripes across Lando's bedroom floor. Unlike the previous day's stark white illumination, today's dawn carried a gentler quality, as if nature itself was trying to offer some small mercy. Lando woke not to the frantic buzzing of anxiety that had plagued him for weeks, but to a quiet, humming awareness—a recognition that something fundamental had shifted between him and you.
He turned his head on the pillow, his eyes finding the familiar patterns on his ceiling. Last night's replay in his mind was different from previous nights. The near-kiss in the bathroom, your sudden retreat, the heavy silence that had followed—it wasn't accompanied by the usual mortification. Instead, it was wrapped in a strange, confusing warmth. He had seen something in your eyes before you pulled away. Not rejection, not discomfort, but something that looked remarkably like longing.
His body responded to the memory with an immediate, undeniable interest. The erection that pressed against his pajama pants was proof that his nerve pathways were indeed reawakening, just as you had suggested they might. But this felt different from the clinical experiment you'd assigned him. This was pure, unadulterated desire, sharp and demanding.
When you entered his room, the professional cheerfulness you usually projected was there, but beneath it, Lando could detect something new—a slight hesitation in your movements, a flicker of something unreadable in your eyes as they met his.
"Morning," you said, your voice a little too bright. "Sleep okay?"
"Better than usual," he replied, and was surprised to find it was true.
You helped him sit up, and when your hands touched his arms, he felt it again—that electric jolt that had nothing to do with nerve response and everything to do with the way his body recognized yours. You seemed to feel it too, your fingers stilling for just a fraction of a second before continuing with practiced efficiency.
As you wheeled him toward the kitchen for breakfast, the silence wasn't heavy with dread as it had been yesterday. It was charged, alive with unspoken words and unanswered questions. Lando found himself watching you, studying the way your hair caught the morning light, the slight furrow in your brow as you concentrated, the soft curve of your lips as you hummed quietly to yourself. He had memorized these details over weeks of observation, but today they seemed sharper, more significant.
"Big day today," you said, placing a plate of eggs and toast in front of him. "We need to do some more detailed assessments. I'm going to test your sensory response points along your spine and abdomen."
Lando nodded, though his mind had snagged on the word "abdomen" and was now running in a direction that was decidedly unprofessional. He picked up his fork, his hand steadier than it had been in days.
"Will it hurt?" he asked, then immediately regretted the question. It sounded childish.
"Some discomfort," you replied, sitting opposite him with your coffee. "But it's important. We need to map exactly which nerve pathways are responding and which aren't. It will help us target your therapy more effectively."
He ate his breakfast, tasting it this time, his appetite returning along with something else—a nervous anticipation that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the thought of your hands on his bare skin again.
After breakfast, you led him to the therapy room. The air already felt different, thick with the same charged energy that had been present in the kitchen. You helped him transfer from his chair to the padded examination table, your movements efficient but careful.
"I need you to lie on your stomach," you said, your voice professional but with an edge of something Lando couldn't quite identify. "Try to relax as much as you can."
He positioned himself as instructed, his face turned to the side, his cheek pressed against the cool vinyl of the table. He could hear you moving around, preparing whatever equipment you needed, the soft rustle of your clothes a tantalizing prelude to what was coming.
Your first touch was clinical, deliberate. You pressed gently on his lower back, just above his waistband. "Can you feel this?" you asked.
"Yes," he replied, his voice a little hoarse. "Faintly."
You moved up his spine, pressing at various points, asking him to rate the sensation on a scale of one to ten. Lando tried to focus on the numbers, on the clinical nature of the examination, but it was impossible. Your hands were warm and sure, and with each press, he felt a wave of something that had nothing to do with sensory response and everything to do with pure, undiluted desire.
You pressed deeper into a point between his shoulder blades, and without meaning to, a soft moan escaped his lips. He immediately tensed, mortified, but you didn't seem to notice. You simply made a note on your clipboard and moved to the next point.
From your perspective, you were struggling to maintain your professional composure. When Lando had moaned, it had sent an involuntary jolt straight through you, pooling heat low in your belly. You knew it was probably just a response to the pressure, perhaps even a bit of pain, but your body didn't seem to care about the clinical explanation. All it knew was that the sound had affected you in ways that were entirely inappropriate.
You continued your examination, trying to keep your touch impersonal, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. The skin beneath your hands was warm and responsive, and with each press, you could feel the subtle shifts in his muscles, the way his breathing hitched when you found a particularly sensitive spot.
When you finished with his back, you said, "Okay, I need you to turn over now. We're going to do the same thing with your abdomen."
Lando's heart began to pound against his ribs. He had been half-hard since you'd started the examination, but the thought of you touching his front—so close to the part of him that was now fully and shamelessly aroused—was almost more than he could bear.
With your help, he managed to turn onto his back. He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, refusing to look at you, terrified of what you might see in his expression.
You began your examination again, starting at his lower abdomen, pressing gently. "Can you feel this?" you asked, your voice a little strained.
"Yes," he managed, his voice tight.
You worked your way up, your fingers pressing into his stomach, and with each touch, Lando felt his control slipping. He was trying to focus on the clinical nature of the examination, on the numbers, on the recovery, but it was useless. All he could think about was your hands on him, so close, so dangerously close to where he wanted them most.
And then it happened. As you reached a point just below his ribs, your arm brushed against the hard length of his erection, and a soft whimper escaped his lips—a sound of pure, unadulterated need that he couldn't contain.
You froze, your hand hovering above his skin. For a moment, neither of you moved, neither breathed. The air crackled with the acknowledgment of what had just happened, of what was happening between you.
"I'm so sorry," you finally said, your voice a little too high, a little too fast. "I didn't mean to..."
You didn't finish the sentence, just quickly moved your hand to a different point, your eyes fixed anywhere but on his face. Lando could see the flush creeping up your neck, the way your fingers trembled slightly as you made notes on your clipboard.
You continued the examination, but the professional distance had been shattered. Each touch was now charged with a new awareness, a recognition of the desire that was simmering just beneath the surface. When you moved to his thighs, pressing into the sensitive muscles, Lando had to bite his lip to keep from making another sound. It was torture—exquisite, unbearable torture—and he wasn't sure how much more he could take.
Finally, you finished. "Okay, that's it for the sensory tests," you said, your voice a little shaky. "You're a bit sweaty. Let's get you cleaned up."
You helped him back into his chair, your touch now deliberately impersonal, but the damage was done. The barrier between patient and therapist had been breached, and there was no going back.
The journey to the bathroom was silent, thick with unspoken words. Lando's mind was racing, replaying the examination, the sound of his own whimper, the flush on your cheeks. He had never been so turned on in his life, and he had never felt so confused.
When you reached the bathroom, you didn't waste time. You positioned the shower chair, adjusted the water temperature, and then turned to him. "Let's get you undressed," you said, your voice businesslike but with an edge of something else—something that sounded remarkably like anticipation.
His clothes were removed quickly, efficiently, but there was nothing impersonal about it this time. Your fingers brushed against his skin with deliberate slowness, and each touch sent a fresh jolt of electricity through him.
Once he was seated in the shower, you took the nozzle and began to wet his hair, your fingers working the shampoo into a lather. But this time, it was different. Your touch was more thorough, more lingering, as if you were memorizing the shape of his head, the texture of his hair.
You rinsed his hair, the water cascading down his back and shoulders. Then you moved to his chest, your soapy sponge gliding over his skin, tracing the lines of his muscles. You washed his chest and abdomen with an attention to detail that was far beyond clinical necessity, your touch both gentle and firm, exploring every ridge and contour with a focus that made his breath catch. He could feel the heat of your gaze even when he wasn't looking at you, could sense the shift in your breathing as your hands roamed his body.
From your perspective, you were losing control. The professional mask you had so carefully constructed was crumbling, piece by piece. The examination had been bad enough—his sounds, his obvious arousal, the accidental brush of your arm against his erection—but this, this intimate act of washing him, was undoing you completely.
You told yourself it was still clinical, that you were just making sure he was properly clean, but it was a lie. You were enjoying it. You were enjoying the feel of his skin under your hands, the way his muscles tensed and relaxed with your touch, the soft, involuntary sounds he made when you found a particularly sensitive spot. Your own body was responding, a familiar heat pooling between your legs, your panties growing damp with a desire that was both shameful and undeniable.
You moved to his arms, your hands sliding down to his wrists, your fingers tracing the faint pulse points there. His eyes were closed, his head tilted back against the chair, his expression a mixture of pleasure and pain. He was beautiful like this—vulnerable, open, completely at your mercy.
And then you felt it. A shift in the air, a change in his breathing. You looked down and saw that his hands, which had been lying limp in his lap, were now moving, slowly, deliberately, as if with great effort. He was trying to move them, trying to use them, and the realization sent a fresh jolt of arousal through you.
He was reaching for you.
With what must have been a monumental effort, he managed to lift his arms, his hands finding your waist, pulling you closer. You could feel the tremor in his muscles, the strain it was costing him, but he didn't stop. He pulled you until you were standing between his legs, your body pressed against his, your soaked skirt and top molding to his naked form.
You looked down at him, your eyes wide with shock. His eyes were open now, fixed on yours, and what you saw there made your heart ache—a desperate, aching need that mirrored your own.
"Y/N," he breathed, his voice a ragged whisper.
And then he leaned forward, his movements slow, deliberate, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You didn't. You couldn't. Your body was a statue, your mind screaming at you to move, but your limbs were heavy, unresponsive.
He came closer, his face filling your vision. You could see the individual droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes. You could see the flecks of gold and green in his hazel eyes. Then, his eyes fluttered shut, and he was just a breath away.
You felt the warmth of his exhale against your lips, a soft, moist puff of air that sent a shiver down your spine. His nose brushed against yours, a light, tentative touch. Then his cheek was against yours, his skin impossibly smooth and warm, the scent of his clean, soapy scent filling your senses. It was an intimacy so profound, so overwhelming, it felt like a violation and a caress all at once.
You could feel the ghost of his lips, a whisper away from yours. It wasn't a brush, not yet. It was the pressure of their presence, the magnetic pull of two bodies about to collide. Your own lips parted involuntarily, a silent gasp of anticipation. Your heart was hammering against your ribs, a frantic, wild drumbeat. Every instinct, every fiber of your being, screamed at you to close that infinitesimal gap, to finally taste him.
And this time, you did.
When your lips finally met, it was nothing like the frantic, desperate encounters you had imagined. It was gentle, sweet, a tentative exploration that was both a question and an answer. His lips were soft, warm, and they moved against yours with a careful reverence that made your heart ache. He was kissing you as if you were something precious, something to be savored.
You kissed him back, your hands moving to his shoulders, your fingers tangling in the damp hair at the nape of his neck. The kiss deepened, becoming more confident, more assured, but still maintaining that underlying sweetness, that gentle exploration. It was a kiss that had been waiting weeks to happen, a kiss that held the weight of all the unspoken words, all the stolen glances, all the charged moments between you.
When you finally pulled away, you were both breathing heavily, your faces flushed, your eyes wide with a mixture of wonder and disbelief. Lando looked at you, his expression raw, open, and filled with a longing so potent it took your breath away.
You leaned in again, pressing a series of soft, sweet pecks against his lips, each one a confirmation, a promise. Then you pulled back, your hands still on his shoulders, your eyes locked with his.
"We should... we should finish," you said, your voice a little shaky.
He just nodded, his eyes still fixed on yours, a small, tender smile playing on his lips.
You continued to wash him, your touch now deliberately gentle, almost reverent. You took your time, exploring every inch of his skin with a focus that was far beyond clinical necessity. This was no longer just about getting him clean; it was about memorizing him, about committing this moment to memory.
When you were finished, you helped him out of the shower, your touch lingering a little longer than necessary. You dried him with a towel, your movements slow, deliberate, as if you were afraid this moment might break if you moved too quickly.
Once he was dressed and back in his chair, you wheeled him to his bedroom. The air was thick with unspoken words, with the weight of what had just happened between you.
You helped him into bed, your movements efficient but careful. When he was settled, you stood by the side of the bed, your hands clasped in front of you, your heart aching with a mixture of joy and dread.
"Lando," you began, your voice quiet, strained. "About what happened in the shower..."
He looked up at you, his expression hopeful, expectant.
"It can't happen again," you said, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. "It's not professional. You're my patient, and I'm your therapist. It would complicate things, and... I can't take advantage of you like that."
You saw the hope in his eyes dim, replaced by a flicker of hurt, of confusion. "But I wanted it," he said, his voice a little hoarse. "I wanted you to kiss me."
"I know," you replied, your voice cracking slightly. "And I wanted to kiss you. But that doesn't make it right. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
You turned away before he could respond, before he could see the tears welling in your eyes. "I'll... I'll see you in the morning," you said, your voice barely a whisper.
You walked out of the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts, and made your way to your own room. Once the door was closed behind you, you sank to the floor, the tears you had been holding back finally breaking free.
How could you have let it happen? How could you have kissed your patient? The thought was a source of shame and regret, but beneath it, another feeling was stirring—a memory of the kiss, of the sweetness of his lips, of the way he had looked at you. It was your first kiss. And despite all the reasons why it was wrong, it had felt so right.
You sat there for a long time, lost in a maze of conflicting emotions, until finally, you crawled into bed, your body aching with a desire that had no name, and your heart heavy with a regret that was almost as strong as your longing.
From his bed, Lando listened to your footsteps receding down the hall, the sound of his bedroom door closing behind you a final, definitive punctuation to the evening. He lay in the darkness, his body still humming with the memory of your touch, his lips tingling with the ghost of your kiss.
He replayed every moment—the examination, the shower, the way you had looked at him, the way your hands had explored his body, the sweetness of that first, tentative kiss. He could still feel the warmth of your skin, the softness of your lips, the way your breath had hitched when he'd pulled you closer.
But then he replayed your words, the way you had pulled away, the clinical detachment you had tried to reclaim. "It can't happen again." "I can't take advantage of you." The words were a cold, sharp contrast to the warmth of the kiss, a reminder of the barrier that still existed between you.
He knew you were right, logically. He was your patient, vulnerable in ways he couldn't even fully comprehend. You had a responsibility to him, a professional duty that you couldn't abandon. But it didn't stop the hurt, the sharp, stabbing pain of rejection.
He rolled onto his side, pulling his knees to his chest, a wave of loneliness washing over him. He had never felt so close to someone, so completely seen, and yet so utterly alone.
But then he thought of the kiss again—of the way you had responded, of the way your hands had tangled in his hair, of the series of soft, sweet pecks you had pressed against his lips after you had pulled away. That wasn't the kiss of someone who felt nothing. That wasn't the kiss of someone who regretted it, not really.
He didn't know what the future held, didn't know how they would navigate this complicated new territory, but he knew one thing for certain: what he felt for you was real, and what you felt for him was real too. And that knowledge, as painful as it was in this moment, was also a source of hope—a fragile, flickering flame in the darkness of his uncertainty.
He closed his eyes, the memory of your kiss a comforting presence, and let himself drift into a restless, dream-filled sleep, his heart aching with a mixture of longing and regret, and a fragile, determined hope for what tomorrow might bring.
The next morning, the air in Lando's room was thick enough to choke on. He woke to the sound of your footsteps, not with the dread of rejection, but with a coiled, tense anticipation. He kept his eyes closed, listening, tracking your movements as you moved around his room. He could hear the soft sigh of your breath, the faint rustle of your scrubs. You were trying to be quiet, trying to be invisible, but to him, you were a supernova, blazing with unspent energy.
When you finally spoke, your voice was brittle, stretched thin over a core of tension. "Morning. Time to get up."
He opened his eyes. You were already turned away, fussing with his wheelchair, your movements stiff and economical. You wouldn't look at him. The professional mask was back in place, but it was a poor fit, cracked around the edges, revealing the turmoil raging beneath.
You helped him sit up, and the moment your hands made contact with his arms, a jolt shot through him, so potent it was almost painful. It wasn't the clinical, nerve-pathway response you were supposed to be monitoring. It was raw, primal recognition. His body, which had failed him in so many ways, responded to yours with an instant, unwavering clarity. You felt it too. He saw the slight stiffening of your spine, the almost imperceptible catch in your breath. Your fingers froze for a fraction of a second before resuming their task with forced, mechanical precision.
The silence was a living thing as you wheeled him to the kitchen. Every squeak of the chair's wheels, every clink of a plate, every rustle of your clothing was amplified, charged with the memory of yesterday. He watched you, his gaze heavy, and though you refused to meet his eyes, he knew you could feel it. It was a physical pressure, a palpable weight that made the air between them shimmer.
"Big day today," you said, the same words as yesterday, but this time they were hollow, a script you were both reciting. "We're going to work on your upper body strength. Some resistance training."
He knew what you were doing. You were putting equipment between them. Barbells. Resistance bands. Anything to create a physical barrier, to turn the charged intimacy of the previous day into a sterile, clinical workout. He hated it.
From your perspective, your heart was a frantic bird beating against your ribs. Every touch was a risk. Every glance a potential landslide. You had spent the entire night replaying the kiss, the feel of his lips, the desperate need in his eyes. The shame had been a sour tide in the morning, but beneath it, the longing remained, a stubborn, unyielding ache.
You positioned him at the small table in the therapy room, placing a light resistance band in his hands. "Okay," you said, your voice tight. "I want you to pull outwards. Ten reps. Focus on engaging your shoulder blades."
You moved behind him to adjust his posture, to guide his arms into the correct position. It was a mistake. As you leaned over him, your chest brushed against his back, and you both froze. The contact was fleeting, but it was like a match to tinder. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell the clean, sleepy scent of his skin. Your hands, which were meant to be guiding his, instead came to rest on his shoulders, your fingers pressing into the tense muscle there.
He didn't move. He just sat there, a taut wire humming with the same current that was running through you. You could feel the shudder that ran through him, a vibration that traveled up your arms and settled deep in your belly. You were supposed to be his therapist. You were supposed to be helping him. But all you could think about was the way his head was tilted back, the vulnerable curve of his throat, the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck.
You forced yourself to step back, to break the contact. "Good," you said, your voice a little too high. "That's... that's the right position."
He began the exercise, his movements slow and strained. You watched him, your gaze glued to the flex of his biceps, the concentration etched on his face. He was beautiful in his effort, beautiful in his struggle. And he was looking at you, his eyes dark and intense, holding yours in the reflection of the window in front of him. It was a direct, unflinching challenge.
After the exercises, you had to help him stretch. It was the worst part of the day. You had to touch him, to put your hands on him, to move his limbs. You told yourself it was clinical, that it was necessary, but as you stood in front of him, lifting his arm to stretch his shoulder, your resolve crumbled.
His arm was heavy in your hands, but his skin was warm, alive. You could feel the faint tremor in his muscles as he tried to help you, to assist in his own care. Your faces were inches apart. You could see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, the dark stubble beginning to shadow his jaw. You could feel his breath, warm and steady, fanning across your cheek.
He leaned in, just a fraction of an inch. It wasn't a movement, more like a shift in gravity, a pull that was impossible to resist. Your breath hitched. Your eyes fluttered shut. This was it. This was the point of no return.
But then you pulled back, a sharp, panicked movement. "Okay," you said, your voice shaking. "That's enough stretching for now. Let's... let's get you cleaned up."
The journey to the bathroom was silent, a walk of shame for what had almost happened and what you both desperately wanted. You positioned him in the shower, your hands moving with a brisk, impersonal efficiency that was a complete lie. You were trembling.
You wet his hair, your fingers working the shampoo into a lather, but this time, you were careful. You kept your touch light, your movements quick. But it was no use. The intimacy of the act was too powerful. As you rinsed his hair, his head tilted back, his eyes found yours. They were dark, pleading, filled with a hunger that mirrored your own.
You couldn't look away. You were trapped in his gaze, a willing prisoner. You moved to wash his chest, your soapy sponge gliding over his skin, but your eyes never left his. You saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. You saw the desperate hope warring with the resignation in his expression.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned his head. His cheek came to rest against your wet forearm. The contact was electric. His skin was impossibly smooth, warm, and you could feel the rough stubble against your own. He just held it there, a silent, desperate plea for connection.
Your hand stilled on his chest, the sponge forgotten. Your breath caught in your throat. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your knuckles. And then he did something that shattered you completely.
He turned his face into your arm, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner elbow. He inhaled deeply, a long, shuddering breath, and you felt the exhalation as a warm, moist puff of air against your ear. He was breathing you in. The intimacy of the act, the raw, unadulterated need of it, was a physical blow.
A soft, involuntary whimper escaped your lips. You closed your eyes, your body swaying toward his. You were lost. You were going to kiss him. You were going to forget everything—your job, your ethics, the consequences—and you were going to kiss him.
His lips found your cheek, a soft, tentative press. They were warm, damp from the shower. It wasn't a kiss, not yet. It was a question. A test. You could feel the ghost of his mouth, the promise of what was to come. Your own lips parted, a silent, desperate invitation.
He shifted, his mouth moving toward yours, a slow, agonizing journey of millimeters. You could feel the warmth of his breath, could taste the clean, soapy scent of him. This was it. The precipice. The point of no return.
And then, from the hallway, the shrill, unmistakable ring of your personal phone shattered the moment.
You jumped back as if you'd been electrocuted, the sponge clattering to the floor of the shower. The sound was a bucket of cold water, dousing the fire that had been consuming you both.
"I... I have to get that," you stammered, your voice a stranger's. "It might be... important."
You didn't wait for a reply. You fled, leaving him there, wet and wanting, the sound of the phone a piercing, cruel reminder of the world outside this steamy, intimate prison. You didn't look back. You couldn't. If you had, you knew you would never have left.
The lords of the Seven Kingdoms had long memories, and pride that clung even longer.
Prince Maekar learned that slowly, one letter at a time. One refusal after another, each dressed in courtesy and sealed with finality. House Tarly sent a courteous refusal, all neat phrases and careful distance. House Rowan said nothing for three months, then finally replied with a claim that their daughter had been promised already. The lie was thin enough to show through the parchment. House Baratheon sent condolences. Condolences, as if a death had occurred instead of a proposal. House Hightower did not answer at all, and Maekar did not press them. Smaller houses followed suit, each with their own reason. A daughter too frail, a daughter already in love, a daughter too young, too old, too recently in mourning.
The reasons piled up, one over the other, until they blurred together.
A year had passed since Ashford Meadow. A year since his son dragged that puppeteer girl through the dirt by her hair and broke her finger. Since he called for a Trial of Seven over an insult most men would have swallowed with their wine and forgotten by sunrise. A year since Maekar stood in the field with a hammer in his hand and felt the weight of his own name shift into something people spoke of carefully, if they spoke of it at all.
Men who had never stood near a tourney field could recount it with certainty, as though they had been there themselves. They told it with small changes, but the shape remained. A prince undone in public.
He had tried threatening Aerion with sending him away, exile him to Lys, he wouldn’t be the last Targaryen to do so. He had tried locking him down. He had tried shame. But after all that, Aerion didn’t even flinch, he endured it too easily, quiet in a way that made Maekar uneasy.
So now he had turned to marriage.
At last, Maekar wrote to Dorne. Your father was not the ruling prince, but from Lord Orran Martell, his brother. Close enough to matter, far enough to manoeuvre. When the letter reached him, he read it once, then again, then a third time, slower. Only then did he allow himself a smile.
The carriage carried the scent of cedar and dust, and the road behind you stretched longer with each turn of the wheels.
Your father had spoken plainly. No softening, no illusions. He laid out the value of the match, the reach it offered, the place it would secure. He spoke as he would to a man he trusted with consequence. That was his way of showing regard.
He did not pretend the groom was good. He did not ask you to pretend either.
You are strong enough for this, he had said. I would not send you otherwise.
He had expected hesitation, perhaps fear, but he had not found it.
You watched the land shift through the narrow window, red stone fading into green, dry air thickening with damp. The world changing in slow increments.
You turned the name over again and again, testing it.
Aerion Brightflame.
You had heard the Ashford story, of course, everyone had. The mercy of the hedge knight that some called wisdom and others called weakness. What stayed with you was not the cruelty itself, cruelty was common enough among men with power and power made men careless with other people.
I am no man, he had reportedly said. I am a dragon.
You found this almost amusing.
Not because it was foolish, though it was. Because it told you something useful. A man who believed himself a dragon was a man who had built his entire self upon a story. And stories had seams, they could be read, they could, if one were careful, be rewritten.
Maekar thought he was sending you to tame his son. You could feel it in the careful tone of his words, you could feel the hope through the careful diplomacy of his acceptance letter, which your father had allowed you to read. The prince wanted a strong wife for his son. A steady hand. Something that might anchor Aerion to the earth before he burned everything around him.
But you intended to do something more interesting than that.
The journey north gave you time, and you used it well. The rhythm of the road settled into your bones, wheels creaking, hooves striking dirt, the quiet murmur of voices beyond the curtains. Long hours where nothing changed except the light.
You let your thoughts arrange themselves without forcing them. That was how it always worked best. Piece by piece.
By the time you reached the Crownlands, the structure of your plan had taken shape. You named it: Seven Steps to Tame a Beast.
King's Landing announced itself in smell before sight, woodsmoke, salt, something sour beneath both. Too many people, too little space, all of it pressed together and left to simmer. The Red Keep rose above it all, pale stone against a dull sky. It looked less like a crown and more like something grown in the wrong place.
The reception was brief, formal and efficient.
Maekar received you himself. He stood solid and broad, the years written into his face in hard lines. His hair had gone mostly to silver. His eyes were sharp, searching, measuring. You held his gaze just long enough, then gave him courtesy and nothing more.
Aerion was not there, you noticed.
STEPT 1. Keep Your Distance from the Wild.
A wild creature does not welcome approach. Every movement is weighed, every sound judged. You do not step into its space uninvited. You do not reach. You watch. You learn the rhythm first. Where it rests. What startles it. What draws its attention and what it ignores. Rush, and it turns. Wait, and it forgets you are there.
You did not seek Aerion in those first days, even if it took some effort.
There were servants willing to arrange a meeting. Courtiers who offered, curiosity thinly veiled. You declined each time, politely, with reasons that could not be pressed. Fatigue, settling in, amild headache.
In truth, you were mapping him. You began where he could not avoid being seen.
Meals.
He sat very straight, almost too straight, not relaxed. Every movement placed with care, hands set just so. Shoulders squared. The stillness was deliberate, the kind that came from control, not comfort. He ate little. Drank more than he should, though he kept it from showing. His eyes moved often. Not restless. A sweep, measured, taking stock of the room without drawing attention to it. He noted everything.
He laughed twice in three days, both times it was wrong. Too quick, it stopped at his mouth and went no further. The men around him laughed as well, they always did. You watched them more than him in those moments. Watched how easily they bent to it. Mirrors, all of them, they gave him back what he wanted to see.
On the second day, a steward stumbled over a name. A small mistake, barely worth notice. But Aerion noticed. His jaw tightened, just once. A brief pause before he spoke, a fraction longer than natural. Then it passed, the steward went on, unaware. You did not miss it, he disliked error. Disliked imprecision. The world, in his mind, should hold its shape. When it did not, something in him bristled.
On the third day, there was a gathering. Music, wine, low voices. People playing at ease.
You took a place near the edge, beside a column. Your handmaid stood with you, quiet, unobtrusive. You spoke when required, smiled when expected, nothing more.
Aerion crossed the room twice. The first time, he did not look at you. The second time, he did. A brief glance, flat and measuring. The kind given to something not yet worth attention. You were already looking elsewhere when it happened. Your focus set just past him, as though he were incidental.
Still, you saw enough. The slight tension at his mouth, the way his gaze held for a breath, then moved on. He knew you were there. Of course he did, and he was not interested.
Good.
Interest that comes too easily is useless. It has no weight; it does not last. Curiosity had to be earned.
That night, you sat by the window and let the city settle into silence beneath you.
He was proud, that was obvious, but there was something under it. Control, carefully maintained. He was not as unrestrained as the stories suggested. It meant the outbursts were not constant. They built. Pressure, then release.
He was intelligent. More than most around him allowed. That kind of mind, left without challenge, turns inward. Finds its own amusements, not always good ones. He had been told he was exceptional for too long. Ordinary things no longer held him.
Boredom, then. Boredom as a spark.
You suspected he had never been met with anything real. Only reflections and performance. That would have to change. You drew your braid over your shoulder, thinking.
You were not satisfied. You never were, this early. But you understood the ground beneath your feet now. Where it dipped, where it held. You had not spoken to him yet; you had barely shared a room. And still, you were closer than anyone here knew.
The ceremony took place at dawn.
Black candles burned low, their smoke thick and sweet, curling into the corners of the chamber. The maester spoke in High Valyrian, his voice steady as he shaped words that had existed long before the Conquest. Pale light slipped through a narrow window, thin and colourless. Maekar stood off to the side, his posture rigid, his expression set in that familiar way of a man who no longer expected much in return for doing what was required.
Aerion arrived on time.
He was dressed as expected, red and black, pale hair brushed to the side. He took his place beside you without hesitation, carrying himself like a man waiting out an obligation he could not avoid. He did not fidget; he was too controlled to do so. Instead, he held still, composed to the point of absence, his attention drifting toward the candles now and then as if searching for something that was not there.
When the maester's words required it, he took your hand. His grip was exact, dry and cold. It lingered only as long as custom demanded, then released at once, as if he had touched something hot and withdrawn before the burn could catch.
You kept your gaze forward and before you let your mind move forward, it was over.
The feast was small and slightly mournful. The kind of gathering where people ate and spoke because it was expected, not because they wished to. The food was well prepared, the wine even more so. Conversation moved carefully, never quite settling.
You were seated beside Aerion.
He spent the early portion of the meal demonstrating how effortlessly he could ignore you. He spoke across you, around you, treating the space you occupied as if it had always been empty. It was not for your benefit, it was for the others, for himself, for the quiet need to show that nothing had changed.
During the second course, he turned his head slightly in your direction, just enough to acknowledge you without granting you the full courtesy of attention.
"You are quieter than I expected. I was told Dornish women always had opinions about everything."
It was not the sharpest thing he could have said. You suspected he was holding the sharper things in reserve, testing whether blunt instruments would serve before reaching for finer ones. You let your fingers rest on the stem of your cup before answering.
"We do," you said. "We simply learn early which conversations are worth having."
Then you returned to your plate.
The silence stretched. You could feel it tighten, like cloth pulled just a little too far. You did not look at him; you did not need to. Beside you, he drank, then turned away, letting the moment dissolve.
Across the table, Maekar was watching. When the music began, it was him who moved first. You saw the decision before he acted. He crossed the room with purpose and spoke low to Aerion. You did not hear the words, but you did not need to. There was no request in the exchange.
Aerion turned toward you. He extended his hand with slow precision, making absolutely certain that every person in the room understood this was costing him something.
"Will you honour me, dear wife," he said, the words shaped correctly, the tone less so.
You placed your hand in his.
The floor was not crowded. The other couples kept their distance, leaving a space around you that felt exposed rather than open. He danced well, you noted without surprise, he had been trained to do everything.
This close, you could see the pale sweep of his eyelashes, lighter than his hair, catching the faint light when he blinked. The depth of his lilac eyes was clearer up close, not just colour but something layered beneath it. He had two scars under his cheek, but his skin still looked almost unreal in its smoothness.
His hand at your waist was the same as his grip during the ceremony, measured, controlled, with no warmth.
“Let us understand one another,” he said, his voice low enough to remain private, though there was nothing intimate in it. "I did not want this. I want you to know that I know what my father intends by it, and I want you to know that it will not work."
You let the music carry you through a turn before answering.
“I know you did not want it," you said. "I did not ask for your wanting. I asked for nothing at all, if you recall.”
"You will want things eventually. All wives do."
"Perhaps." You met his gaze briefly, then let it drift past him. "But I did not come here to want things from you, Aerion. I came because the arrangement was made, and I do not refuse an arrangement simply because it is inconvenient."
His hand tightened slightly at your waist, not painfully, but enough to notice.
"You think you can manage me." he said almost curious.
"I think, that they have been trying to manage you your whole life." you said. "And it has not served you much. I am not interested in managing you. I am interested in being your wife. That means I will keep this household in order, I will hold my place properly, and I will do what is required of me. Whether you choose to be part of that is yours to decide."
Another turn as the music continued.
"But I will be here," you added, quieter now. "That part is not negotiable."
He said nothing after that, but you did not mistake the silence for agreement.
Your chambers had been prepared with careful attention as expected. The fire lit, the bed done, everything arranged with quiet precision. You dressed for the night and sat near the hearth with a book open in your lap, though you were not reading.
You waited but he did not come.
The fire burned low. The sounds of the city shifted beyond the walls, settling into the deeper quiet of night. Somewhere, the watch called the hour and you closed the book.
You were not offended; you were not disappointed. You had already known Aerion would rather spend his wedding night in a brothel.
You extinguished the candle by the window and watched the room fall into shadow.
STEPT 2. Become a Familiar Shape.
Constant presence, always at the same distance, without sudden change. Given time, you stop being something to watch for. You become part of the world itself.
In the days that followed, you made yourself ordinary. It took more care than it appeared. True ordinariness had to be consistent. Too much absence would be noticed. Too much presence would draw the eye. You chose your places and kept to them. The great hall in the morning, a corridor near the training yard in the afternoon, a chair by the window in the library, once, where you read for two hours without lifting your head when he entered.
You did not seek him out and you did not avoid him. You were simply there. Aerion noticed.
At first, it was nothing clear. A pause when he entered a room and found you already in it. A shift in his attention, brief and controlled. The smallest recalculation. He had expected something from you. You could see it in what he did not find. No coldness, no wounded pride, no performance at all.
You gave him nothing to work with. Three days after the wedding, he passed you on the library and spoke to you for the first time since the feast.
“I trust you slept well. I confess I cannot say the same for the woman I spent the night with. She complained I kept her awake until dawn.”
You stopped reading and looked up at him.
“Kept her awake, or kept her waiting?” you asked, tilting your head slightly. “There is a difference, I find, between a man who exhausts a woman and a man who simply prevents her from sleeping. One leaves her satisfied. The other leaves her staring at the ceiling." A brief pause. “From what I have heard of you, I suspect she saw rather more of the ceiling than she would have liked.”
You walked away with your book before he could answer.
You had learned early that a voice could betray a person faster than any blade. Most people used it badly. They made it loud when they wanted to be heard, sharpened it when they wanted to cut. They filled it with weight and urgency, as if force alone could make something true. Your father had taught you otherwise. In his solar, he spoke with the same measured evenness whether he was discussing grain yields or deciding a man's fate. A voice that only rises when threatened, he had told you once, is a voice that teaches people when you can be threatened.
You remembered that.
STEP 3. Let It Hear You Before It Sees You.
A calm voice, used often, without command. No edge to it, no sudden movement tied to the sound. The creature learns the voice first, without reason to fear it. Given time, the sound settles into the background. Familiar, expected, something it turns toward without quite knowing why.
So, you began to speak.
The first time was nothing. A grey morning, the stone still holding the night’s cold. Aerion walked the corridor outside the great hall with two of his usual companions, and you were walking alone, and there was no reason to say anything, silence would have served just as well, would in fact have required less effort, but you spoke anyway.
“The easternmost courtyard is iced over this morning,” you said as you went by. “If you are riding, the south gate will be quicker.”
You did not look at him as you said it. You did not look back after.
Behind you, there was a brief silence, and then the low sound of his companions resuming their conversation. You could not tell if he had answered, it did not matter. The point was the sound itself, your voice, steady, offering something useful and nothing more, left behind in his morning like a small, ordinary fact.
You did this again two days later. And again, after that.
An observation about the kitchens. A remark about a particular courier who had been delayed. Once, on the stairs, a quiet comment about a book you carried, spoken into the space without asking for anything in return.
He said nothing the first time. The second time, he gave you a look, the same one you had seen before, sharp and narrow, weighing, deciding whether what it saw was worth the trouble of attention. The third time, he answered, briefly, as if the words had slipped out before he could stop them.
You counted this as exactly what it was, progress.
The friction came eventually. Midday meal, smaller than the evening gatherings, the kind where people allowed themselves to speak a little more freely. You were seated across from Aerion rather than beside him, which meant you had the less comfortable position of being visible to him rather than adjacent.
He had been in a particular mood all morning. You had seen it earlier, out in the courtyard. A tightness in the way he held himself, a coiled irritation that suggested some earlier conversation had not gone as he'd wished. He kept it contained, but it showed in small places. The set of his shoulders, the way his gaze lingered a fraction too long.
Halfway through the meal, he looked at you directly.
“I saw you speaking with the hedge knight this morning. The boy could barely look at you.”
“Ser Duncan,” You corrected, “Could barely look at anyone,” you said. “He has learned that drawing attention to himself is dangerous. A useful instinct, when one lives in a dangerous environment.”
Around the table, the shift was immediate. Eyes moved away, shoulders shifted, someone found their cup suddenly very interesting. No one wanted to be part of whatever this was.
Aerion's mouth curved, but not warmly.
“You say that as an observation. I wonder if you mean it as a criticism.”
“I mean it as neither.” You set down your knife. “A knight who flinches is a knight who has learned what happens when he does not. That tells you something about where he lives.” You looked at him steadily. “The more interesting question is what it tells you about yourself.”
“I am not in the habit of concerning myself with knights anymore.”
“No,” you said. “But you might concern yourself with the fact that a man who fears you will serve you only as long as he must. Fear is a short leash, and the moment it slackens, the moment you turn your back, a frightened man will not think of loyalty. He will think of himself.” You picked up your knife again. "Respect holds longer. It is less satisfying, I imagine, but considerably more reliable."
The table was very quiet.
Aerion's expression did not change, which was its own kind of change, in the vocabulary you had spent weeks building. The muscles around his jaw held with a precision that was not natural stillness. He was choosing his next words with more care than usual, which meant the previous ones had landed somewhere he had not expected them to reach.
“You speak as though I require your counsel,” he said almost thoughtful.
“I speak because the observation seemed worth making,” you said. “What you do with it is your own concern.”
You returned to your meal.
He said nothing more. But he did not look away for a longer moment than was comfortable, and when he finally did, it was not with a quick dismissal, it was with adjustment.
In the library, three days later, you found him already there when you arrived.
This was unusual. Aerion was not, in your observation, a man who spent mornings in libraries by preference. You entered anyways and took the chair you usually took, near the far window, which had the best light and a view of the inner yard, and opened the book you had brought.
For a time, neither of you spoke. The fire cracked softly. From outside came the steady rhythm of steel on steel, practice in the yard below.
“The Celtigar boy.”
You did not look up immediately. You marked your page, then lifted your eyes.
“The one my father is considering for a trade agreement,” he went on. “You spoke with him yesterday.”
“Briefly.” you said.
“He is not what he presents.” There was something restrained in the way he said it. Irritation, perhaps, or reluctance, as though the act of asking you something, or almost asking you something, cost him more than he was willing to fully account for.
You studied him for a moment. “No,” you agreed. “He is not. His family's debts are larger than they've admitted, and his uncle's position in the city has been weakening for two years. The trade agreement would favour him considerably more than it would favour the crown.
Aerion's eyes moved over your face, his gaze precise.
“You gathered that from a brief conversation.”
“From the conversation, and from the days before it,” you said. “People show where the pressure is, if you pay attention.”
A pause.
“My father should know,” he said.
“He should,” you agreed. “I thought you might be the appropriate person to tell him.”
You let that rest between you without elaboration, the implicit suggestion that this was a useful thing, that you were offering it to him rather than taking the credit for it, that you were treating him as someone worth offering useful things to. You did not dress it in sentiment. You did not soften it into a gesture. You simply left it there, plainly, for him to take or ignore as he chose.
He chose to take it. Not gratefully, not with any acknowledgment of the exchange's nature. He simply gave a short, almost inaudible sound of agreement and turned back to his book.
You had met, in your life, exactly three people who understood the particular discipline of the open hand.
Your father was one of them. A merchant woman in Sunspear who had built a trading empire from a single stall was another. The third was a maester who had served your household for eleven years and who had, in that time, quietly accumulated more influence over its workings than anyone with an official title. None of them had achieved what they achieved through force, or through the performance of authority. They had achieved it through the same mechanism, over and over, they gave things away, then let them go.
STEP 4. Offer Without Expectation.
Something of value left within reach, knowledge, advantage, ease. Then you step back. You do not insist. You do not demand. You do not watch too closely. The creature must come to the thing on its own terms, or the thing carries the smell of a trap. Patience here is not passive. It is the most active thing you can do, the discipline of the open hand, extended and then stilled, asking nothing, waiting without the tension of waiting.
You began small, that was where patterns took hold.
The first thing was almost accidental, simple enough to pass unnoticed.
Over weeks, you had seen how Aerion’s mornings turned. When his correspondence waited in disorder, something in him tightened. It was a small irritation, but it spread, it created a particular friction that compounded into the broader texture of his day. His steward handled it unevenly, some days careful, others careless.
You said nothing about this to anyone.
Instead, you mentioned to the steward’s assistant, a young man called Pell, anxious and observant. You mentioned once, that mornings that begin clean tend to stay that way, as though sharing a general philosophy, and then you moved on.
Next day, the letters were sorted before Aerion reached his study. You were nowhere near him when he noticed. You were in the eastern courtyard, the air sharp enough to sting your throat, walking slow circles over frost-hardened ground.
The second offering was more direct, and more deliberate.
The previous night, you had lingered in the great hall long enough to catch a conversation not meant for you. Two of Maekar’s advisors, careless in their angle, speaking of the Plumm family, a loan, a disputed inheritance, a claim that had the potential to become inconvenient for the crown if left unaddressed. The kind of thing that moved slowly until it did not.
You wrote it down, simply a single sheet of paper, placed beneath a volume you had observed Aerion taking from the library shelves twice in the past fortnight, angled just so, easily visible to someone reaching for the book.
You were gone before he arrived, you did not check if it had been taken. This was the discipline, the open hand, and then the stillness.
He found you in the corridor outside the great hall two days later. The way he approached told you enough, straight line, no hesitation, you knew the paper had been found and used.
“The Plumm family matter,” he said. “My father addressed it this morning. He mentioned information that reached him through unusual channels.”
“Did he.” you said.
“He did not know the source.” A pause. “I did.”
You met his gaze, nothing more. “Anyone listening could have heard it,” you said. “I assumed it was worth noting.”
“You assumed,” he repeated sceptical. “And the assumption led you to leave an unsigned document in a place you knew I would find it, rather than simply speaking to me, or to my father directly.”
“Speaking to your father directly would have made it mine to claim. It seemed more useful for it to be yours.” You said, you were well aware that he needed to slowly gain his father’s trusts again.
“You expect me to believe you want nothing in return.” He said.
“I expect nothing from you,” you replied. “I noticed something that seemed relevant to your interests. I noted it where you could find it. That is all.”
He studied you for a long moment, measuring again, then stepped past you without another word. You turned in the opposite direction and continued walking.
The pattern continued.
Days filled with small things, each one easy to miss on its own. A map left open to the right page before a meeting. A quiet word to a knight whose behaviour toward Aerion had been developing a particular insolence. Not a warning, only a reminder of how quickly favour could turn. The knight corrected himself. Aerion noticed the change; you were reasonably certain he had chosen not to address it directly.
During a meal he caught you refilling his cup before the servant reached it, an automatic gesture, barely conscious, and he watched your hand as you set the jug down.
“You do not behave like someone who dislikes me,” he said.
“I am not certain I dislike you,” you said, truthfully. “I have not yet seen enough of you to decide.”
“You have been living in the same castle for a month.”
“So, my husband has taken to keeping track now?” you said, a light note of teasing slipping in despite yourself. You lifted your cup and took a slow sip, letting the taste of the wine linger as a small, knowing smile curved at the corner of your mouth.
He exhaled through his nose, not quite a scoff he meant to share. He didn’t answer. His gaze lingered, a fraction too long to be careless, as if he were trying to smooth over something that had caught him off guard. There was a faint tension in his face, in the set of his jaw and the stillness of his shoulders, the sort of thing that suggested he was trying very hard not to let any hint of embarrassment show.
Later you noticed he took the map you left on his desk. Maekar’s manner afterward told you enough, less strain and more thought behind his words when he spoke to his son. Aerion did not mention it and you did not either.
The absence of acknowledgment said what it needed to. He would take what was useful, he would not name the source. Pride held that line, but still, he had used it. He had accepted the offering, even reluctantly, even silently. That mattered more.
Which meant the distance was slowly shrinking.
He came to your chambers late on a Thursday, when the castle had settled into its quieter rhythm and the corridors carried only the distant steps of the watch.
You sat at your vanity, drawing the brush through your hair in slow, even strokes, winding you down toward sleep. Your sleeping gown was light, meant for the warmth of the room and the privacy of it, nothing more. Your hair hung loose, longer than it appeared when pinned, falling across your shoulders in a way that belonged to a version of yourself you did not generally allow the castle to see.
The door opened without warning, but you did not turn.
You watched him through the mirror instead. It gave you a clearer view than facing him outright. He stepped inside, then paused when he saw you, or the version of you caught in the glass. Something flickered across his face, quick and unguarded, before he shut it down.
You kept brushing your hair.
He crossed the room at an unhurried pace. No sudden movement, no sign of haste, still, there was weight in it. He stopped behind your chair and rested both hands on its back. In the mirror, his eyes met yours directly, without the usual angle or distance.
You held his gaze and continued the brush stroke to its end.
The silence lasted several seconds. In the mirror you watched him watching you. The loose hair, the gown, the particular version of you that belonged to this room and this hour, and you watched him notice that he was watching, and tighten slightly around it.
“I have been really patient with you,” he said at last, his voice low. “I have watched you move through this household for weeks. The documents, the steward, the arrangements that appear before I ask for them.” A pause. “No one does this without a ledger. Show me yours.”
“I told you I keep no ledger,” you said.
“Everyone keeps a ledger.” The words came sharper now. “Whether they admit it or not.”
You set the brush down on the vanity and folded your hands in your lap, and looked at his reflection. The candle shifted, and for a moment the light caught him differently in the mirror. The closeness of him. The space between you that had narrowed without either of you naming it.
“You are angry,” you said. “Not because you think I want something from you. You are angry because you cannot determine what it is, and that distinction is troubling you more than you would like to admit.”
His grip tightened slightly on the chair, his frown deepened. “Do not tell me what troubles me.”
“Then tell me yourself.” You said. “You came here and opened that door without knocking. If you have something to say, say it plainly.”
“What you have offered me,” he said, and this time the control thinned, sharpened into something colder, “is the manner of a woman who wants something. The oldest trick there is. Every woman I have met wanted things. Every woman in this castle wants things. You-” and here something almost contemptuous entered his voice, directed less at you than at his own inability to solve you “-stand there with your quiet gestures and your useful information and expect me to believe it costs you nothing, that you want nothing from me.”
“I told you I expect nothing from you,” you said, for the second time in your acquaintance “Which is not the same as wanting nothing.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. For a moment, his gaze dipped, catching on the fall of your hair over your shoulder, the line of your neck in the candlelight, before returning to your reflection with more force than before.
“Then what do you want,” he said lowly, moving a strand of your hair behind your ear.
You watched him for a moment. The tension in his shoulders. The way he held himself still, as if movement might betray him. The closeness of him, the warmth of it at your back.
“To see you for what you truly are,” you said, now turning around to look up at him. “When no one is performing fear at you.”
The room went quiet.
He did not move at once. His hands remained on the chair, though you felt the subtle shift in them, the restraint in it. His breathing changed, barely, but enough to notice. His gaze stayed on yours, searching now in a way it had not before.
Then he straightened. His hands lifted from the chair with care, as if he had to think about the motion before making it. He held your gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable passing through it. Then he turned and left.
The door closed with a loud thud behind him.
You looked back at your reflection in the glass. The room holding a trace of him still, something unsettled in the air. You reached for the brush and finished what you had started.
A man like Aerion did not adjust. He did not take pressure and reshape himself around it. His world ran on confirmation, on power answered with submission, on a rhythm that reassured him of his place in it. You had been interfering with that rhythm since the morning you arrived. Quietly, consistently, without giving him anything he knew how to answer.
A disruption like that never passed without consequence.
STEP 5. Survive the First Test of Teeth.
Before any bond forms, there is a test. A feint of violence, a warning, a measure of what you are made of. Not always meant to hurt, but whether to see of you will break or bite back. If you do, is over.
You held this thought in the quiet of your morning as you dressed carefully and went about your day.
The argument started in the corridor outside his study, late in the afternoon, when the light came through the western windows, catching dust in the air, turning it gold. You had passed him with the usual moderate acknowledgment, not ignoring him, not seeking him, the same distance you had maintained for weeks, and he had stopped walking.
“You were in my father's solar this morning,” he said.
“I was,” you said. “He asked my opinion on a correspondence from the Arbor.”
“He asked your opinion on that matter,” Something tightened in his face. “Instead of asking me?”
“He did.”
“You have been very busy these days,” he said, “Making yourself useful, to my father, to every corner of this household except the one that is actually your concern.”
“You are my concern,” you said. “Which is precisely why I do not sit waiting for you to need something."
“I do not need anything from you.”
“No,” you agreed. “You have made that very clear last time we discussed. And yet here we are, having this conversation, which you initiated.”
He turned and walked into his study. Not an invitation, but not a dismissal either, and you followed because the conversation was unfinished.
“You think you are very clever,” he said, moving behind his desk, putting wood and distance between you, like it might help him sort what he could not name.
“I think I am.” you said defiantly.
“You think,” he said, and the voice had dropped into its most dangerous register. “That you can arrange yourself into something that suits you, move pieces across a board you were not invited to play on, smile at my father in his solar, look at me like that, and that none of it will have a cost.”
“I have never believed anything is without cost.” you said.
“Then if you are so clever, you should have calculated more carefully.” He stepped past you, toward the door. “You will remain in this room until I say otherwise.” The words came out with anger and the door shut behind him.
You stood in the centre of the room for a moment. Then you moved to his chair, behind his desk, and sat in it, and looked at the documents arranged across the surface, and began, with the unhurried attention, to read them.
Three days later, in the great hall. You had not sought Ser Duncan out specifically. You had spoken with him before, briefly, like with most people in the Keep, and found him to be earnest, possessing more native intelligence than his manner suggested. He was easy to be around. You were in the middle of an unremarkable conversation about the road conditions north of King's Landing, he had travelled them recently, and you had asked a practical question. You felt the shift before you saw him.
A hand settled at your waist. Firm, claiming, meant to be seen, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress. Ser Duncan's expression went still, not quite discomfort and not quite confusion.
“My wife,” Aerion said. “I was looking for you.”
Duncan inclined his head and stepped back. You kept your expression exactly as it had been. Aerion’s gaze lingered on you, then flicked once toward the knight, measuring, assembling something he did not like. The hall had gone quiet.
“Is this a game to you,” he said under his breath. An accusation that had the shape of a question.
“No,” you said.
“Then what is it.” He moved in front of you. “What are you doing with the hedge knight-” He stopped, jaw tightening. “Are you provoking me, deliberately.”
“I was having a conversation about road conditions,”
“Do not.” His voice dropped further. “Do not use that voice with me.”
“Which voice would you prefer then? One where I lie?”
“You know,” he said quietly, to you, only to you. “What he did to me.”
“I know what happened at Ashford,” you said, equally quietly. “As does most of the kingdom-”
The struck came fast. Mid-sentence, mid-breath, in front of the hall and the fire and Ser Duncan's suddenly rigid stillness. The back of his hand across your cheek with a force that turned your head and produced a sound that silenced the nearest conversations.
You straightened. You did not touch your face. You did not look at Duncan, who you could feel in your peripheral vision. You looked at Aerion, directly, steadily, with the same expression you had worn in the study, and you said nothing at all.
His jaw was tight and the hall was watching it all. He gripped your wrist, hard, the mark already beginning, and turned toward the corridor, and you went with him because the scene that would result from not going would cost you more.
In your chambers, he released you without a word and left. The door shut and the lock clicked.
You sat by the window. The light had shifted, pale now, moving slowly across the stone. You looked at your wrist, at the faint marks forming. You were not afraid and you were not angry, so you waited with patience.
Maekar went to Aerion that same evening, of course he did. No one told you outright, but you knew before a word reached you. The servant who came to open your chamber door avoided your eyes, her hands slower than usual on the latch. Raised voices, you guessed. Maekar did not shout often, but when he did, it carried. Aerion would have been made to stand there and take it. For the insult. For making a spectacle of his own wife. For stepping, once again, where he had been warned not to. You could almost hear it. The sharp edge of Maekar’s restraint, the threat beneath it.
You let out a slow breath. This would not help. It would tighten something in Aerion, push him further into himself before it loosened anything at all.
He did not return that night, or the next.
On the third, you woke to the sound of your door.
The room was dark, the fire long since reduced to coals and a faint red glow. The kind of hour when even the castle seemed to pause, caught between one watch and the next. You lay still for a moment, listening to the sounds that followed the door, unsteady footsteps, the sounds of a man navigating a familiar space with less precision than usual.
You had smelled the wine, thick and sour on the air, and something else beneath it, cheap perfume and sweat. You had passed enough doorways in this city to know it came from a brothel.
He moved through the dark toward the bed with care that bordered on effort. Not quite stumbling, but close. You lay still with your eyes not quite closed and your breathing steady and you watched him through your lashes.
He stopped at the bedside. For a moment, he only looked at you.
He was less put together than you had ever seen him, his hair dishevelled, collar open, his clothes carrying the evidence of hours spent in places this castle was not and had not bothered to hide it well. His gaze moved over you, slower than usual, lingering in places he would have ignored in daylight. There was anger in it. That much you knew. But there was something else tangled into it, something the drink had loosened.
Then his hand shot out and closed around your throat.
The force of it drove the breath from you before you could think. His grip was sure, fingers settling with a familiarity that made it worse. The ceiling tilted as your body reacted, instinct rising fast and sharp. His face was above yours, close, and it was not the face of a man in full command of himself. His eyes were bright, unfocused in a way that had nothing to do with the dark. His grip tightened.
You felt the tightness clearly, the pressure at your windpipe, the pulse hammering under his hand. The animal instinct toward struggle that rose in you like a tide and that you identified and still you did not move.
And then, quietly, helplessly, from somewhere underneath the shock and the constriction and the absolute clarity of your own danger, you laughed. Not loudly. Not mockingly. Not shaped for him, not meant for anything at all. It simply came, as if your body had found something in the moment that did not fit the rest of it. Simply absurd and honest and almost intimate in its desperation.
The sound of it, barely audible, stopped him completely.
His hand did not leave your throat, but it stopped tightening. His expression shifted, confusion cutting through whatever had driven him here.
“What are you-” he said. It came out raw, his voice rough, stripped of its usual control. “What are you doing, what are you doing to me.”
You said nothing. You held his eyes in the dark and did not struggle, you did not look away.
“I hate you,” he said. The words came out flat, almost tired, like a confession.“I hate what you do. I hate that I cannot-.” His voice broke across the unfinished sentence. “I cannot find the edges of you. I cannot-.”
His grip loosened, fractionally, and then fractionally more.
Something in his face gave way. The control slipped, not all at once, but enough. His shoulders dipped, the tension draining in uneven pieces. Something beneath the surface rising without permission. His forehead dropped, his weight shifted, and then, with the slow, helpless gravity of exhaustion, he leaned against your chest, his hands still loosely at your throat, his body giving what his pride would not. Choked sobs forming on the back of his throat as his shoulders trembled.
You lay still beneath him. The room held its silence. No voices in the corridor, no movement beyond the walls. Only the weight of him, and the strange, unguarded vulnerability he had not allowed himself before.
Carefully, you lifted your hand. Slow and measured. The way one moves around something that might startle.
He felt the motion before you completed it.
He pulled back at once. Your hand knocked aside, not gently, but not the way he had struck you before either, with less force and more reflex. He was off the bed and standing before you had fully processed the movement, and the reassembly was happening in real time, you could watch it, the walls going up stone by stone, the expression reorganizing, the posture recovering its usual architecture.
He did not look at you as he wiped his tears with the back of his hand, and left.
You lay in the dark for a long time after the door closed. Your throat ached. When you touched it, you could feel where his fingers had pressed, the marks already forming under the skin. You let your hand fall back to the bed. You had survived the teeth.
There is a particular kind of silence that follows a storm.
It is not peace, peace settles. This waits, it hangs over what is left, thin and watchful, as if the ground itself is deciding whether anything will take root again. You lived in that silence for six days. You ate in it, walked the corridors in it, spoke when required and otherwise let it sit around you, like weather that refused to move on.
Aerion was never where you were. Not once, not even by accident.
You noticed the pattern the way you noticed everything else. He left rooms when you entered them, not with obvious avoidance, but with quiet efficiency, but avoiding something nonetheless, something that he had not yet decided how to face. The corridors he had habitually used became corridors he did not use. The hours he had kept became hours he abandoned.
Like he was afraid of you. Not in the way people feared harm. In the way they feared being seen too clearly.
STEP 6. Allow Contact on Its Terms.
The first touch is not taken, it is allowed. A still hand. No pressure. No attempt to hold or redirect or claim. The creature must choose the contact, or the contact means nothing. It is the most fragile moment in the entire sequence the one where everything that has been built can collapse in a single wrong movement. Patience here is not strategy. It is something closer to faith, the belief that what has been established is enough to bear weight, if the weight is placed gently enough.
You dressed with care that seventh night, with a specific kind of nightgown your hair loose again, and went to him.
His chambers were deeper in the keep than yours, further from the outer walls, further from the sounds of the city, the kind of rooms that held heat and shadow in equal measure. The door was heavy. The light beneath it was the particular amber of firelight rather than candle, which meant he was awake and the hour was not the reason.
You did not knock.
The room was larger than you had expected, and sparser. There were maps on one wall, detailed ones, and a writing table covered with papers that had the disordered quality of work abandoned mid-thought. A shelf of books, several displaced at a specific angle with care. On a low table near the window, a cup and a flagon, mostly empty. The fire was high, built up more than the room's warmth required, the kind of fire you build when you want something to look at.
He was standing before it.
He turned when you entered, and the firelight caught his face in a way that daylight had never been permitted to. His eyes carried the particular redness that came not from drink but from something that had happened before the drink. His shoulders, which were always exact, held themselves with an effortful maintenance, but it took effort to keep it that way.
You closed the door behind you. The latch caught with a sound that was very small in the quiet.
“You should not be here,” he said.
“Probably,” you agreed. You did not move further into the room yet. You stood near the door and looked at him across the firelit space between you and said “What is wrong.”
“Nothing that concerns you.” He turned back to the fire. The set of his shoulders said the conversation was over, but the fact that he had not told you to leave said something else.
You crossed the room.
Slowly, without purpose written into the movement. You stopped beside him. Not close enough to require acknowledgment, not far enough to be a withdrawal, and you looked at the fire.
Neither of you spoke.
The fire crackled, wood settled with a low crack, and you waited.
A minute passed, then another. The fire shifted, settling lower in the grate, and in the new configuration of light you saw it, brief, barely visible. A single track of tears, catching firelight, at the corner of his jaw.
You did not look at it directly.
“Aerion,” you said.
“My father-.” he began, and then stopped, like the words had caught on something.
You let the silence hold.
“He saw,” he said with flatness. “The marks on your neck. He saw them. Someone spoke of what happened at the hall too.” His jaw tightened. “He made himself very clear.”
“How clear,” you said.
“In all his wisdom, has threatened me, again, to send me into exile.” The word sat between you. Heavy enough on its own. “He called it a last chance. He has called it that before.” Something crossed his voice that was not quite bitterness. “The words had begun to lose their meaning, but it felt too serious now”
You turned to look at him then.
He was still facing the fire, but the profile of him had changed. The structure of his expression had begun to crack. Not enough for others to notice but enough for you. He looked, in the firelight, less like the man who had locked you in his study and struck you in the great hall and more like something earlier than that, rawer and less certain and considerably more alone.
You reached out. Slowly, with the deliberateness you had promised yourself, no force, no urgency, no claim. Your hand found his and held it with the lightness of something offered rather than taken.
He looked down at it.
“I should have covered the marks better,” you said. “I misjudged the consequence. That was my error, and I am sorry for it.”
“That is not-.” He stopped; his hand had not moved. “That is not what this is about.”
And he pulled away fast. Almost startled by it. With the sudden, electric motion of something that has allowed contact and immediately regretted the allowing. He stepped back, something sharp and unsteady in his eyes.
“Do not,” he said, and the word came out wrong, cracked across the middle of it. “Do not do that. Do not stand there and apologize and take my hand and look at me like-.” He stopped again, breath uneven. “Like there is something worth-.” He stopped again. His hands had closed into fists at his sides and he was breathing with effort. “You do not know what I am.”
“I know what you have done,” you said.
“Then you know enough.” He turned away. “You know I hurt people. You know I cannot-.” His voice fractured. He pressed on through it. “I cannot stop myself… there is something wrong with me. There has always been something wrong with me and everyone who has come close enough to see it leaves or breaks. And you are here, in this room, at this hour, and I do not-.” He stopped.
The fire was the only sound.
“I am a beast,” he said, very quietly. Tears running free down his cheeks. “That is what I am. That is all I am.”
You looked at him for a long moment.
“You are a man,” you said, “who has been told a story about himself for so long that he has stopped questioning whether it is the only story available.”
“It is not a story. It is evidence of everything I have done.”
“Evidence can be read in more than one direction,” you said.
“Do not make me into something I am not.”
“I am not making you into anything.” You held his gaze. “I am telling you that what you are is not to be fixed. That the thing you have been, it is not the only version of you that exists. And that-.” You paused, because the next words required accuracy, and accuracy required care. “You matter to me. Not the prince, not the name. You. What is underneath all of this. That matters to me.”
The room was absolutely still.
He looked at you with an expression you had no entry for in the vocabulary you had built of him, something unguarded, almost frightened, like he has been handed something he does not know how to hold and is not certain he can afford to drop.
Then something gave way.
Not loudly. Not all at once. His breath shifted. His shoulders dropped. Whatever he had been holding together slipped. His breathing changed. You did not move toward him, but you did not need to.
He crossed the remaining distance himself without thinking about it, and then his forehead was against your shoulder and his hands were at your sides without grip, without force, simply present, and he was not making a sound but you could feel the shaking of him and the wetness against the fabric of your nightgown and the weight of him.
You stood very still.
You did not put your arms around him. You did not make any movement that could be felt as claiming. You simply held yourself and let him use it, and the fire burned lower as he came apart quietly against your shoulder without asking permission and without being asked to stop.
You did not know how long it lasted. Long enough.
You raised your hand slowly, slowly enough that he could have pulled away again, enough to be refused, and brought your fingers to his hair.
It was shorter than it looked. Silver-pale and fine, the kind of hair that carried light rather than colour, and beneath your fingertips it was softer than you had anticipated. You drew your hand through it once, carefully, from the crown of his head down to the nape of his neck, where the hair ended and the skin began, warm and taut over the column of his spine.
He did not move away.
He leans into your touch involuntarily, as if starved for contact. His eyes flutter shut, a shudder running through him at the simple gesture. It's a chink in his armour, a crack in the façade he has built around himself. He hates how good it feels, how desperately he craves your gentleness, like something that had been starved for so long it had forgotten the word for hunger until the smell of food arrived. He hates that it's you, a woman he has dismissed as a nuisance, a distraction.
You kept your hand still at the nape of his neck and waited until the tension in him eased, just a little, then you took his hand. He did not resist the guiding.
That told you more than anything else had. Aerion Brightflame, who resisted everything, who turned even small things into contests, let himself be guided across the room, no argument, no pause. Just the quiet, spent compliance of someone who had nothing left to push with.
You lay down and he lay beside you.
For a moment he remained on his back, staring upward, and you could feel the effort in him, his composure still running even now, still attempting to impose order on something that had moved past the reach of order.
Then, slowly, as if testing each inch of the movement, allowing himself permission one fraction at a time, he moved closer. His head found your chest. His arms came around your waist, and the grip that followed was not gentle exactly, it had too much need in it for gentleness, but it was not aggression either, it was anchoring.
“Don't mistake this for weakness,” he muttered, eyes fixed somewhere above you, studying something very far away. “Or tenderness.” A pause. “I merely refuse to let my father's words haunt me alone tonight.”
“All right,” you said.
You brought one hand up to his hair again. The same movement, slow, unhurried, from crown to nape and back, repeated with the consistency of something that asked nothing in return. Your other hand rested against his back, barely any pressure at all.
The fire had burned low and the room was mostly shadow.
“If you much as breathe a word of this to anyone,” he murmured into your chest, his voice rough but stripped of its usual edge, “I'll deny it until my last breath.” His arms tightened slightly, involuntarily. “Stay with me tonight… please.”
“I'm not going anywhere,” you said.
As the night went on, Aerion slowly succumbed to sleep. Something about being held, about your gentle touch, brought a peace he had rarely known. He did not dream of dragons or conquests, for once. His sleep was free of the constant restlessness that usually plagued him. He burrowed into your chest, unconsciously seeking more of your warmth, of your presence.
You lay awake longer than he did. Not from discomfort, too much to process, lying in the dark with their thoughts arranged in rows like objects after a flood.
His breathing had changed, his weight against you had changed. The man who had come apart was now simply sleeping. With his face against your chest and his silver hair tickling your collarbone and his arms loosely maintaining their hold even in sleep, the grip eased to something that felt closer to a choice rather than necessity.
You ran your hand through his hair one more time, very slowly. He made a small sound, low and entirely unconscious, and pressed closer.
You looked at the ceiling for a long time and eventually, sleep took you too.
The room was in the grey-dark of late night, not yet dawn, but the black had thinned to something softer. His breathing had changed again; he was watching you.
His breath caught as he took in the sight of you, soft, vulnerable, beautiful in the unguarded way of sleeping things. A strange warmth curled in his chest, foreign and unsettling. He hesitated. His fingers twitched toward your hair, as if to brush a stray lock from your face, then stopped. He scowled at himself, at this weakness. But the scowl faltered when his gaze lingered on the way your lashes rested against your cheeks, the rise and fall of your breath.
Slowly, carefully, he shifted closer, draping an arm over your waist as if claiming you, not with arrogance, but with something dangerously close to possessiveness. His lips pressed against your temple in a fleeting, uncharacteristically tender kiss.
You opened your eyes. The ceiling was grey above you. Beside you, or rather, around you, Aerion had stilled, as if caught in the act of something he had not meant to do.
“Is something wrong?” you asked quietly.
He cleared his throat, his thumb idly tracing circles on your skin, trying for normalcy, trying to ignore the way his stomach twisted at your proximity.
“Are you comfortable?”he asked.
“Yes,” you said. You turned your head slightly to look at him. “Are you?”
He gave a noncommittal hum, not meeting your gaze. The truth was he had slept better than he had in years, but he was not about to say so. That would imply weakness. He shifted slightly, the arm around your waist drawing you a fraction closer without him seeming to notice. His fingers continued their circles, almost absentmindedly, as though he were lost in thought and the touch was the only thing keeping him tethered.
The grey outside the window had begun its slow migration toward something lighter. The fire was entirely cold now, the room held only the warmth of the bed, of proximity, of the particular heat that accumulates between two bodies in the hours before dawn.
Then awareness settled in him fully. Of the closeness. Of the precise arrangement of you against him, the warmth of your body, the thin fabric of your sleeping gown, the way the hem had shifted in the night to lie differently against your skin. His hand tensed briefly.
He swallowed.
You felt it, the shift that moved through him, the awareness sharpening into something specific, something that did not belong entirely to the vulnerability of the preceding hours. His lips parted, but no words came. He looked at you with an expression caught precisely between irritation and something he could not arrange into anything controllable, frustrated by the evidence of his own body, by the want that had surfaced without authorization.
You could feel it, the warmth of him. The unmistakable pressure of his want against your hip, present and unambiguous, and the particular tension of a man who has noticed you noticing and does not know what to do with it.
Neither of you spoke.
His hand, which had stilled, began very slowly, as though testing whether the motion would be stopped, to move again. Not the idle circles of before. Something more deliberate, more aware of itself, tracing the line of fabric against skin, as if testing whether the moment would break.
You did not stop him.
Not passive, there was nothing passive in the attention you were giving to this moment, to his breathing, to the fractional shifts of his weight and the warmth of his mouth near your temple and the press of him against your hip that had not diminished. But still in the way you had always been still near him, present, available, making no demand and offering no resistance, letting the space between you be defined by what he chose to do with it.
He exhaled.
“You are-.” he began, and stopped, his jaw tightened. He tried again, and the words he found were not the ones he had started with, “This changes nothing.”
“I know,” you said.
“I mean it.”
“I know you do,” you said.
His hand moved again with less hesitation, no longer tentative, something with more intention behind it, and his body followed, shifting against you with the weight of a man who has been resisting something for weeks and has arrived, at last, at the particular exhaustion of wanting and the decision to stop pretending otherwise.
His mouth found your throat, the same throat he had gripped days ago in the dark. You brought your hand to his hair, fingers threading through silver.
Aerion exhales slowly, a controlled breath that does nothing to conceal the tension wound through his jaw, his shoulders, the deliberate stillness of his hands. He's beautiful in his conflict, you think. Unbearably so. That sharp face, that proud mouth, carved for cruelty or for this, and tonight the line between them seems very thin.
He opens his eyes again, his gaze locking with yours again. He looks almost pained, his pride warring with the desire that's quickly consuming him. He wants you. Gods, he wants you so much it hurts, and he hates that he can't bring himself to deny it any longer. He hates how powerless he feels at your touch, how he craves more despite his better judgment. His breathing is ragged as he leans over you, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Stop me. Say... say no.” The words come rough, almost like a plea.
You looked at him for one long moment, you take in the conflict laid bare for the first time, the stubborn pride, the hunger he can no longer hide, the exhaustion of holding both apart.
Then you kissed him first.
He kisses you back like a man drowning who has finally stopped fighting the current. His hands come up to grip your face, not gently, and the sound that escapes his throat is low, rough, barely human. The careful prince, the controlled and calculating Aerion Targaryen, dissolves in the space between one breath and the next. What replaces him is something rawer. Hungrier. Something he's kept caged behind violet eyes and cutting remarks for far too long.
The kiss deepens without hesitation, consuming. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of desperate precision, tasting, claiming, as if he's cataloguing every detail through touch alone. You feel the heat of him, radiating off his skin like fever, like fire, like something that has been burning in secret for too long and has finally found air.
His hands roam your body with a feverish desperation, as if trying to memorize every curve, every gasp, every shudder beneath his touch. His kisses trail from your lips down your neck, nipping and sucking at your skin, marking you as his, branding you in the only way he knows how. His hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him, letting you feel just how badly he aches for you. He's lost in the sensation, in the fire between you both, consumed by it. He's not gentle about it. He leaves a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, his teeth grazing that sensitive point where your shoulder meets your throat. He wants to mark you, to make you scream his name, to make sure there's no doubt in your mind or anyone else's of who you belong to.
His free hand slides under your nightgown, his fingers trailing up your thigh, leaving trails of fire in their wake. His touch is possessive, demanding, as if he's making up for every minute he's denied himself this pleasure. Your breath hitches as his fingers trace higher, teasing, taunting, every brush of skin against skin sending sparks through you. His lips return to yours, swallowing your gasp as his touch grows bolder, more deliberate. He plays with your breasts, kneading them and pinching at your nipples until you arch into him, your back lifting from the mattress like a prayer. His hands clutch at you, clinging as if you're the only solid thing in the world. He's panting now, his control frayed to the breaking point.
“Gods,” he breathes against your collarbone, “I've been waiting-.” He cuts himself off and bites down instead of finishing the sentence, leaving a bruise.
He buries his face in that spot on your neck, his breath hot against your skin, his lips roaming feverishly as if he can't get enough. Then he kisses down your body, his mouth leaving a trail of hot, wet marks down your stomach, your hip, your inner thigh. His hands slide up your legs, his touch rough but reverent, the touch of a man who has never let himself experience something so wholly, so completely. He moves with the focus of someone who has thought about this, who has imagined and resented and wanted in equal measure.
He pauses for a moment, looking up at you, the desire in his eyes burning hotly as he takes in the sight of you, spread out before him like a feast.
“Gods, woman...” His voice comes out low, cracked at the edges. “You look exquisite.”
Your hand goes to his hair, gripping it, silver-pale between your fingers, and you guide him where the ache pulses hottest. He goes willingly, like a man possessed, his lips tracing a path to the very heart of you. He worships at your altar, exploring you with a fervour that borders on madness, his tongue drawing slow, deliberate strokes against your folds, lapping at the slick heat of you with a thoroughness that makes your thighs tremble. He kisses your core the way he kissed your mouth, thoroughly, hungrily, as if he intends to ruin you for anything else.
He slides one finger inside you, curling, exploring, while his tongue continues its work, finding the rhythm that makes your hips roll helplessly toward him. Then two fingers, stretching you slowly, his pace maddening, his silver head moving between your thighs while his free hand pins your hip to the mattress. He teases. He draws it out with the patience of a man who has denied himself too long and now intends to take his time about the undoing. Every time you feel yourself cresting toward the edge, he eases back, withdrawing just enough, slowing just enough, his eyes flicking up to watch your face with something that looks almost like satisfaction.
The third time he pulls back from the precipice, you take a fistful of his hair and drag him up.
“Now,” you tell him. “Take me now.”
A feral smirk curls his lips at your demand. He rises up over you, his chest heaving, his entire body taut with anticipation. He leans down to capture your lips in a bruising kiss, you taste yourself on his tongue, one hand gripping your thigh, the other cupping your face as if to brand the moment into your memory.
“As my lady commands,” he growls against your mouth.
He shifts his hips, pressing himself against your entrance. Then, with one sharp thrust, he buries himself inside you, filling you completely, claiming you in every way possible. The moment he's sheathed inside you, a ragged groan tears from his throat, half pleasure, half disbelief. His forehead drops against yours, his breathing ragged, his fingers digging into your hips as if he fears you'll vanish.
“Gods,” he chokes out. “You feel so- warm. So tight.”
He's barely coherent. That, more than anything, undoes you.
His hips roll against yours in slow, deliberate strokes, each one deeper, more possessive than the last. He watches your face, memorizing every gasp, every flutter of your lashes, as if this is the only thing that's ever truly mattered. His eyes, those violet eyes that have looked at you with contempt and hunger and everything in between by now, are dark, pupils blown wide, and he doesn't look away. He watches you as if watching you is a compulsion he can no longer afford to deny.
“Look at me,” he rasps, when your eyes begin to close. “Don't you dare-.”
And you do, you hold his gaze.
His jaw tightens. Something moves across his expression that he doesn't have the composure left to conceal, something raw and frightened and ferocious all at once. His strokes deepen; his grip hardens.
Then he flips you, without warning, rolling you onto your stomach with the ease of a man accustomed to taking what he wants. The mattress shifts beneath you. His hands find your hips and drag you up to meet him. One palm presses flat between your shoulder blades for a half-second, then slides up, fingers winding into your hair, pressing your face into the pillow.
His lips find your ear, his voice low and rough as he whispers, “I won't be gentle, sweetling.”
It sounds like a warning. It sounds like a promise.
“I don't want you to,” you answer.
The sound he makes at that is almost feral, something ripped from somewhere deep in his chest that he would never willingly give you in daylight. His fingers dig into your hips as he takes you with a force that borders on brutality, each thrust deeper, harder, driven by pure unrestrained need. His lips drag across your shoulder, teeth sinking into your skin to stifle his groan as he loses himself in the heat of you. He releases your hair so both hands can grip your hips, holding you in place, as if he fears you might slip away if he doesn't, his fingers leaving half-moon marks you will feel for days.
His pace is relentless. Desperate. Driven by a hunger that has been building since the first moment he looked at you and hated that he wanted to keep looking.
“I can't-.” you gasp, the pleasure coiling impossibly tight.
“Come for me,” he growls, the words bitten off, rough and low. “Come on- I want to feel you. All of you.”
And you do, you shatter. Your whole body arches into it, trembling beneath him, clenching around him, and you hear his sharp, broken exhale, feel the way his rhythm stutters.
His release hits him like a storm, violent, consuming, unstoppable. His body tenses, his fingers digging into your flesh as he spills inside you with a ragged groan, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades. For a moment, he just breathes against your skin, his chest heaving, his muscles trembling with the aftershocks.
Then, slowly, he collapses over your back. His weight settles, heavy, present, real. His lips move against one of the bruises he's left on your shoulder. Then another. Not in apology, Aerion Targaryen does not apologize. But in something. Acknowledgment, perhaps.
Neither of you speaks.
His arm slides around you, not tenderly, but with a kind of quiet insistence, as if placing himself between you and something invisible. You feel his heartbeat against your back. Fast, still. Then slower. Then slower still.
The silence stretches. It does not demand anything from either of you. His breathing deepens, but his grip does not loosen. You close your eyes.
Sleep comes for you both like a tide, not gentle, not kind, but inevitable. The way all true things are.
STEP 7. Never Cage What You Cannot Break.
A beast is not tamed by taking away its fangs. That only makes it weaker, and weakness is not the same thing as trust. It is tamed, if it ever is, by giving it a reason not to use them. It stays because it chooses to. It stays… because it chooses to.
The manse Maekar had given you sat at the edge of a quieter part of the city, near enough to court to satisfy obligation and far enough to breathe in peace. It was smaller than the Red Keep, less grand, but that suited the both of you. No one had said so out loud, yet it was clear enough. The walls were warm stone. The windows faced east and caught the morning light instead of shutting it out. Lavender grew along the outer walk, planted by someone before your time, and it had survived the winter with a stubbornness that felt almost personal.
Inside, signs of a shared life had gathered in slow, ordinary ways. His books beside yours on the shelf. Your embroidery frame positioned near the best window, which he had moved without comment one afternoon when he noticed the light falling wrong. A second cup on the table by the fire, already poured.
None of it was dramatic, all of it mattered to you.
You settled deeper into the chair, adjusting your weight carefully. The pregnancy sat heavy in your lap, in your lower back, in the way you rose slowly from chairs and descended stairs with one hand trailing the wall. Seven months had left their mark. Your belly was full and round beneath the loose linen of your gown, warm to the touch, occasionally shifting with the insistence of someone who had not yet been born but already had opinions on its own.
You pressed a hand briefly to your side where the movement was. A flutter, a press. I know, you thought at it. I know you're there.
The fire crackled. Across the room, Aerion sat at the writing table with his back half-turned to you, working through correspondence with the focused quiet of a man who had learned, slowly, imperfectly, to channel his energy into something productive rather than destructive. Candles burned at either side of the table. His silver hair, longer now, caught their light and held it.
He had not spoken in some time. Neither had you.
The silence was not tense. That distinction still struck you sometimes, even now, the difference between his silences then and his silences now. Before, quiet had been the space between provocations, the held breath before a storm. Now it was simply the room at rest, two people existing in the same warmth, without the need to perform that fact.
Your needle moved through the embroidery. A branch. Leaves in pale green thread, stitched slowly because you no longer rushed things that deserved to be unhurried. You had learned that too, somewhere along the way, though you weren't certain when. Perhaps it had been a lesson you taught yourself while teaching him.
“You've been rubbing your back for the better part of an hour.”
His voice came without him turning. Your hand had drifted there without you noticing. You lowered it. “I'm fine.”
“I didn't say you weren't.”
You went back to the embroidery and the scratch of his quill resumed.
You looked at the back of his head for a moment, at the set of his shoulders, the long line of his spine. He was still proud in his posture. That had not changed, nor would it. But there was something different in it now. Less like a man braced for attack. More like a man who had simply grown comfortable inside his own frame.
Maekar had expressed quiet satisfaction, the last time you had attended court. Not in words, the prince was not a man for words where a look would suffice. But satisfaction nonetheless. You had understood it without needing it explained. So had Aerion, which had caused a complicated expression to move across his face, something between pride and the ghost of old resentment, before easing into something closer to acceptance.
He was still Aerion. He could still cut with a word when he chose to. His patience was a thing learned rather than natural, and it occasionally showed its seams. Two weeks prior, at a supper that had run overlong, he had said something to Lord Peake's second son that had made the table go briefly silent. But he had stopped there, he had not pursued it. He had reached instead for his wine and redirected the conversation with a deliberateness you recognized, because you had practiced that deliberateness in front of him, repeatedly, until he understood what it looked like.
He was not fixed, he was better. There was a meaningful difference.
The fire shifted, throwing new shadows. You set down the embroidery and pressed your palm flat against the side of your stomach, feeling the weight of it, the warmth. The child moved again, long, slow, like something turning in a dream. You breathed around it.
The scratch of the quill stopped.
You did not look up immediately. You felt, rather than saw, the moment his attention shifted, the feeling of being observed by Aerion, which you had long since learned to recognize. It was different now too.
You looked up.
When you looked up, he had already turned in his chair. He was watching you with those violet eyes of his, pale in the candlelight, and there was something in his face he had learned to hide less well over time. Not because he had grown careless. Because keeping it hidden had begun to cost him too much, and he had finally decided, with the quiet certainty he brought to every important thing, that it was no longer worth the price.
Then he rose from the table.
He crossed the room at an unhurried pace, the way a man walks when he has already made up his mind. When he stopped in front of you, his gaze dropped from your face to your hands, then to the rounded curve beneath the linen. Then he knelt.
Not in surrender. Not in show. One knee to the floor, steady and deliberate, bringing himself level with what he meant to honour. He reached out, and his hand, the same hand that had once gripped and demanded and taken, settled with impossible gentleness against the side of your stomach.
He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the fullest part of you.
He stayed there a moment, forehead resting lightly against you, his hand curved around the life you carried. His breathing evened out. His eyes were closed. He did not speak at once, and you did not ask him to.
Then, very quietly, without lifting his head, he said, “I love you.”
You looked down at the top of his silver head, at the broad line of his shoulders bent in a shape that was not quite defeat and not quite humility, but close enough to make your throat tighten. You thought of the man who had once watched you across a banquet table with cold, assessing eyes and found nothing in you worth his attention. You thought of all the months between then and now. The arguments. The patience. The slow, stubborn work of remaining.
You reached down and touched his face gently. He looked up at you. The candlelight made his eyes very bright.
You held his gaze and said, simply, “I love you as well.”
No strategy in it. Just the truth, spoken in the same quiet room where you had spent months learning each other's silences.
He turned his face and pressed one more kiss to your stomach, almost habitual, as if he had already developed the instinct, then rose slowly and settled himself on the arm of your chair. His hand remained at your side, warm and present. You returned to your embroidery. His shoulder rested against yours, and he did not move away.
The fire burned low. The night spread softly around the manse.
Later, when he had drifted into sleep beside you and his breathing had gone slow and even, you lay awake in the dark and thought about the whole path that had brought you here.
Seven steps, written out with the clean, measured certainty of someone who understood that hearts, even difficult ones, had their own structure. You had approached him with respect for what it was, patience for what it could become, and no illusions about the process between.
But somewhere in the long careful middle of it, something had shifted that no guide could have anticipated, or perhaps the guide had always known it and simply not named it. The method had worked. But the method had not been the point.
The point was that he had changed.
Not because you had fixed him. Not because you had caged him or diminished him or stripped away the things that made him difficult. He was still proud. Still sharp. Still capable of the particular cold cruelty that had earned him his reputation, though he used it less now, and never against you.
He had changed because he had chosen to. Because somewhere in the accumulated weight of all those quiet days and careful moments, something in him had found a reason.
And he, Aerion Targaryen, the Bright Prince, the man they called Brightflame for the way he burned, had stayed too.
His hand rested over yours in the dark, light and warm and present.
The beast doesn't need its fangs removed, you thought, closing your eyes. It just needs something worth protecting more than it needs to bite.
Sleep came, slow and complete, and took you both with it.
❤︎ |5,9k| Summary: Lando and Y/n discuss a very private topic, which leads the tension between them to another level. During a particular tension filled shower, Lando finally gives in to his desires, a shame Y/n dosen’t do the same.
The morning light was a stark, unforgiving white, a stark contrast to the warm, intimate glow of the moonlight from the night before. Lando woke not to the peaceful silence of the previous day, but to a frantic, humming silence, the kind that buzzes with the weight of what was left unsaid. He hadn’t slept well. He’d drifted in and out of a restless slumber, his mind a relentless loop of your face, your scent, the near-kiss, and the mortifying certainty that he had to face you today. The memory of your eyes, so close, flicking down to his lips, was seared onto the back of his eyelids. He had almost done it. He had almost crossed the line. And then you had pulled away, a retreat so swift and decisive it felt like a physical blow.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his body a taut wire of anxiety. He dreaded the sound of your footsteps, the click of his bedroom door. How was he supposed to act? What was he supposed to say? ‘Sorry I almost tried to kiss you while you were on the clock, helping me, a man who can’t even get himself dressed?’ The thought was so mortifying it made him want the ground to swallow him whole.
But when you did enter, your smile was just as warm as ever, your demeanor just as professional. There was no trace of the tension from the night before, no awkwardness in your movements. You were a blank canvas of professional care, and it was both a relief and a fresh kind of torture. It meant you were either a master actress, or you had so thoroughly dismissed the moment that it meant nothing to you at all. He wasn’t sure which possibility hurt more.
“Morning,” you said, cheerfully, as you wheeled his chair closer. “Sleep okay?”
“Fine,” he lied, his voice a little hoarse.
You helped him sit up, your hands impersonal on his arms. “Good. Big day today. We’re building on yesterday’s momentum. I was thinking, we could try some more focused resistance work with your right arm, and maybe introduce some new core stabilization exercises.”
He nodded, letting you lead. The morning routine proceeded as normal, the easy domesticity of breakfast a stark contrast to the turmoil churning inside him. He ate his pancakes, but they tasted like cardboard, his stomach too knotted with nerves to truly enjoy them. Every time you looked at him, he felt a flush of heat, his mind replaying the near-kiss with excruciating clarity.
The gym was even worse. The small room, once a space of triumph, now felt like a pressure cooker. The air was thick with unspoken things. You started with the warm-up massage, and the moment your hands touched his back, he was lost. The familiar jolt of pleasure was there, but it was now layered with a new, potent emotion—a desperate, aching longing. He closed his eyes, his face pressed into the paper, and tried to focus on the clinical aspect, on the feeling of his muscles loosening. But all he could think about was how close you had been last night, how your hair had brushed his cheek, how he had almost tasted your lips.
He was grateful when you had him flip over, the movement breaking the spell. You worked him through the exercises, your praise for his progress genuine and encouraging. He managed to generate even stronger twitches in his right arm today, a victory that should have filled him with pride. Instead, it just felt hollow, a small victory in a war he felt he was losing in every other way.
It was during a break, as you were both sipping water and you were scribbling notes in your ever-present clipboard, that the atmosphere shifted. You paused, your pen hovering over the page. You frowned slightly, tapping the end of the pen against your bottom lip, a gesture he was beginning to find dangerously endearing.
“Okay,” you said, not looking at him, your eyes still fixed on your notes. “This is… a little awkward to bring up, so I’m just going to be direct. It’s purely clinical, from a therapeutic standpoint. Okay?”
His heart began to hammer against his ribs, a frantic, panicked rhythm. “Okay?” he managed, his voice tight.
You finally looked up, and your eyes held a professional, almost clinical curiosity, but there was a flush high on your cheekbones that betrayed your discomfort. “We’ve been making incredible progress with your motor function and nerve response. We’re getting signals through, which is fantastic. But recovery isn’t just about moving your arms and legs. It’s about reconnecting with your entire body, all its functions.” You took a deep breath, as if bracing yourself. “So, I need to ask. Have you… have you experienced any form of sexual satisfaction since the accident? Orgasmed? Any kind of… stimulation?”
The question hit him like a physical blow. The air rushed out of his lungs, and he felt a wave of heat so intense it was dizzying. His face, his neck, his entire chest felt like it was on fire. He stared at you, his mouth agape, his mind a complete and utter blank. Of all the things he had been expecting you to say, this was not it.
“I… what?” he stammered, his voice a squeak.
You held his gaze, your own steady and unwavering, though he could see the flicker of empathy in their depths. “It’s a legitimate medical question, Lando. The neurological pathways for sexual function are some of the most complex in the body. A spinal cord injury can disrupt them significantly. For many patients, regaining sexual function is a key part of reclaiming their sense of self, their identity. And important fort he nerve system. It’s just as important as being able to wiggle a toe. So, have you? Tried?”
He shook his head, his movements jerky and ashamed. He couldn’t form the words. He just stared at his useless hands, lying limp in his lap. The shame was crushing, a weight that pressed down on his chest until he could barely breathe. He hadn’t even thought about it. The idea had seemed so… impossible. So far removed from his new reality that it hadn’t even registered as a loss. But now, hearing you say it, framing it as a part of his recovery he was neglecting, he felt a fresh wave of inadequacy wash over him.
“No,” he finally mumbled, the word barely audible. “I… I haven’t.”
You nodded, as if you’d expected the answer. “Okay. That’s not uncommon. It can be difficult, both physically and mentally. But it’s important that we address it.” You paused, choosing your next words with care. “I want you to try. Tonight. Before you go to sleep.”
His head snapped up, his eyes wide with disbelief. “What?”
“I want you to try to bring yourself to orgasm,” you said, your voice calm and matter-of-fact, as if you were prescribing a new set of stretches. “Jerk off. Masturbate. Whatever you want to call it. See if you can. See what it feels like. If you can feel anything at all.”
He was speechless. He could feel his blush deepening, a creeping horror that spread from his cheeks all the way down to his stomach. This was a thousand times more humiliating than the shower, more mortifying than his friends’ teasing. You, his beautiful, kind, professional physiotherapist, was telling him to jerk off. As homework.
“Why?” he finally choked out, the word a ragged gasp.
“Because I need to know,” you said, your tone softening slightly. “I need to know what signals are getting through. It’s data, Lando. It tells me about the integrity of the nerves in your lower body. If you can feel stimulation, if you can orgasm—that’s all incredibly valuable information. It helps me tailor your recovery program. Think of it as an exercise. Just like when I ask you to try to push against my hand. This is just another muscle, another nerve pathway we need to test.”
You made it sound so simple, so clinical. But to him, it was anything but. It was intensely personal, deeply private. And the thought of doing it, and then having to report back to you, was almost more than he could bear.
“I… I don’t know if I can,” he whispered, his voice cracking with vulnerability.
“You don’t have to succeed,” you said, your voice gentle but firm. “I’m not grading you. I just want you to try. Don’t push it too much. If it’s not happening, it’s not happening. Just explore a little. See what you feel. And then… tell me about it in the morning. Details are helpful, but don’t feel like you have to give me a play-by-play. Just… did it work? Did you feel anything?”
He just stared at you, his mind reeling. He felt a strange, conflicting mix of utter humiliation and a dark, forbidden thrill. You were talking about his dick. You were telling him to touch himself. And the worst part, the most damning part, was that the thought of it, the thought of doing something so private and then confessing it to you, sent a jolt of pure, undiluted arousal straight to his groin.
“Okay,” he heard himself say, the word a resigned, shaky whisper. “I’ll… try.”
You gave him a small, encouraging smile. “Good. That’s all I’m asking. Now, let’s finish up. We’ve done enough for today.”
The rest of the day was a blur of motion and muted sound. Lando moved through it on autopilot, his body present but his mind a million miles away, lost in a fog of disbelief and a dizzying, terrifying anticipation. The afternoon session was a blur of resistance bands and targeted stretches, your voice a calm, steady drone in the background, but he heard none of it. All he could hear was the echo of your words, playing on a loop in his mind: “I want you to try to bring yourself to orgasm.” The clinical, detached way you’d said it, as if prescribing a simple course of antibiotics, was at war with the frantic, chaotic reaction it had provoked in him. He felt like he was living in a dream, or perhaps a nightmare, where the rules of his reality had been fundamentally and irrevocably altered.
Lunch was a quiet affair. You made him a simple chicken salad sandwich, but he barely tasted it. He sat at the kitchen island, staring out at the manicured back garden, but he saw nothing. His world had shrunk to the size of the task you had set for him. He was hyper-aware of your presence as you moved around the kitchen, cleaning up, your movements fluid and efficient. Every clink of a dish, every soft sigh, sent a jolt of electricity through his already frayed nerves. He wondered what you were thinking. Were you thinking about it too? Or was it truly, as you claimed, just another box to tick on your long list of therapeutic exercises? The not knowing was its own special form of torture.
After lunch, you suggested a movie. “A bit of downtime,” you’d said, your smile easy and genuine. “You’ve earned it. Your brain needs a rest too.” He’d agreed numbly, letting you choose something—a mindless action blockbuster he couldn’t have cared less about. They sat on the large couch in the living room, a careful distance between them. The room was dark, the only light coming from the giant screen, where cars exploded and heroes delivered cheesy one-liners. Lando tried to watch, he really did, but his gaze kept drifting to you. He watched the way the flickering blue light of the television caught in your hair, the way you tucked your feet up underneath yourself, the way you absentmindedly chewed on your bottom lip during a tense scene. You were so beautiful, so effortlessly real, and the thought that he was supposed to perform this most intimate of acts later, thinking of you, and then confess it to you, was so overwhelming he felt like he might actually be sick.
When the movie ended, the sun was beginning to set, casting long, golden shadows across the room. “Alright,” you said, stretching. “Time to call it a day. I’ll get you ready for bed, and then I’ll leave you alone.” You said the last word with a slight, almost imperceptible tilt of your head, a hint of something that might have been teasing, but was gone so quickly he couldn’t be sure.
The journey to his bedroom was silent, the air thick with a new and potent tension. The evening routine felt different, charged with an unspoken purpose. Every touch was magnified. As you helped him out of his chair, your hands on his waist felt like they were burning through the fabric of his shirt. As you pulled his t-shirt over his head, your knuckles brushing against his chest, he had to fight the urge to gasp. He was already half-hard, a traitorous response to the sheer, unbearable anticipation of the night.
You helped him onto the bed, and then came the moment he had been dreading. You didn’t leave. You stood by the side of the bed, your expression unreadable in the dim light of his bedside lamp.
“Lando,” you said, your voice soft. “Remember what I said. Don’t put any pressure on yourself. This isn’t a test you can fail. It’s just about exploration. See what you can feel. See what works, and what doesn’t. There’s no right or wrong way to do this.”
He just nodded, his throat too tight to speak. He felt like a teenager being given the talk by his impossibly attractive, and far too clinical, school nurse.
“Okay,” you said, giving him a small, reassuring smile. “I’ll be just down the hall if you need anything. At all. Don’t hesitate to call. Good luck.”
And with that, you were gone. The door clicked shut, and he was finally, terrifyingly, alone.
He lay in the darkness for a long time, the silence of the room pressing in on him. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic, wild drumbeat of anxiety and arousal. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears. He felt a strange, paralyzing inertia, a heavy weight that kept him pinned to the mattress. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t. It was too weird, too intimate, too… much.
But then he thought of your face, your earnest, professional expression as you’d explained the importance of it. “It’s data, Lando.” The words echoed in his mind. It wasn’t about his pleasure, not really. It was about his recovery. It was a task. An exercise. And he was nothing if not determined to succeed at the exercises you gave him.
With a deep, shuddering breath, he made a decision.
He closed his eyes, letting the darkness envelop him. He tried to empty his mind, to focus on the sensation, the clinical nature of the task. But it was useless. His mind, as it so often did these days, immediately went to you.
He thought of you in the gym, your brow furrowed in concentration, your strong, capable hands on his skin. He thought of you in the kitchen, humming softly as you cooked, your face illuminated by the warm glow of the stove. He thought of you in the shower, your hair damp and slick, your face so close to his in the steamy haze, the accidental brush of your knuckles against his erection that had sent a bolt of pure lightning through him.
And then he thought of last night. The moonlight. The scent of your shampoo. The way your eyes, so close, had flicked down to his lips. That was the image that did it. That was the one that broke through the last of his resistance.
He felt a familiar, welcome heat pool in his groin, a slow, spreading warmth that banished the last of his hesitation. He was getting hard, thickening rapidly against the soft fabric of his pajama pants. He could feel it, a definite, undeniable response. The signal was getting through.
He brought his right hand to his stomach, his movements slow and deliberate. He could feel the faint, dull sensation of his own touch, a muted echo of what it used to be. He slid his hand down, under the waistband of his pants, his fingers brushing against the coarse hair at the base of his cock. The contact was faint, ghost-like, but it was there.
He wrapped his fingers around himself, his grip clumsy and unfamiliar. His hand, usually so sure and strong, felt alien, disconnected. The numbness was a constant, frustrating presence, a thick, woolly barrier between his brain and his fingers. He could feel the pressure of his own grip, but the fine motor control, the subtle adjustments, were gone. It was like trying to write with a hand that had fallen asleep.
But he was determined.
He closed his eyes tighter, focusing on the image of you. Your smile. Your laugh. The way your eyes lit up when he made progress. He began to move his hand, a slow, awkward stroking motion. The sensation was muted, distant, but it was building. He could feel a faint, growing pleasure, a low hum beneath the blanket of numbness.
He switched to his left hand. It was worse. The connection was even weaker, the movements even more clumsy. He could barely maintain a grip. Frustration flared, hot and sharp. He wanted to slam his fist against the mattress, to scream in impotent rage. This was supposed to be simple. This was supposed to be his body, his pleasure. But it wasn’t. It was a struggle. Everything was a struggle.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. He remembered your words. “Don’t push it too much.” This wasn’t a race.
He went back to his right hand, his grip a little tighter this time, trying to compensate for the lack of sensation. He focused on the thought of you, on the memory of your touch. He imagined it was your hand on him, your fingers, warm and sure. He imagined you leaning over him, your lips parted, your breath warm against his skin.
The fantasy took hold, and the pleasure began to sharpen, to cut through the fog of numbness. He could feel it now, a building pressure, a coiling heat in the base of his spine. His strokes became a little faster, a little more confident. He was getting there. He could feel it.
But his arm was starting to ache. A deep, burning fatigue was setting in, his muscles protesting the unfamiliar, sustained effort. He had to stop, to let his arm rest for a moment, panting softly in the darkness. The pause was agony. The building pleasure receded slightly, and he had to fight the urge to cry out in frustration.
He took another breath, and started again. This time, he was more focused. He channeled all his energy, all his concentration, into the movement, into the fantasy. He thought of the way you had looked in that dusty rose workout set, the way the fabric had hugged your curves. He thought of the soft, almost reverent way you had knelt to wash his feet in the shower, the intimacy of the gesture a stark contrast to the clinical setting. He thought of the sound of your laugh, light and musical, when his friends had been teasing him. He was building a mosaic of you in his mind, piece by piece, and it was the most erotic thing he had ever experienced.
The pleasure was cresting now, a powerful, undeniable wave. His arm screamed in protest, the muscles trembling with exhaustion, but he pushed through the pain. He was so close. He could feel the tightening, the gathering storm. He bit down hard on his lower lip, the coppery tang of blood a sharp, grounding sensation. He couldn’t make a sound. He couldn’t let you hear. The thought of you hearing him, of you knowing what he was doing in here, was both mortifying and intensely arousing.
The only sounds in the room were his own ragged breaths and the wet, rhythmic slap of his hand moving against his skin, a lewd, private symphony in the quiet of the night. He squeezed his eyes shut, the image of your face, your lips, so close to his last night, burned into his mind. That was it. That was the final piece.
The orgasm crashed over him with the force of a tidal wave. It was a blinding, shuddering release, a violent, convulsive spasm that wracked his body from head to toe. He arched his back, a silent scream caught in his throat, as he spilled over his own hand, the heat of his release a shocking, vivid sensation. It was intense, almost painfully so, a testament to weeks, months, of pent-up frustration and longing.
For a long moment, he lay panting in the darkness, his body trembling, his arm a dead, useless weight at his side. The pleasure slowly receded, leaving in its wake a profound, bone-deep exhaustion, and a new, more complicated wave of dread. He had done it. He had succeeded.
And now he had to tell you.
The morning light was grey and muted, a reflection of the storm brewing inside Lando. He had slept, but it wasn’t a restful sleep. It was a heavy, dream-filled slumber, punctuated by moments of waking anxiety where the reality of what he had to do today would come crashing back down on him. He felt raw, exposed, like a nerve that had been stripped of its protective sheath.
When you entered, you were the picture of professional cheerfulness. “Morning!” you said, your voice bright. “How did you sleep?”
He just shrugged, unable to meet your gaze. “Okay.”
You helped him sit up, your touch as impersonal as ever. As you wheeled him towards the kitchen for breakfast, the silence stretched, thick and heavy. He knew you were waiting. He knew you were going to ask. And every second that ticked by was like a turn of the screw, tightening the knot of dread in his stomach.
You placed a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of him. He picked up his fork, his hand trembling slightly. He couldn’t eat. He just stared at the plate, his appetite a distant memory.
You sat down on the stool opposite him, your coffee cup cradled in your hands. You didn’t say anything at first. You just watched him, your patient, steady gaze giving him the space he needed to find the words.
Finally, he couldn’t bear the suspense any longer. He took a deep breath, the air catching in his throat.
“I, uh…” he started, his voice a hoarse, shaky whisper. He kept his eyes fixed on his plate, on the bright yellow of the scrambled eggs. “I did it. What you… what you asked.”
He heard you let out a soft, slow breath. “Okay,” you said, your voice gentle, encouraging. “Thank you for telling me. Can you tell me a little bit about it? How it felt? No pressure for details, just… whatever you’re comfortable sharing.”
He felt his face flush, a fresh wave of heat washing over him. This was it. The humiliation, laid bare. “It worked,” he mumbled, the words barely audible. “I… I jerked off. And I… I came.”
He risked a glance up at you. Your expression was unreadable, a careful mask of clinical interest. But your eyes, your eyes were soft, empathetic. You nodded, waiting for him to continue.
“It was… weird,” he said, finding his voice a little as he spoke. “My hands… they’re still so numb. Especially my left one. It felt… clumsy. Like I was wearing thick gloves or something.” He looked down at his right hand, flexing his fingers. “I could mostly only use my right hand. And it got tired. Really fast. I had to… take breaks. Even when I was… close.” He stumbled over the word, his blush deepening. “It was frustrating. The feeling was there, but the… the control wasn’t. It was like my arm and my brain weren’t connected properly.”
He paused, taking another breath. This was the hardest part. “But it worked. In the end. It… it felt good. Really good. Stronger than I expected.”
You listened to his entire confession without interrupting, your expression unreadable. When he finished, you didn’t look shocked or embarrassed. You looked… thoughtful. Like a scientist analyzing data.
“That’s incredibly valuable information, Lando,” you said, your voice calm and matter-of-fact, which somehow made it easier to bear. “The fact that you can achieve and maintain an erection is a fantastic sign. It means the parasympathetic pathways are largely intact. The difficulty with motor control—the clumsiness, the fatigue in your arm—that’s also expected. It’s the same issue we’re dealing with in the gym. The signal is getting through, but the connection is weak. The fact that you could push through the fatigue and succeed, even with those limitations, is a testament to your determination. It’s a positive result. A very positive result.”
Your clinical assessment stripped the moment of its shame, reframing it as a victory, a data point in his recovery. He felt a surge of relief so profound it almost made him dizzy.
“Really?” he asked, his voice small.
“Really,” you confirmed, giving him a small, warm smile. “You did good, Lando. You completed the exercise and you gathered important data. That’s a win. Now eat your eggs. We have a busy day.”
The rest of the morning felt lighter, the unspoken task finally lifted from his shoulders. The gym session was focused and productive. You worked on his arm strength, incorporating new exercises that were designed to improve his fine motor control. “See?” you said, as he struggled to grip a small, weighted ball. “This is the same muscle group you were using last night. We’re building the endurance and control you need. Think of this as the training ground.”
He managed a weak smile, the comparison less mortifying now that it was out in the open. “The training ground, huh?”
“Exactly,” you said, your tone professional but with a hint of warmth. “Every rep here makes the next… rep… easier.”
The afternoon session was a different kind of challenge. You had a standing frame, a metal apparatus that locked his legs and hips in place, allowing him to bear his own weight with the support of a harness and a table in front of him. It was grueling, painful work. His muscles, unused to bearing his full weight, screamed in protest. But as he stood there, sweating and panting, he felt a flicker of something he hadn’t felt in a long time: hope.
You were right there, adjusting the harness, wiping the sweat from his brow, your touch a constant, grounding presence. “Five more minutes, Lando. You can do it,” you’d encourage, your voice a steady anchor in his sea of discomfort.
When it was finally over, and he was back in his chair, his body was a trembling, exhausted mess. But his mind was clear. The shame from the night before had been replaced by a sense of purpose. You had taken the most humiliating, private moment of his adult life and turned it into a victory, a stepping stone on his path to recovery. He looked at you, really looked at you, as you packed up the equipment. You weren’t just his physiotherapist. You were his guide, his confidante, his… something more.
That evening, the dynamic between you had shifted. The unspoken tension was still there, humming beneath the surface, but it was different now. It was less fraught with anxiety and more charged with a new, shared intimacy. You had crossed a line, but instead of it feeling like a mistake, it felt like a breakthrough.
You were in the living room, tidying up the space from his exercises, when he wheeled himself over to the window. The sun was setting, casting a warm, golden glow over the city. “It’s beautiful from here,” he said, his voice quiet.
You stopped what you were doing and walked over to stand beside him. “It is,” you agreed, your gaze on the horizon.
For a moment, you both just stood there in comfortable silence, watching the sky bleed from orange to pink to a deep, velvety purple. It was the first time you had just… existed together, without the pretext of therapy or the weight of a difficult conversation hanging over you.
The air crackled with unspoken words. You could feel the pull, the magnetic attraction that you had been trying so hard to suppress. It would be so easy to lean in, to close the small distance between you, to finally give in to the tension that had been building for weeks.
But you couldn’t. You were still his physiotherapist. He was still vulnerable. The line was still there, and you knew that crossing it would change everything, for better or for worse.
You took a small, almost imperceptible step back, breaking the spell. “I’m glad you’re feeling more positive about your progress,” you said, your voice a little too bright, a little too professional. “It’s going to make a huge difference in the coming weeks.”
His smile faltered slightly, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. But he didn’t push. He just nodded, turning his gaze back to the window. “Yeah. It will.”
The moment was gone. But it had left its mark. The air was still thick with the memory of it, a silent acknowledgment of the truth that hung between you. You were no longer just his physiotherapist, and he was no longer just your patient. You were two people, drawn together by circumstance, bound by a secret, and teetering on the edge of something that could either save you both or destroy you completely.
The bathroom was already warm and steamy by the time you wheeled him in. You had the shower chair positioned perfectly, everything you needed within arm’s reach. The silence was thick, broken only by the hiss of the water from the spray nozzle.
You helped him undress, your movements impersonal, efficient. You kept your eyes averted, focusing on the task, not the man. You helped him transfer to the shower chair, his skin warm and damp against your hands. Once he was seated, you took the nozzle and began to wet his hair, your fingers working the shampoo into a lather.
This was familiar territory. This was safe. You were just doing your job. You could do this.
You rinsed his hair, the water cascading down his back and shoulders. You moved to his chest, your soapy sponge gliding over his skin, tracing the lines of his muscles. You were so focused on maintaining your professional composure, on keeping your thoughts clinical, that you didn’t notice the shift in him. You didn’t feel his gaze on you, intense and unwavering.
You moved to stand in front of him to wash his arms, your body leaning in slightly. That’s when you felt it. The change in the air. It was as if he had pulled all the oxygen out of the room, leaving only a charged, electric silence. You slowly lifted your eyes from his arm to his face.
His gaze was locked on yours, his expression raw, open, and filled with a longing so potent it took your breath away. All the anger, all the distance from the past few days was gone, replaced by this. This desperate, aching need.
Your hand stilled on his bicep, the sponge forgotten. You were frozen, trapped in the intensity of his stare. He slowly leaned forward, his movements deliberate, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You didn’t. You couldn’t. Your body was a statue, your mind screaming at you to move, but your limbs were heavy, unresponsive.
He came closer, his face filling your vision. You could see the individual droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes. You could see the flecks of gold and green in his hazel eyes. Then, his eyes fluttered shut, and he was just a breath away.
You felt the warmth of his exhale against your lips, a soft, moist puff of air that sent a shiver down your spine. His nose brushed against yours, a light, tentative touch. Then his cheek was against yours, his skin impossibly smooth and warm, the scent of his clean, soapy scent filling your senses. It was an intimacy so profound, so overwhelming, it felt like a violation and a caress all at once.
You could feel the ghost of his lips, a whisper away from yours. It wasn’t a brush, not yet. It was the pressure of their presence, the magnetic pull of two bodies about to collide. Your own lips parted involuntarily, a silent gasp of anticipation. Your heart was hammering against your ribs, a frantic, wild drumbeat. Every instinct, every fiber of your being, screamed at you to close that infinitesimal gap, to finally taste him.
But then, the image of his face in the gym flashed in your mind—the hurt, the disappointment, the reminder of his vulnerability. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t the way.
With a monumental effort that felt like it was tearing you in two, you turned your head just enough to break the connection. It was a movement so small it was almost imperceptible, but it was enough. The spell was broken.
You pulled back, your heart aching with a heavy, crushing weight of regret. You couldn’t meet his eyes. You just picked up the sponge and continued washing his arm as if nothing had happened, as if your entire world hadn’t just been tilted on its axis.
The silence that followed was worse than the one before. It was a heavy, suffocating blanket of unspoken rejection. You felt his gaze on you, but you kept your head down, rinsing the soap from his skin, your hands moving with a mechanical precision that you hoped masked their trembling.
Lando felt a wave of cold wash over him, a stark contrast to the warm water. A profound sadness settled in his chest. He had been so sure. He had felt the shift, the connection. He had put his heart on the line, leaning in, exposing the deepest, most vulnerable part of himself, and you had let him. You had let him get all the way there, letting him feel the warmth of your skin, the promise of your breath, before you pushed him away. It wasn’t a simple rejection; it was a cruel one. You had allowed him to hope, only to snatch it away at the last second. The silence was your answer, and it was deafening.
The rest of the shower was completed in agonizing silence. You dried him with a towel, your touch brisk and impersonal. You helped him dress, your movements efficient, your eyes fixed anywhere but on his face. When he was back in his chair, fully clothed, you finally spoke.
“I think that’s it for tonight,” you said, your voice quiet, strained. “I’ll… I’ll see you in the morning.”
You didn’t wait for a reply. You just turned and left the bathroom, leaving him alone in the quiet, steam-filled room, the ghost of your almost-kiss lingering on his lips, and the bitter taste of rejection in his heart.
